by Peter David
Merlin turned away as a wave of light and heat rushed at him, and a foul stench that made him gag. When he looked back, in the space where Morgan had been, there was nothing.
No, not quite nothing. A black cloud was there, hovering, fuming. Merlin rushed to create a spell of containment, but before it was fully formed, the black cloud slipped away and vanished through the walls.
The ceiling overhead burst into flames. The fire had worked its way downward, and the house was going quickly. Merlin dashed over to the side of the fallen Gwen, fully expecting to find a corpse. He knelt beside her, lifted her wrist and checked her pulse. To his surprise he found one, strong and steady.
He took her face in his hands even as the room began to fill with smoke. "Gwen!" he shouted. "Get up! I don't know if I have enough power to get us both out of here! Gwen, speak to me!"
Gwen snored.
"Oh, bloody wonderful," said Merlin. A sharp cracking overhead alerted him, and he saw a flaming timber break off and fall toward them. He spoke then, spellcasting faster than he ever had in his life.
The timber crashed down.
"Repeat," said Edward Shukin to his viewing audience, "we are projecting Arthur Penn as the winner of this year's mayoral election-"
The repeat was not heard, for the cheer that had gone up when the announcement was first made totally drowned it out.
In the midst of the crowd Arthur was laughing, cheering, being pounded joyfully on the back.
Nubile young women hugged and kissed him, and every man wanted to shake his hand. He was alternately pushed and pulled to the podium up front, and within moments he found himself facing a mob of cheering, enthusiastic fans and workers. He smiled and put up his hands to indicate that they should quiet down, which only provoked further cheering.
Laughing, he just stood there and allowed the adulation of the crowd to wash over him, wave after wave of love. It filled his soul to bursting.
Finally the crowd started to calm down enough for Arthur to begin to say, "My friends- "
At that moment Ronnie ran up onto the stage and shouted, "Bittberg just conceded!" And that set off another round of cheering and applause. By the time Arthur finally got to say anything, it was past midnight.
"My friends," he said. "My dear, dear friends. It's been a long fight. It's been a difficult fight.
We've had small victories along the way. We've had . . . small losses." He paused, searching for words. "The trust that this city-that you-have in me, a humble visitor from the past"-and this provoked some cheering-"has certainly been gratifying. I swear that I will uphold the trust that you have placed in me, and do the best job for New York City that any mayor has ever done."
Someone in the audience shouted, "When are you running for president?"
Arthur grinned as people applauded. "Well, let's give me a few years to get my feet wet.
After all, it's a lot easier being king than being mayor or president. I have a lot to learn first."
He waited for the laughter to subside. "When you're a king," he continued, "and you tell people to do something, and by God they do it. When you're a mayor, they ask you why. And when you're a president they bring it over to some house or somesuch where a group of men who don't give a damn what you say get together and decide that they're not going to do it at all."
"Arthur for king!" someone shouted.
Arthur raised a clenched fist in appreciation. "Now that's the kind of forward-looking backward thinking that I intend to make the hallmark of my career!"
The applause was thunderous.
Meanwhile in Verona, New Jersey, the house of Morgan Le Fey burned to ashes.
It was the early hours of the morning when Arthur finally arrived home and stepped into his modest apartment. He looked around and sighed. Merlin had advised that he keep the place, even after he moved into Gracie Mansion. He sighed. No matter where he lived, it would seem pale in comparison to Belvedere Castle. And yet, the castle itself would seem empty now that Gwen wasn't there.
"Congratulations, Mayor Wart."
Arthur spun. There, at his bedroom door, was Merlin. His hair and eyebrows were singed.
He had removed his jacket and tie, but his shirt and slacks were blackened from smoke.
And to Arthur he had never looked so good.
"Merlin?" He walked slowly toward him, not daring to believe it. "Merlin is it really you?"
"Yes, Wart," he said tiredly. "It's me."
Arthur touched his shoulder gently, tentatively, and then a grin split his face. "You got away, didn't you? You little fox. I should have known." Then his voice hardened. "Where's Morgan, Merlin? Where is she hiding? Tell me, because by Ex-calibur there'll be a reckoning-"
Merlin raised a hand. "No need, Arthur. There's already been a reckoning. Morgan is dead."
Arthur paused in disbelief. "Dead?"
"Yes. Her body, at any rate. It's hard to destroy her utterly. At the moment all that remains of her is a little discorporated cloud of hate. And I'll get that eventually too. I'd like to put it in a bottle on my mantel. Make a nice conversation piece."
Merlin sauntered across the room and threw himself full length on Arthur's sofa. Arthur followed him, shaking his head wonderingly. "You did it. You really did it. Morgan is gone."
"Well, I had some help...."
"Help? How do you mean?"
Merlin told him. He told him everything-everything Gwen had said, everything that he'd done.
And Arthur stood there, trying to take it all in.
"You're saying . . . you're saying that she really saved your life."
"No," said Merlin, positioning the throw pillow under his head. "I'm not saying that. I'll be double damned if I'd ever admit that I needed anyone's help to fight my battles. However, if you say it, I won't contradict it." He stared up at the ceiling. "I was wrong about her, Arthur."
"No, Merlin." Arthur sat across from him. "You were right. You said she wasn't trustworthy, and you were right."
Merlin shook his head. "Her actions were not dishonorable, Arthur. Merely unfortunate.
Mistakes, if you prefer. But I've known you to pull one or two boners in your time. Everything that your precious Gwen DeVere did, she did out of a sense of loyalty to someone to whom she had once sworn loyalty. She was certain no lasting harm would come to you. She was betrayed by Morgan in that respect. As I recall, Morgan pulled the wool over your eyes more than one time. As a matter of fact, Modred would never have existed if-"
"I . . . gather your point, Merlin," said Arthur sheepishly. "So that horrid Lance of hers is gone?"
"Not at all. He's over there."
Arthur turned. A small rat was in a corner of the room, sitting under the television set. He was watching the two of them intently, his little nose quivering.
"What are you going to do with him?" asked Arthur. "Feed him to a cobra?" His eyes narrowed. "You're not going to restore him, are you?"
"Oh, Arthur, even if I could, I don't know if I would. But I have no idea what spell Morgan used to change him into a rat. It could take years to find." He sighed. "No, I'm going to keep him in a little cage. He'll be comfortable enough. He'll even have company-Gladys."
"What, the former receptionist?" Arthur looked surprised. "I thought you'd fed her to our new receptionist."
"What, and waste a perfectly good shrew? Phawgh. You never know when she's going to come in handy. No, she's safe and sound at home. And I'm certain she's going to adore her new little friend."
They were silent for a time, and then Arthur said, "Merlin? How can I trust her loyalty to me now?"
Merlin snorted. "Good God, Arthur, that woman went through all manner of hell, on the remote chance that she'd win your favor back. Even though her motives were, in a way, honorable, she was still remorseful over what she'd done. She risked life and limb to win you back by undoing the results of her handiwork."
Arthur shook his head. "I can't believe some of the things she was capable of."
&nb
sp; "Neither can I," admitted Merlin. "Frankly, I suspect she couldn't either. I never thought, Wart, that I would be trying to talk you into taking that woman back. But I owe you my honest opinion, and I will tell you this, Arthur-I would stake my immortal soul on the loyalty of Gwen DeVere."
Arthur sat there, square jawed, and then said, "Can I see her?"
"Of course. She's in your bedroom."
Arthur got up and went into the bedroom. There, stretched out on the bed, was Gwen. There was an ugly bruise on her forehead, and her clothes had the same smoke discoloration as Merlin's. But she was there, and she was sound and whole. Arthur went to her side and took her hand. Her chest rose and fell steadily in sleep. "Gwen?" he said gently, shaking her shoulder.
From the doorway Merlin said, "You're wasting your time, Arthur. As near as I can tell, she was taking some sort of pills to keep herself going. You can only do that to yourself for so long before your body just says, 'Enough.' She's going to sleep for quite some time, I would say. There's not a single thing that you could say or do that would bring her around."
Arthur glanced at Merlin and then back at Gwen. Then he sat next to her on the bed, squeezed her hand and said, in a voice full of love and affection, "Gwen, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
Gwen's eyes fluttered open. "Yes."
Merlin sighed and shook his head. "Women!"
Chaptre the Nineteenth
The horses thundered toward each other, hooves kicking up clods of dirt. On their backs the two armored knights, lances firmly in place, were intent on each other's approach. The sun glinted down on their shields, and the crowd roared as they met. The lance of the knight with the blue plume in his helm shattered against the shield of the other jouster, and a cheer went up. The other knight, in the red plume, was the good guy.
The horses reached the opposite ends of the field, and the blue-plumed knight was handed a new lance. He spun his horse, shook a fist at his opponent, and the crowd booed the unsportsmanlike gesture.
It was a beautiful day for a joust on the fields of the Cloisters. Standing within a mile of the jousting field was a castle that housed tapestries and pieces of lovely artwork. Stretched out around the Cloisters was parkland bordered by the Henry Hudson Parkway, and 183rd Street up to 210th Street. It was a little bit of another century staking a claim against the encroachment of this century.
The knights were members of a performing troupe that produced medieval fairs on a regular basis around the country. But this particular medieval fair was for a very special occasion-a celebration, a party to which all of New York City had been invited. And it was to celebrate the election of Arthur Penn to the high office of mayor of New York City.
A reviewing stand erected on the edge of the jousting field had been deliberately designed to look like something out of an ancient tournament. There was a box down front in which the royalty was supposed to sit, and Arthur had very cheerfully and willingly taken his place there, Gwen at his side. Gwen was stunning in a long white gown and a small crown with sparkling jewels on her head. Next to her sat Arthur, looking as if he'd stepped from another time. He was dressed in full chain mail. The main garment was called a hauberk, sort of a nightshirt made out of chain mail that hung to his knees, the skirt slit up the middle almost to the waist. Underneath the hauberk was a padded tunic to prevent the mail from digging into his chest. His leggings were mail tights called chaussures, tied just below his knee with a wide strip of cloth. Over the hauberk Arthur wore a white surcoat-a sleeveless white garment that had no collar or sleeves. It was split up the sides and laced up from the waist to the armpit. The long skirts fell free and were split up the middle the same as the hauberk. A roaring dragon was pictured on his chest.
Around his waist was Excalibur, visible thanks to Merlin, even though Arthur had not drawn it.
Nor did he have any intention of drawing it. Of course, even the best of intentions are lost sometimes to the flow of events.
Gwen leaned over. *'Arthur, aren't you hot in that outfit?"
"More than you'd believe. Eut look at them." He gestured to the excited crowds. "They love the entire concept of me as an ancient king. So occasionally I feel that we really have to give the people what they want, no matter how personally uncomfortable I might be. Let's just be thankful it's the end of November rather than the middle of July. Though it is warm for this time of year."
The two knights thundered toward each other once more, and this time in a beautifully choreographed move, they knocked each other off of their respective horses.
The knights, who were dressed in plate armor, turned toward Arthur expectantly. An announcer clad in a jerkin and possessing a considerable set of lungs, shouted, "The combatants request permission from the king to continue the joust on foot." It was the current mayor, all set to embark on his career, and more than willing to play a part in Arthur's show.
Arthur smiled and gave a thumbs-up gesture. The crowd chewed, as they knew they should, as the two knights drew their swords and began hacking at each other's heavy wooden shields. They took turns whacking at each other, wood chips flying from the shields as they moved back and forth, up and down the field. At one point the red-plumed knight went down to one knee and the blue-plumed knight came in for the kill. The red-plumed knight came in low, swung his sword, and caught the blue-plumed knight across the middle. The air rang with the impact of the blow, and the blue-plumed knight went down. The red-plumed knight was up in a flash and held the blade of his sword over the fallen knight. The crowd went wild as the downed fighter put up a hand in supplication and the announcer shouted, "The blue knight yields!"
Arthur applauded the outcome along with the rest of the crowd. There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned. Percy was there, smiling. Arthur looked at him reproachfully. "Percy, you're supposed to have dressed for the occasion."
"But Arthur, I did."
"I hardly think that a Dragon's Lair sweatshirt qualifies as knightly attire."
"Best I could do." He clapped Arthur on the shoulder affectionately and said, "I've seen Merlin wandering around. He looks suspicious."
"Merlin always looks suspicious. That's what he does best-be suspicious. Don't worry about it."
"Okay. You're the king. Is there anything I can get for you?"
"Yes. Something to drink. Anything liquid, short of motor oil."
Percy nodded and left.
Costumed actors wandered about, mixed in with the crowd. Young maidens shrunk in fear as amused tourists snapped their photographs-the lasses were concerned that pieces of their souls were being taken. Knights in armor looked gallant, assassins stalked, and a good time was being had by all.
Percy found a booth where cider was being served, and got a large mug of it for Arthur. He turned and bumped into a knight clothed similarly to Arthur, except that his surcoat was solid black. Not a spot of any other design on it. He held a barrel helmet under his arm.
"Excuse me," said Percy, trying to get around the knight.
But the knight took him forcefully by the arm. Percy looked up in surprise and said, "What do you think you're-" Then his eyes widened. "Moe!"
Modred's eyes smoldered with fury, and he said in a low voice, "Listen to me carefully. Are you listening, Percival?"
Percy stared deep into those angry eyes, and his own glassed over. Modred did not smile at his easy success. He held up a small packet with a green powder in it and said, "You will take this. You will empty the contents into the drink. You will give the drink to Arthur, and you will say nothing about it to him." Modred paused to allow the words to sink in. "Is that understood, Percy?"
Percy nodded, turned and left. He took several steps, then lifted the packet up, tore open the top with his teeth, and spilled the powder into the drink. The cider bubbled momentarily, and a thin wisp of steam rose from it. Then it settled down, changing to a slightly darker hue.
Percy stared at it blankly and went on his way.
Modred smiled and turn
ed, only to bump into two scruffy-looking individuals dressed as village idiots.
"Do I know you?" Chico asked him. Groucho, his fellow village idiot, inclined his head slightly and looked at Modred with passing curiosity.
"No," said Modred tightly. "I don't think so." He placed his helmet on his head and stalked away, patting the hilt of his sword eagerly. Chico and Groucho watched him and scratched their heads in thought.
Back in the reviewing stand Gwen was looking at a printed list of activities. "Arthur," she said, "that joust was the last thing. You think we can go soon? I love the gown, but I'd really like to get out of it." She smiled mischievously. "Would you care to help me?"
He laughed. "Ma'am, I'll have you know I'm betrothed."
Gwen rested her head on his shoulder, wrapping her hands around his arm. "It can't be soon enough for me, Arthur," she said.
"Nor for me," he said.
A cup was thrust under Arthur's nose. He looked up and saw Percy there. Percy was smiling, yet something about his expression seemed a little ... he wasn't sure . . . off, somehow.
"Percy, is something wrong?''
"No, Arthur. Not at all. Here. Here is your cider."
Arthur shrugged and took the mug. He stared at it for a moment. There was something vaguely wrong. Something he could not put his finger on. But he could not for the life of him figure out what it was.
He shrugged and downed the poisoned cider.
It had a faintly acid taste and he frowned. "Needs more sugar," he said.
"Arthur, please," said Gwen. "Can we go now?"
"Yes. Absolutely, we'll-"
"Arthur! Arthur Pendragon the Coward, son of Uther Pendragon the Murderer! I challenge you!"
Arthur had half risen out of his seat, and now he sat down slowly, his gaze held by the knight in the black surcoat who stood before him. His loud words had attracted the notice of everyone within earshot. Crowds that had started to disperse began to gather once again.
And Gwen, completely befuddled, paged through her program. This wasn't on the schedule.