The King's Wizard

by James Mallory

  The hilt of the sword glowed golden in the moonlight. Arthur dismounted and walked up the hill toward it like a young man going to his bride. But when he reached it he hesitated, looking back at Merlin.

  “All the knights in Britain have tried to take it, but it is the sword of the king. It’s yours, Arthur.”

  Merlin saw Arthur summon up all his courage as he grasped the hilt of the sword in both hands. But before he could pull on it, a voice spoke from behind him.

  “Merlin? It seems you were only here a moment ago,” the Mountain King rumbled.

  Arthur looked behind him. The boy’s eyes widened as he saw the enormous face that had been a cliff only the moment before.

  “My lord, this man claims Excalibur,” Merlin announced.

  “Who is it?” the Mountain King rumbled in his slow, deep voice.

  “I am Arthur, the only son of Uther and rightful king of Britain!” the boy cried.

  “Why give him the sword?”

  One of the boulders on the hillside seemed to split as Mab issued forth from it. Moving with a flickering motion, she positioned herself a few yards away. Her skin sparkled like crystal, and her eyes were dark fathomless pools. The Queen of the Old Ways glowed, as though the fires of earth were consuming her from within. Her dark robes glittered as if they had been woven from the light of black stars. She pointed one sable-taloned finger accusingly at Arthur.

  “He’ll betray the people, just as his father did!”

  Arthur glanced at her, then looked back at the Mountain King, his hands still upon the hilt of Excalibur.

  “I don’t know what I’ll do or what I’ll become—only what I am!”

  “A wise answer,” the Mountain King said.

  “I had a wise teacher,” Arthur said with a faint smile. Merlin’s heart swelled with pride; with every second that passed, Arthur became more a king, and less the wild, good-hearted boy who had been Merlin’s pupil. But kingly or not, Mab would try to smash both him and the sword the Lady of the Lake had given into Merlin’s keeping.

  “He will try to destroy the Old Ways!” Mab raged. “You’ll be forgotten like the rest of us!”

  “That is your fear, not mine, Mab,” the Mountain King said in his slow rich voice. “I cannot die. I am the Rock of Ages; I’ll live forever, on the edge of dreams.”

  Mab recoiled as if the Mountain King’s words were blows.

  “Now, Arthur!” Merlin cried. “Now is the time!”

  Arthur hesitated for only a moment. Tightening his grip upon the sword, he began to pull.

  “The sword is yours,” the Mountain King said, releasing his grip.

  But Mab had not yet conceded defeat. She gestured, her robes flashing in the moonlight, and as she did, the sword in Arthur’s hands began to glow with heat.

  His face contorted with pain, but his determination didn’t waver. Slowly, with a shrill scraping sound, the blade began to move against the rock as it was released from its prison. Blood oozed from between his fingers and dripped down the hilt, and still Arthur pulled, drawing Excalibur from the stone. As the sword’s magic was freed, the Mountain King closed his eyes, settling into sleep once more.

  The sound had awakened the village. As Merlin watched, lamps were lit in the tents and houses, and the voices of the villagers could be heard, blending in a growing babble of sound as each of them asked what was happening. At that moment, the blade slipped free from the rock, its magic flaring with a blinding light.

  With a flourish, Arthur raised the sword above his head. “Excalibur!” he shouted as the cooling blade flashed in the moonlight. Blood from his wounded hands dripped down his wrist, spattering his face like some unholy baptism. “Excalibur!”

  “Look at him, Merlin,” Mab jeered. “His reign begins in blood and it will end the same way.”

  But Merlin knew the key to contending against Mab now. Mab drew her power from faith, from belief. The greatest defense against her destructive magics was hope.

  “No, Mab,” Merlin answered, smiling triumphantly. “You’re wrong. Arthur will heal the land.”

  Mab hissed in defiance, but Merlin’s conviction was too much for her. With an angry gesture, the fairy queen vanished, leaving the young king and his wizard alone in the moonlight. Arthur had come into his power at last … and so had Merlin.

  The villagers were coming from their tents and huts now, heading toward the sword-stone. When they saw Arthur standing on the hill, they stopped, milling about in confusion.

  Arthur raised the sword high once more. The light from the candles massed at the base of the rock cast a deep amber glow over the young king, but the sword’s light was the bright silver of starlight.

  “He has the sword!” one of the villagers shouted. “He has Excalibur!”

  “He’s the king!” another said. There was a loud murmur of voices as the message was passed through the crowd to those too far away to see. The king—the king—the king. …

  “Long live the king!” someone shouted, and in a moment the cry was taken up by every voice. “Long live the King! Long live the King!”

  Merlin watched Arthur, and saw the moment when the boy—the king—realized that the crowd was shouting for him. He swung Excalibur over his head. It flashed blue in the moonlight and Arthur laughed, his joy melding with the song of the magic sword.

  And Merlin laughed with him, certain of Arthur’s goodness, certain at last that the future would be bright.

  * * *

  The land under the hill had neither sun nor moon to mark the passing of the days, and its sleepless inhabitants did not miss them. Hindered only slightly by the cloud of curious sprites that flitted about his head, Frik went about his daily chores.

  It seemed only moments since young Master Merlin had been his pupil, and Frik found that he still missed the boy—though consciously he knew that time passed differently in the Lands of Men, and the half-mortal boy he remembered was many years older now. Those had been the days! Her Majesty had been happy when Merlin was with them, looking forward to a future in which she would have regained all her ancient influence.

  But since Merlin had left them, life seemed to consist of nothing but a series of setbacks. Though Mab schemed and plotted as tirelessly as she ever had, it never seemed to gain them anything.

  And it seemed that Time itself had turned against them. The magic that Mab expended was not repaid in the form of belief—the New Religion had made too many inroads on the numbers of those who had once followed the Old Ways. More and more often these days, Frik came across drifts of crystals drained of power—power that now was gone forever.

  And when enough power had vanished, that would be the end of everything. They—Frik, and Mab, and all the creatures of magic that filled her dominion—would fade away like morning mist, to have no more reality than the dreams that mortals dreamed. Fussing under his breath, the gnome began to pick up the colorless, crumbling crystals: the residue of expended magic.

  Someday, when the mortals realized what they’d lost, these fragments would be revered as if they still held great power, but by then he, and Mab, and all their enchanted world would be long gone, vanished in the mists of Time.

  Lost in his dire thoughts, Frik did not notice when Mab appeared beside him—though he did notice as she sent him sprawling with a well-placed kick. The debris he had gathered up scattered across the floor once more.

  “Don’t you ever tidy up, Frik?” she hissed.

  Frik risked a cautious glance at his mistress. She was in a towering rage—he could tell that much easily. But why?

  “Oh, I try, Your Majesty, but I’m terribly overworked—and I can’t use imps, gnomes, or fairies—they’re utterly useless with anything practical. I mean, I have so much to do!” he said obsequiously as he picked up the crystals he’d dropped. Groveling usually worked to dull the edge of Mab’s temper.

  But not this time.

  “And you’ll have more! I’ve totally given up on Merlin!” Mab said, sweeping her
cape around herself as if she were some furious bird of prey. “I thought that, despite everything, he might come round in the end,” she added, and there was almost a note of dejection in her harsh, toneless voice.

  Given up on Merlin? Frik was stunned. But Merlin had been Mab’s pet project for so long—she had been so certain he would rejoin her at last! Even though Frik had suspected Merlin was far more stubborn than Mab had dreamed, to hear his mistress admit failure—!

  “Well I mean he’s a stubborn creature, isn’t he?” Frik offered tentatively, trying to gauge her mood.

  “I wanted him to join me, so I fooled myself!” Mab’s perfect face was harsh with regret.

  “I’ve never known you to do that before over anyone,” Frik said quietly, getting to his feet. He had never seen the Queen of the Old Ways so shaken, so unsure of herself. What had happened to challenge Mab’s certainty that she could someday bend Merlin to her will? Why, she almost seemed vulnerable!

  But if Mab had been disillusioned, it had not made her soft. Hissing her displeasure at Frik’s effrontery, she slapped him across the face hard enough to make him stagger back yelping.

  “Enough!” she said, brusquely dismissing her moment of weakness. “Oh yes, Arthur’s cursed. I want everyone to know in good time—and that will be your job, Frik!”

  Arthur … that was the baby Merlin had once had such hopes for, the one with the ambitious half-sister, Morgan. Frik wondered what had happened to her … he supposed the girl must be all grown-up, if her brother was causing such trouble. Still, it might be amusing to go and see. It had been a long time since Frik had done anything for fun.

  “Yes, Your Majesty. Of course, Your Majesty,” Frik said, fawning and kowtowing as he bowed and backed carefully out of reach.

  * * *

  Uther’s will had specified that he was to lie in state and be buried at Winchester, not Pendragon. Perhaps he felt that he had sullied the cathedral at Londinium with his blasphemies, or perhaps at the end of a failed reign he had thought longingly back to the days of struggle and victory that had been his at Winchester in his youth. Whatever the reason, it was here that his body lay upon its bier of state, robed in scarlet, crowned in gold, surrounded by candles, with monks chanting prayers day and night for the repose of King Uther’s once-troubled soul.

  But if the late king was now at peace, his kingdom was not. Everyone knew that Excalibur had vanished from the stone in which it had been imprisoned for so long—but no one knew who had drawn it forth.

  It was spring, and the fancies of men across Britain turned to war.

  “Uther was my cousin! I claim the throne by right!” Lord Lot shouted across Uther’s body. The grey-bearded noble was dressed in the Briton style, with a gold collar about his neck testifying to his connection to royal blood.

  “You did not pull the sword Excalibur from the rock!” Lord Leodegrance roared back. All the dukes and princes of Britain were gathered in that room, united by one thought: that each of them was worthy to be king.

  “Nobody did!” Lord Lot cried.

  “You all failed. My father is king by right of blood!” Gawain shouted. Lord Lot’s son was a warrior in his prime. Tall and fair like all the members of the Iceni tribe, he was loved by his people as much for his gentleness as for his formidable prowess in battle. The Iceni were a rich people, their lands far from those overrun by the Saxon hordes, and Gawain wore a fawn-colored cape embroidered in the Celtic style over well-worn British plate mail ornamented with pure gold. While he supported his father’s claim to the throne, every man there knew that Gawain would not demand the crown for himself. All the Iceni prince had ever asked of life was the chance to be loyal to a worthy man.

  “I am nearer to Uther than you,” Lord Leodegrance said, reopening the old argument. The ties of blood that linked all the noble families of Britain had become a net to ensnare them in, as each one weighed his connections to Uther to gauge his acceptability for the kingship.

  “His sister was Uther’s niece,” Sir Hector said slowly. “I pledge my army to Lord Leodegrance.”

  “Listen to Sir Hector!” Lord Leodegrance urged his fellow nobles.

  “I have a claim, too!” Sir Boris interrupted, his red face darkening with exasperation.

  “Nobody’s going to follow a bearded blowhard!” Gawain jeered.

  The rotund old knight’s flaming hair was thinner now and streaked with grey, but he still wore the banded armor and tunica virilis of a Roman soldier, and was a warrior in his heart. With a roar he flung himself at Lord Lot’s son. Standing candle trees filled with rings of lit candles rocked dangerously, spattering the shouting men below them with hot beeswax. Though they had all left their weapons outside this holy place, tempers ran hot and fast. The princes of Britain surged back and forth, trying to decide with their fists what could not be settled by any reasoned argument, while unnoticed by everyone, the old king’s body slipped from its bier to the floor.

  Merlin and Arthur had set out for Winchester at first light. Arthur was very quiet on the journey, thinking of what it meant to be king. Merlin knew that the battle was far from over; though Excalibur conferred the true kingship, the race of men was as foolish, stubborn, and petty-minded as ever.

  When they reached the cathedral, Merlin began to suspect his estimate might have been too charitable. The sound of shouting voices could be heard even through the door. Arthur glanced uneasily at Merlin.

  “These are the men you must rule,” Merlin said as he opened the door.

  The sounds of shouting and inarticulate anger rolled over the two men like an ocean wave. There was no way for them to be heard over it.

  Merlin drew his fingers across his lips and then cast the gesture out into the room. At once there was silence. The men continued to shout, but there was no sound. As they realized what had happened, they slowly fell silent, staring at each other in wonder.

  Merlin led Arthur into the middle of the room.

  “That’s better, isn’t it, my lords?” he said ostentatiously. “Now you can listen instead of fighting. It should be a novel experience for most of you.” With a flick of his left hand, Merlin returned their voices to them. “Uther had a son. I give you Arthur, true King of Britain.”

  There was a moment of silence as they stared at Merlin, then most of the nobles burst out laughing, discovering by this that they could speak again. As the laughter died, Lord Lot spoke.

  “Uther had no son. Everyone knows that.”

  Arthur’s cool blue gaze swept the room, stopping where the body of King Uther—his father—lolled from the dais. Ignoring them all, he went to the bier, gently lifting his father’s body in his arms and arranging it decently once more upon the scarlet pall.

  “He did.” Sir Boris looked stricken, as if he spoke in spite of himself. “Uther did have a son. When Uther conquered Tintagel, he took the Lady Igraine. A son was born. It’s true. I was there.”

  “Arthur?” Sir Hector spoke wonderingly, reaching out his hand to the boy he had raised from infancy. “Is Uther’s son?”

  “If he is, let him draw Excalibur from the stone,” Gawain said with simple practicality.

  “I already have!” Arthur announced proudly. He drew Excalibur and flourished it, and once more Merlin heard the high, sweet song of the sword.

  Gawain looked stunned as he gazed upon a sight he had plainly never expected to see. “Well, prove it!” he said, nearly stammering. “Prove that this is Excalibur!”

  Without a word, Arthur swung the sword about his head in a great arc. The crowd flinched back, though the sword came nowhere near them. No living man was Arthur’s target. Instead, Excalibur sliced the flames from two of the nearest branches of candles.

  But the magic did not end there. The flames, still in two perfect rings, floated up to the ceiling, slowly dissolving as they rose. All those assembled watched the spectacle in stunned silence. Slowly, Gawain went to his knees, as much out of shock as in reverence.

  “You do have
Excalibur and you are Uther’s son. I acknowledge you as my liege-lord and King,” Sir Boris said dogmatically. With grave ponderousness, the elderly knight walked to Arthur’s side and knelt to do him homage.

  “And so do I,” Sir Hector said. Kneeling, he kissed the hand of the king who had been his foster son.

  “He has the sword,” Lord Leodegrance said simply, kneeling and bowing his head to Arthur. “Accept him, Lot … Arthur is king.”

  “Never,” Lord Lot bellowed. “I’ll not bend my knee to a boy—nor will my son!” He turned to go.

  “I can speak for myself, Father,” Gawain said sharply. “He has Excalibur. He is the king.”

  Lord Lot froze where he stood, staring at his son.

  “Gawain! You’d go against your own father?”

  “If the cause is just,” Gawain said evenly.

  “And if it’s not—and you’re wrong?” Lord Lot demanded.

  “Then you will have to kill me in battle,” Gawain said softly. “I am the king’s man, Father.” Slowly Gawain knelt again among the others.

  “So be it!” Lord Lot said coldly.

  “Shame on you!” someone cried.

  “My Lords, hard as it may be for you, think for a moment,” Merlin said coaxingly. “We have all seen too many wars.”

  Some of the nobles standing with Lord Lot wavered at Merlin’s words, but Lot himself was too outraged by Gawain’s defection to think calmly.

  “My mind’s made up! All with me, follow me!” he stormed from the room, followed by half a dozen other lords. The sound of the door as it slammed behind them was the loudest sound Merlin had ever heard: the sound of his hopes for peace crashing down into nothingness. Across Uther’s body he gazed at Arthur, and found that Arthur was staring back with the same emotion in his eyes—despair.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE THRONE OF FACE

  Tintagel Keep stood as it always had, a solitary citadel upon the Cornish headlands. Within its walls, Morgan le Fay ruled as sole overlord, as she had from the time when she was eight years old.