by J A Cummings
Griflet looked down, unable or unwilling to meet Arthur’s eyes. “You’re a coward.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “In the worst way, and in the worst time.”
“I always knew you were holding a piece of yourself back. Now I suppose I understand why that was. I don’t approve, of course, but I understand.” He turned back to Arthur, and his eyes were burning with regret and sorrow. “You broke my heart when you fell in love with Guinevere.”
It was too hard to face that look, so Arthur turned away, a coward still. “I’m so sorry, Grif. I never meant to hurt you.”
“But you did.” He sighed. “Did it even trouble you at all? Did the end of whatever it was we had - did it pain you in the least?”
“Yes.” Arthur nodded, still looking down. “And it pains me still, every single day. What I feel for Guinevere has no bearing on what I feel for you.”
“What you feel for me? And what is that? Apparently, it wasn’t much, if she could find so central a place in your heart in such a short time, and with me still in the room.” Griflet shook his head in disgust. “And why bring this to me now, of all times? Is it because she’s gone and now you need to find another bed partner?”
Arthur flinched as if Griflet had struck him. “No. It’s not like that. I just -”
A shadow moved in the corner of the hall, and both Arthur and Griflet saw it. It was small and round, hovering in the corner near the ceiling. “What is that?” Griflet asked.
“I have no idea,” the king admitted. He stared up at the dark shape, watching as it floated on the wall. He could feel it watching him.
Griflet picked up a stick from the basket of kindling on the hearth and threw it at the mobile spot of darkness. The stick passed directly through the floating shadow, clattering against the stone of the wall, but its impact apparently was felt. The dark thing vanished with a susurration like the hissing of a viper.
Arthur shook his head. “That was an ill omen. I need to find Merlin. He’ll know what to do.” He stood. “Watch for it, see if it comes back.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
A nervous flicker coursed down Arthur’s back, and he left to begin his search.
Merlin dismissed his scrying mirror, closing down the remote eye that he was using to spy on Griflet and Arthur. He already had some suspicions that Griflet was weakening in his resolve, and the tenor of the conversation had him even more convinced. If the boy broke faith with the agreement he and Merlin had reached, then a more permanent solution would have to be found. He had no dagger from a rival prince this time, so he would have to plan carefully if more active steps needed to happen.
He heard Arthur calling his name, and he used his magic to travel to his mother’s tower, avoiding the king. Vivienne was standing at a cauldron, carefully shredding the leaves from a stalk of dried feverfew and sprinkling them into the bubbling liquid inside. She did not look up.
“Hello, darling,” she greeted.
“Hello, mother.” He looked at her cauldron and sniffed at the greenish potion. “Headache cures?”
“I was asked to provide some assistance to an old friend.” She finished with the herb and brushed her hands clean over the boiling water. A lock of scarlet hair fell over her shoulder, and she tucked it back into place. He wanted to ask which friend, but such prying would have annoyed her, and he had no wish to do anything of the sort. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
He had no good reason to have troubled her, and he knew it. “I wanted to tell you of his progress.”
“The High King’s?” she asked, knowing full well who Merlin meant.
“Yes, mother. The High King.”
She looked up at him with a smile, her emerald eyes sparkling. She offered a kiss, and he met it with one of his own before he stepped back.
She turned back to her brewing, collecting fresh sprigs of peppermint to continue preparing her recipe. “What is his progress, my dear?”
“He is devoted to the nymph and will marry her as soon as possible, confirming the alliance between Logres, Cameliard, Dal Riada and the Seelie Court.”
“Very good. That will be a strong combination. Will he be biddable, do you think, when the time comes for his particular endeavors?”
He nodded. “I believe so. I will start laying the groundwork by making the appropriate suggestions.”
“Excellent.” She stirred the mixture in the cauldron. “How much control do you have over him, would you say?”
“Enough.”
She quirked one slender eyebrow. “Enough for what?”
“Enough to make him do what you want him to do.”
Vivienne nodded. “And what about his former lover?”
Merlin crossed his arms. “I suspect I may need to intervene. He is wavering.” She looked at him, and he held up a hand. “I know. I know how important it is that Arthur is ready to do what he needs to do, and that he remains without distractions.”
She said, “Any man he loves will be the agent of his destruction. You must keep him free of such entanglements until he has achieved what he is meant to achieve.” She shook her head over her brewing. “He cannot have any lover but Guinevere. On this all things depend.”
“I understand.” He hesitated, then said, “I saw the fated knight as a child in the Fey Lands. They’re toughening him, strengthening him through suffering.”
“Good. He will need to be strong. He will be Arthur’s right hand, the living sword that the High King wields. He must be ruthless and brutal in a fight, and he must not be deterred by pain, for he will have pain aplenty in the High King’s service.” She stirred the pot again. “He has a part to play in the final endeavor, and if he doesn’t play it, then all of this has been for naught. Only he or one of his bloodline can achieve the pivotal step for the second relic.”
“I won’t let him fail.”
“We are at a delicate place, my darling. At any moment, a single event could topple all of our careful plans, and we may lose Arthur before he does what he is meant to do.”
Merlin nodded. “I know. I will not let him fall. I’ll see to it that he does all of the things you require of him, and without distraction.”
Vivienne went to her son and embraced him, kissing him again. “That’s my good boy,” she praised. “Now go back to the king and make him ready.”
“Yes, mother.” He smiled and backed out of her sacred space, then left with a flurry of magic.
Merlin found Arthur in the corridor at Mons Badonicus, and the king grasped his arm when he saw him. “We saw something in the hall,” Arthur said excitedly. “I need you to come and see. There was something, either magical or faery, and -”
“What did it look like?” the druid asked, knowing full well what the king had seen.
“A dark spot, a shadow that was cast by nothing. It moved on its own, and it seemed somehow intelligent. Something was watching us.”
“Us?”
“Griflet and me. We were talking in the hall, and that’s when we noticed it.”
“Only talking?” Merlin teased.
Arthur clicked his tongue, irritated. “The days of doing anything else are long behind us, and even if they weren’t, we’d hardly be in each other’s arms in the great hall. Give us some credit for understanding discretion and propriety.”
Merlin chuckled. “Calm yourself. I was joking.”
The two of them went back into the hall, where Griflet was scanning the walls and ceilings anxiously. The druid smirked as the young knight said, “It hasn’t been back.”
“Good,” Arthur nodded. “Merlin, what was it?”
“A scrying window,” he said. “Someone was watching you from a distance, observing.”
The king frowned. “Who would do something like that?”
“It was me.”
Both young men gaped at him. Arthur recovered first. “You? Why?”
“I was testing to see if there would be a way for me to stand magical guard over you, in c
ase we needed to be separated. It was only a test.”
Griflet narrowed his eyes. “Can you hear through that thing?”
“No,” Merlin lied. “I can only see.”
Arthur was fascinated. “Can you show me?”
“Of course.”
He conjured his scrying mirror, summoning it from the pocket of unreality he used to carry it with him everywhere he went. The round, flat piece of highly-polished black glass floated in midair at waist height, slightly tilted to offer Merlin a comfortable view.
The druid told them, “Watch that corner, there.”
He pointed to the top of the wall near the ceiling and whispered the words of the scrying spell. The dark spot reappeared, nearly melding into the wood grain of the roof joists. In the mirror, the two young men could see themselves from a bird’s eye view, clustering around Merlin. Arthur looked up at the scrying window, and in the mirror, his face was turned up. Griflet shook his head.
“Amazing,” he said. “Can you see in the dark with that?”
“If I choose to.”
The young knight laughed. “I would misuse that thing so badly…”
“I know,” Merlin nodded. “That’s why you can’t have one.”
Arthur chuckled. “Well, I must say, I’m very relieved that it was you and not some Unseelie faery or enchanter or other. I don’t very much like the idea of an enemy watching me this way.”
Merlin dismissed both the watcher by the ceiling and the mirror. “It is possible that a sufficiently powerful enemy could do exactly that. Now that you know what a s scrying window looks like, keep watch.”
“How will I know your window from someone else’s?” Arthur asked.
He considered. “I’m not sure that you can. I will find some way to signal you if it is me. Perhaps a spark or two on the outer edge, only when you look up. I don’t want to be too obvious.”
“Why? If you’re watching for my protection -”
“There will be times that you will be in private parley with other royals, or with representatives of other courts, and they will not take kindly to being observed. That’s when the window must be most subtle.”
Griflet shook his head. “You wizards and your scary ways. I much prefer old-fashioned eavesdropping.”
Merlin responded acidly. “That’s because you’re nothing but a blunt tool.”
“That’s not true,” Arthur disagreed. “Griflet is more than that, especially to me.”
They all heard the emotion in his voice, and the moment was awkward. The king turned away, trying to reel in his affection once again. Griflet looked troubled. Merlin sighed in disgust.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur said. He stepped away. “I’m going hunting.”
“Not alone, you’re not,” the druid disagreed.
“Griflet? Come with me?”
He hesitated, and Merlin said, “I’ll go. I need to gather some spell components, anyway.” He gestured toward himself, and his druid robes vanished, replaced by his black armor and a black, fur-lined cloak. A sword rested on his hip, and he had a bow and quiver. He nodded to the king. “Let’s go.”
Griflet shook his head. “Can you even breathe without using magic?”
“I try not to.”
Arthur was impressed. “You’re absolutely astonishing.”
Merlin smiled. “I know.”
Arthur left for Caer Gai a few days later. Sir Brastias stayed behind, but Griflet and Merlin rode with him on the old Roman road headed west. They traveled warily, keeping an eye on the weather. The sky was gray and heavy with the promise of snow, the spirit of winter trailing them all along the way. After two days of riding under cold and sodden skies, they reached a town at the junction of two Roman roads, one road leading through the Perilous Forest toward Viroconium and Cambria, the other south toward Aquae Sulis and thence to Cornwall. Merlin arranged for them to stay at a wayfarer’s inn, and at the druid’s insistence, they concealed their identities and made certain not to tell anyone that he was the king.
The three of them sat down to dinner in the common room, their bowls filled with a hearty vegetable stew that steamed with welcome heat. Arthur stirred his dinner idly, glancing up at Merlin as he did. The druid was watching him.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Merlin said abruptly.
“Do you?” Arthur asked, amused. “Tell me, because I’m not certain that I know.”
“You mean to see Queen Igraine.”
Griflet paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Why would you want to do that? Aquae Sulis is very far out of your way, and she hates you anyway, or so I’ve heard.”
“How can she hate someone she’s never met?” Arthur smiled. “She’s my mother. I just want to meet her. What possible harm could there be in that?”
“A great deal,” Merlin said. “I have already advised against this.”
“So do I,” Griflet said. “It’s stupid. You’ll add too much time to the trip and you’ll make all of us late for Yule.”
The young king thought for a moment, then nodded. “All right. I understand.”
Griflet and Merlin looked at one another, neither of them believing for one moment that Arthur was really giving up so easily. Griflet rolled his eyes, and Merlin shook his head. It was a rare moment of agreement between the two of them. Arthur stirred his stew and fell quiet.
They knew him well. After the meal was over, the king retired to his room, claiming fatigue. He changed into his best clothes, trying to look as regal as possible. He added a hooded cloak lined with soft fur, a showy affectation that he hoped looked kingly. He armed himself in the shining armor he had been given when he’d been named dux bellorum, which he had already polished until it gleamed. He had no access to his crown, because Merlin kept the thing hidden away somewhere only to mysteriously present it when it was needed for some official duty. He supposed that it would have been ostentatious and boastful to wear it, anyway, and not very intelligent to tempt thieves on the road. He settled for shining the rings he wore, the double dragons with the sapphire and the ring that had once belonged to Ambrosius Aurelianus. Once he was reasonably satisfied with his appearance and certain that his companions were sleeping, he slipped out of the inn and to the stable. He saddled his horse quickly. There were no interruptions, so he presumed that he had managed to avoid alerting his companions to his activities.
The trip to Aquae Sulis took the rest of the night and most of the following day. He rode alone, going as quickly as he dared to discourage any attackers from flinging themselves out of the wood. For the first several hours of his ride, he saw no one, but the closer he came to the city of the sacred springs, the more people he encountered: merchants, pilgrims, and simple travelers. He joined the throng headed to the hot springs, and he felt much reassured by the presence of others. Because of his raiment and the sword at his hip, something only the very rich could afford to have, they gave him deference and left him more or less alone. He would normally have wished to speak to them, to learn something about them and their lives, but he had other things that he needed to do on this trip. He could be more sociable at a later time.
The city was enclosed by stout stone walls, in the center of which were the Roman baths, still in perfect order. The aqueducts and pipes that the empire had put into place still brought clean water in and took soiled water out, and people stood outside the baths peddling everything from soft linens to scented oils. The majority of the people who traveled on the road beside him were headed to the baths and the medicinal powers of the sacred spring, which was dedicated to the goddess Sulis-Minerva.
The temple reminded him of another temple to the same goddess in Letocetum, and how he had very nearly come to grief there. He resolved that he would never again enter the baths alone with any priestess, no matter how beautiful she was.
The convent lay north of the pagan temple but still within the walls of the town. A Christian presence had sprung up near the baths, giving Christian saints the credit for the
healing properties of the mineral waters there. The two religions lived cheek-by-jowl in a queasy coexistence, but it was clear that there were two very separate baths with two very different approaches. The pagan baths were medicinal but also hedonistic, as the best Roman baths could be. The Christian baths tended more toward the prayerful and meditative. Both clergies were fat and rich from the donations and gifts left by the grateful faithful. It was the one thing the two faiths had in common.
He rode to the convent and knocked on the door, the heavy brass knocker thudding loudly against the wood. A sliding window opened, and a novice nun in a severe habit looked out.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes, Sister. I am Arthur Pendragon, here to see Queen Igraine.”
“Arthur Pendragon?” she echoed. She looked suspicious. “That’s the name of the new High King.”
“Yes, madam,” he said respectfully. “I am he.”
She pursed her lips and squinted. “One moment.”
The shutter slid closed once more, and he waited for several long minutes. Finally, the bar slid aside and the door opened. The nun nodded to him.
“Come in, Your Majesty.”
He smiled as amiably as he could. “Thank you.”
She did not bow or curtsy to him. When he crossed the threshold, she locked the entry again.
An aged woman in a darker version of the same habit was waiting for him, her hands hidden in the sleeves of her robes. Her wrinkled face creased even further as she frowned. “King Arthur Pendragon. This is a cloistered convent,” she told him, her tone disapproving. “Despite the fact that you are king, you are still a man. You will be allowed only in certain places. Follow me, and I will take you to the place where you can meet Sister Igraine.”
She escorted him to the library and left him alone, looking at him almost reproachfully as she backed out through the double doors. He was mystified by her unfriendly manner, but ultimately it was of little import and he disregarded it. He had more important things to consider.
