The King's Wizard

by James Mallory

  It was a lonely life. Since the day that Uther had taken the castle and Gorlois had died, there had been an aura of ill-luck surrounding Tintagel’s walls like the grey sea-mist. When Igraine died and her newborn son vanished, the curse was complete. No one went to Tintagel if they could avoid it.

  Morgan told herself she didn’t mind, but it wasn’t true. She hated the loneliness, the isolation, the way her own servants—the few that remained—turned away from the sight of her disfigured face. But there was no remedy for any of these things. No man would willingly marry Cornwall’s cursed and ugly daughter.

  If only her father had lived to defeat Uther! Gorlois had been the true king of Britain, the rightful heir to the throne. Royal blood ran in Morgan’s veins; she should have been a princess instead of a lonely and forgotten outcast.

  But Uther had used Merlin’s magic and trickery to destroy Cornwall and take their lands for his own. And Gorlois’s forgotten daughter had nothing.

  So Morgan amused herself with toys and with reading the ancient books in the castle library. From those books, she had learned to build something the old Romans had called a kite. When she carried it up to a stairway overlooking the sea, it took flight easily in the wind, and Morgan watched it soar, free as she could never be.

  “Hello, Morgan. My, how you’ve grown.”

  Morgan turned around to see the oddest creature she could ever remember seeing. He was dressed all in close-fitting black. His skin was pale, and he had goggling, yellow-green eyes. He wore a close-fitting cap that made his long pointed ears all the more obvious, and stood in a half crouch, rubbing his hands together.

  “Who’re you?” Morgan said belligerently. Whoever he was, she was certain he’d only come here to make fun of her. She knew what she looked like—an ugly woman whom no one wanted, wearing a shabby, badly-made gown. Her hands clutched the kitestring tightly.

  “Don’t you remember me?” the stranger said. “I used to visit you when you were very young. …”

  He turned around, and suddenly he was a tall blond man, too handsome to be real, in a flowing white shirt. His long blond hair floated in the breeze and there was a laughing devil in his gaze.

  “Fair lady!” he cried, saluting her.

  There were several barrels on the landing that were in the process of being winched up into a tower from the landing stage below. With a carefree laugh, he kicked the one still roped to the pulley over the side, and grabbed the other end of the rope. As the barrel fell, it became a counterweight to raise him to the highest tower of Tintagel. Drawing his sword, the swashbuckler capered back and forth, doing battle against imaginary foes while Morgan laughed for joy.

  “I wemember you!” she cried. “I thought you were a dweam!”

  “I’m real,” Frik said, bowing and smiling from his perch upon the wall.

  “You lied to me,” Morgan said accusingly. She remembered the nights of heartbreak that had followed her mother’s death, when she had wept, not for Igraine, but for the dashing, magical cavalier who had never returned to keep his promises to her. “You told me you’d make me beautiful and you never did.”

  Frik pranced down the stairs until he stood before her.

  “Did I?” he asked. “Then I will. But first you must put away childish things.” With a flick of his rapier, he severed the kite string. With a cry of dismay, Morgan watched it sail away, off into the endless blue.

  “Why so sad?” Frik asked. “It’s only a toy.”

  Morgan turned back. She flinched when she saw that Frik was holding out a mirror, then approached it, breathless with hope.

  Her heart sank when she saw her reflection—marred, bucktoothed, plain—but almost before she could register her disappointment the image began to change, as if the morning mists were vanishing to reveal the beautiful golden face of the sun, and what appeared was almost too dazzling to behold.

  “I’m beautiful!” Morgan gasped. She snatched the mirror from Frik’s hand and inspected herself closely.

  Everything had changed. Her straight mouse-brown hair was now piled high upon her head in a mass of auburn ringlets, her teeth were even and white, and her face … her face was beautiful, her eyes perfect, her muddy, spotty skin a rich cream, her new beauty expertly enhanced with cosmetics.

  “Very, very beautiful,” Frik agreed proudly. “I think clothes cut in the Roman style are the only gowns for a lady of fashion.”

  Gone, too, Morgan realized, was the dowdy makeshift dress she had been wearing only a moment ago. In its place was a glorious sky-blue gown trimmed in gold.

  She was beautiful. More than that, she was perfect. He’d done all he’d promised, and more than she’d dared dream of asking for.

  “It’s wonderful,” Morgan whispered. “Now get me the thwone!” she demanded abruptly.

  Frik looked regretful. “That’s beyond my powers,” he said. He put an arm about her shoulders, leading her back into the castle. “But I do have one or two other little tricks that I’d be delighted to show you. …”

  * * *

  Humans, Frik mused, were very strange. Take Morgan, for example. He’d showed up after a particularly long absence to grant a simply enormous number of her dearest wishes, and did she think to ask him why? Certainly not. She simply took all his gifts and never asked what he might ask in payment.

  It hadn’t taken Frik long to remember Morgan when Mab gave him the task of discrediting Arthur. With the power of the Old Ways waning so disastrously, Frik had known he’d need a mortal ally. And Morgan had always been so ambitious. …

  For hours the two of them wandered through Tintagel, transforming the castle from a barren hulk to the most opulent palace Morgan could imagine. Frik filled rooms with exquisite furniture, closets with beautiful gowns, and chests with jewels. It was all trickery, of course, but it looked real, and Frik suspected that Morgan didn’t care about anything beyond appearances.

  Last of all, they reached the Great Hall. With a wave of his hand, Frik covered the walls with banners and the floors with furs. He lit a crackling fire in the great fireplace at one end of the hall, and with a gesture covered the table with a rich cloth, brilliant candles, and a lavish banquet served up on plates of pure gold—all stolen from others, as illusory food wasn’t very tasty. For an encore, he created a throne at the far end of the table, a throne big enough for two. Seated beside his creation, Frik exerted himself to the utmost to charm her. His plan was to lull any inconvenient mortal scruples she might have, but Frik was already beginning to suspect that Morgan didn’t have any.

  Still, the wine was good. And having someone look at him adoringly made quite a welcome change from Her Majesty’s tantrums. Morgan hung upon his every word, delighted to hear everything Frik could tell her about the Land of Magic and its enchanted inhabitants.

  “I can tell you from personal experience: elves are so short, when it rains they’re the last to know,” Frik murmured confidingly.

  Morgan gazed at him for a startled moment, then she got the joke and went off into gales of tipsy laughter.

  “Stop enjoying yourself and get on with it!” a too-familiar voice hissed. Frik jumped, staring down at his winecup. Mab’s face appeared as one of the four ornamental faces on the cup’s outer rim. The tiny golden face was contorted in an expression of wrath. A moment later, it was gone.

  Frik sighed inwardly. He always hated this part. If it was hard, it was a lot of work, and if it was easy, it was somehow disappointing. Broodingly, the transformed gnome got to his feet and began to pace.

  “I’ve been thinking, Morgan,” he said, as though it had just occurred to him. “There might be a way of giving you what you want. Your son could be king.”

  “Well, how?” Morgan said blankly. Her speech impediment had been the last thing to fade, but now she possessed no more than a charming lisp. “If Arthur defeats Lord Lot he’ll be king. And I can’t marry him.” Her voice held a faintly aggrieved tone as she crossed the room to join him.

  Frik
smiled. “You don’t have to marry him … to have his son.”

  “But we have the same mother.” Morgan’s impression of patronizing indignation would have been a good deal more convincing if she hadn’t been distracted by her new comeliness. She gazed at her slender hands with their painted oval nails, then began to stroke and admire her coiling auburn locks.

  Vain as a cat, Frik thought. Of course, Frik liked cats.

  “And underneath this charming and devilishly handsome exterior, I’m a crabby … old … gnome.” He put his hand on the back of Morgan’s neck and kissed her passionately.

  It was obviously a new experience; Morgan purred contentedly and wreathed her arms about his neck.

  “Does it matter?” Frik asked, smiling down at her.

  “Not a bit,” Morgan sighed, then giggled coquettishly. “Well, that depends …” Then abruptly she was all business, turning her face away from him and sitting down on the throne once more. “You don’t have to seduce me to win me over. Like everyone else: I want the crown.” Her brown eyes stared past him, fixed on a glory Frik couldn’t see.

  “I like you, Morgan le Fay. You’re a truthful young woman,” Frik said, seating himself beside her.

  Morgan shrugged, dismissing the only honest compliment Frik had yet paid her. “And I like you. Whoever you are.” She smiled and reached for him again.

  As she did, her elbow struck her cup and knocked it over. The scarlet wine flowed across the table like a river of blood.

  * * *

  It had been six weeks since Arthur had pulled Excalibur from the rock. The Romans had held this day sacred to Apollo. The Christians celebrated the Feast of St. John. But those who followed the Old Ways knew it as the day that the sun passed into the House of the Lion: Midsummer.

  And on this day, the kingship of Britain would be decided.

  The two armies were gathered at Badon Hill. The plain before it was green and smooth and even. By nightfall, it would be none of these things. The grass would be red with blood, churned to mud by the gouging hooves of the warhorses, and the empty plain would be littered with the bodies of the dead.

  “The army’s almost ready, Sire,” Sir Boris said. “It’s going to be a bonny fight!”

  Arthur looked at Merlin as Sir Boris rode away along the line. Neither of them shared the old warrior’s enthusiasm for what was to come—Merlin, because he had seen it before, and Arthur, because of the lessons Merlin had taught him: that might did not make right, and a king who ruled by force was just a bully with a crown.

  Arthur looked around at the empty tents behind him, then at the line of men who would risk their lives for him this day. Here were the grey horses of the Royal Guard, there the black horses of the King’s Companions. Welsh archers with their longbows stood proudly by dressed in Lincoln green beside wild Scots painted blue with woad and armed with enormous claymores. Behind the soldiers, a plume of incense smoke rose toward heaven, and Arthur could see the gleam of the golden croziers. Even the Holy Church was on his side, and for his own standard, he had taken the image of the Blessed Mother. The king’s standard was blue, with the Lady’s image upon it in silver.

  He looked across the field, to where Lord Lot’s army was gathered, at the top of Badon Hill. All his knights were there with him. Only one was missing. Lot’s son. Gawain fought at Arthur’s side.

  In a few short weeks, Arthur and Gawain had become the closest of friends. Gawain stood beside him, wearing a red cape and his fine bronze helmet ornamented with the Iceni’s totem beasts. Gawain looked every inch a king, and had no desire to be one.

  Today I kill the father of my best friend, or he kills me. Either way, this will be a dark day for Britain. No! I will not accept that. Merlin taught me to use my mind, not my sword.

  “We’re ready, Sire,” Sir Boris said, returning.

  Suddenly Arthur knew what he must do. “Wait for my signal,” he said. Gawain and Merlin, both standing near, nodded. He strode through the ranks to where a foot soldier held his horse and mounted Boukephalos in one smooth motion. Then Arthur rode forward alone, out onto the battlefield.

  “He’ll be killed!” Sir Hector said. “Merlin!” he said, turning to the wizard.

  Merlin stood where he was, saying nothing. His feathered cloak fluttered softly in the morning breeze, and the midsummer sun glinted off the bronze of the conical cap he wore.

  “What the devil’s he doing?” Lord Leodegrance demanded, but no one answered. All eyes in the army were upon Arthur. Their king looked very small and alone as he rode across the battlefield, into the swords and spears and arrows of an army that had sworn to kill him.

  Lord Lot’s face was impassive as he watched Arthur ride toward his army. If there had been the least sign of a threat, he would have ordered an attack, but Arthur rode alone, without even a helmet on his head. Not even his wizard was with him.

  Lot kept his face impassive as Arthur reached him. The boy reined his horse to a stop and dismounted, walking the rest of the way up the hill. He faced Lot without flinching, and Lot tried to remind himself of how unsuitable the boy was to be king. Never mind his parentage; the boy was too young. Why, Arthur was about the age of Lot’s youngest daughter, Guinevere! But child or man, Lot would have to kill him if Arthur wouldn’t see reason, because the war could not end until one of them was dead.

  “There’s no reason why men should die today, my Lord. The quarrel is between us,” Arthur said in a clear, carrying voice.

  “It is,” Lot said grudgingly. Without his intent, his gaze was drawn to the sword at Arthur’s hip, the sword from the stone. But a sword wasn’t enough to make a man king—look at Uther. Or Vortigern. …

  Suddenly Arthur drew the sword. Lot and his men scrabbled for their own weapons, but in a moment it was clear Arthur did not intend to attack. Instead he held out the sword to Lot, hilt first.

  “This is Excalibur,” Arthur said. “It is the sword of the true king. If you believe you have a right to it, take it …”

  Was it to be as simple as that? Had the boy decided to surrender? Lot took the sword into his hands, feeling its lightness and balance, the way it almost seemed to sing softly to him as he held it. The sword was everything the bards had said it was, forged of steel as fine as silver, sharper than lost hopes.

  “… and cut off my head,” Arthur finished, kneeling for the blow.

  Lot steeled himself not to recoil. It was this or war, Lot told himself. Arthur’s death, or Gawain’s, and many others’ as well. He lifted the sword.

  But he could not strike. The song of the sword filled him. He could hear it, because Lot was of the Blood Royal, but hearing it, he knew the song was not for him. The song and the sword were both for Arthur—a youth so kingly he was willing to humble himself and die so that those innocent of his quarrel should not be harmed.

  Arthur was the true king.

  Lot lowered the sword slowly.

  “Forgive me, Arthur,” he said hoarsely. “I can feel it. The sword is yours. You are the true king.”

  He held the sword out to Arthur. Still kneeling, Arthur took it.

  “The war is over!” Lot cried, so that all his men could hear him. He held out his hand and raised Arthur to his feet. The shining look of approval in those grey eyes was all the reward Lot needed. Here was a king he could follow into the halls of Death itself.

  As he handed Excalibur back to Arthur, his entire army burst into wild cheers. “Arthur is our true king by blood and right!” Lot shouted, and this time it was loud enough to be heard by both armies. Arthur raised the sword into the sky, and the midsummer sun flashed from the shining blade. Arthur’s army roared with delight at the sight.

  There was a thunder of horses’ hooves as the Royal Guard—led by Gawain—thundered across the field, cheering wildly. The rest of Arthur’s army followed, whooping and yelling with joy.

  Gawain reached Lot first. He leaped from his horse and ran up the last of the hill, catching his father in a fierce embrace. “Fathe
r—oh, Father!” he gasped, hugging Lot so tightly that the old warrior pounded his son’s back with a mailed fist. In moments the two armies were commingled upon the slope of Badon Hill, so that it was impossible to separate them—one force, indivisible, in the service of Britain.

  Merlin had not stirred from where he stood. Today was Arthur’s victory, not his. This had been the last test of kingship, and Arthur had passed it. He had won the day without shedding a drop of blood, and made Lot love him for it. Arthur was both a good man and a good king; he would bring the New Religion to all of Britain through peace, not by the sword. The days of madness, pain, and blood were over, and the future was sanctified by Arthur’s goodness.

  I’ve done myself out of a job, Merlin thought to himself with pleasure. It was the day he’d worked for, hoped for, for the last twenty years, since that long-ago winter’s day when he rode into Winchester to give his aid to Uther. Constant … Vortigern … Uther … each had been a bad king. Constant had loved his god too much; Vortigern had loved his own way. Uther had been ruled by greed and fear both. But Arthur had none of the faults of his predecessors: he was strong where they had been weak, tolerant where they had been fanatic, gentle where they had been ruthless.

  On what would have been their battlefield, the two armies were gathered in a ring about Arthur. Excalibur flashed in his hand. He spoke, and Merlin heard the words quite clearly.

  “Here in this circle, let us give thanks to our Savior for this deliverance. And let this circle be a symbol of our purpose; each man in it is equal to the other, each has a voice, each will strive to fight for truth and honor. Let us pray.”

  He knelt, and all the others, Pagan and Christian, knelt with him to receive the blessing of the Church. Merlin smiled wistfully. For all its intolerance, the New Religion was a gentler shepherd than the Old Ways had been to the people of Britain, and yet Merlin could not give himself to it, any more than he had been able to make himself into Mab’s champion. His birthright had condemned him to stand forever between, wholly a part neither of mortal world nor fairy realms.