The mere suggestion of plague seemed almost to have a magical power, or at any rate a superstitious one. People fled into the castle or to the various wooden buildings surrounding it, as if to be in an enclosed space with the plague-infected might be safer than being out of doors with them. In only moments, most of the crowd in the courtyard had vanished; the only ones left were Arthur, Merlin, Nimue, Robert, Peter, Gildas, Morgan and Mordred in the carriage, and a few knights. Peter of Darrowfield stood apart, evidently uncertain whether he should be so forward as to join the king’s inner circle.
Merlin watched the panic with a sort of detached alarm. “This should not be happening,” he said softly.
Arthur’s face was stone. “And so the plague comes to Camelot.”
“No one touch the body.” Merlin spoke much more forcefully than usual for him, even though no one had made a move to touch John’s corpse. “I must conduct an examination as soon as possible.”
“To what point?” Arthur sounded more annoyed than puzzled. “We know what killed him.”
“Even so.”
Morgan smiled out the window of the carriage. “And so, brother, this Cloud-Cuckoo-Land of yours, this nation of justice and brotherhood, comes to its end.” She laughed, long and heartily. “King Arthur.”
“The only thing that has come to an end,” Merlin interjected strongly, “is the life of poor John of Paintonbury.”
“And you think this plague will stop with just him?” She could barely suppress her glee.
“Why do you sound so smug, Morgan? Do you suppose,” Merlin asked her, “the plague will confine itself to obliterating only those people you disapprove of?”
“The plague,” Morgan pronounced, opening the carriage door and stepping down, “was sent by the Good Goddess to punish the sins of Camelot.”
“No!” Bishop Gildas was more vehement than Merlin had ever seen him. “The disease is a punishment for the veneration of a pagan symbol.”
“Stop it, both of you!” Arthur’s voice rang in the near-empty courtyard. “This is no time for your bickering. Merlin, take John’s body away and examine it. Do whatever you think you must. But be quick about it. We must leave as soon as possible.”
“Excellent idea, Arthur. We must be certain what killed him.”
“Surely we know that, at least.” Gildas had not stopped glaring at Morgan.
“When you have finished your examination,” Arthur said, looking from one person to the next as if daring them to stir up trouble, “come back here.”
“You still mean to make this journey, Arthur?”
“Of course. Now more than ever.”
“With only a small armed force?”
“Don’t start.”
Merlin sighed deeply, then instructed Nimue to find servants and a litter for the body. “There is that cloth treated with wax-you know, the material I have been experiment ing with. You will find it in my workshop. Wrap the body in that, and the disease should be contained.”
Nimue ran off to follow his orders.
Arthur looked numb; the morning’s events were beginning to wear him down, and it showed. “You think you can contain the plague with cloth?”
“If it is plague that did him in, I cannot say. But we must not be hasty in our conclusions.”
“You’ve described the plague to me time and again. John showed all the symptoms, the red marks, the fever, the hallucinations…”
“Yes.” Merlin fell silent and would say no more.
“Where is Simon?”
“Your majordomo fled like a frightened hare.” Morgan did not try to disguise her pleasure at this. “He was the first to take to his heels.”
“Why don’t you go back inside the castle, Sister, and stop trying to annoy everyone?” Suddenly her presence there struck him. “You are not to come with us on this journey, Morgan. You have too many partisans out there in the hinterland. I want you here at Camelot, where I can keep you under surveillance.”
Morgan laughed at him. “I should go, anyway. With the plague threatening us, I should go to my sanctuary and pray. For England.”
“You are to remain here at Camelot.”
She smiled. “Of course. Whatever the king wishes.”
Mordred followed her out of the carriage, and the two of them headed back inside the castle.
Peter finally found the resolve to join the others. “Merlin, may I assist you in your examination? The chance to work with you-to learn more about your methods-would mean so much to me.”
“This will be only a cursory examination. There is hardly time for a full postmortem. But I would be glad to have you along.”
Nimue returned from the castle carrying a bolt of waxed cloth and accompanied by two servants, neither of whom tried to disguise his fear.
Merlin took an end of the cloth and wrapped it around John’s body, being careful not to touch any exposed areas.
“Take it up to my tower. There is an empty room-you know the one-two levels below my quarters.” He turned to young Robert. “Go along and help them. Then I want you to stay behind to assist Colin. He will need assistance, with all this happening.”
“But, sir-”
“Do it.”
He frowned. “Yes, sir. But-but-”
“Yes?”
“If I am to be your servant, sir, I should be with you. You may need someone to help you.”
Merlin sighed. “Oh, very well. You probably have a point. But go and assist Colin now.”
“Yes, sir.” The boy beamed.
Merlin followed them into the castle.
Arthur waved to one of the knights, Accolon, who was loitering at the entrance to the castle, beckoning him to join him. “Go inside and see if you can find Simon. We’ll be leaving soon, and I need him to organize things.”
“Surely everyone essential is here, Majesty.”
Arthur looked around. “Except most of the knights, plus the functionaries and the servants. They have all scattered. I will need Simon to arrange to get them back here or arrange for some new ones, so we can get under way.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
Merlin’s lift mechanism had been shut down; he was expected to be gone for days, after all. So he made his way slowly up the tower steps to the unused storeroom where the body had been taken; Peter helped him. Merlin took the opportunity to ask him about the status of the investigation into the death of Lord Darrowfield. “You must certainly have some idea by now who did the murders.”
“None, I’m afraid, Merlin. Lady Darrowfield seems to have had the best motive, for her husband’s death, if not their sons’, but there are half a dozen servants who saw her safely in her room the whole night.”
“And are those servants reliable witnesses?”
“I’m not certain what you’re suggesting. They are trusted retainers.”
“Simply this: If Lady Darrowfield was responsible for the killings, she could hardly have done them alone. Moving the bodies and lashing them to the stone would have been work. And if Darrowfield and his sons fought back…”
“I see what you mean.”
“It is the sort of duty only a ‘trusted retainer’ could be called upon to do. Surely that has occurred to you before now.”
“Yes, but it seems so unlikely she’d have murdered her own sons.”
“You know the myth of Medea. But you know the lady much better than I do.”
Nimue was waiting for them in the examination room. “I got medical instruments from your quarters and brought them.” She held out a brown leather bag.
“Excellent. But fetch some lamps, will you, and some magnifying lenses? Peter, will you go along and lend him a hand?”
They went. The two servants who had helped carry the body had vanished as soon as they had placed it in the room. Merlin sent Robert also to assist “Colin” in whatever way he could.
Merlin found himself alone with the corpse. The room was filled with an eerie stillness. Softly he whispered, “Why do I feel so uncertain what killed you? Everyone else seems positive enough.”
When Nimue, Robert and Peter were back, the examination began. Merlin inspected the entire body with his lenses. And everything was consistent with death by plague. The red blotches on the body were darkening to a near-black. And there were no other marks, nothing that might have suggested an unnatural death.
When they were finished, Nimue asked, “Well, are you satisfied?”
“I do not know, Colin. Something is nagging at me, but I am not able to pin it down with certainty.”
“Something that would not show, even under your magni fiers?”
“Perhaps. But you have been following the dispatches from the countryside. There have been no reports of plague appearing anywhere close to Camelot. It seems so unlikely that it should crop up here, in this spectacular fashion, just at this moment.”
“Would you prefer a whole wave of disease to strike us?”
“In a way, yes, I would. At least that would conform to the way we know the plague spreads. But this.” He made a vague gesture at the corpse. “This seems so very unlikely.”
Peter asked him, “Do you mean unlikely or unnatural?”
Merlin furrowed his brow. “I do not know. I wish there was some way to be certain. But I cannot shake the feeling that the court jester is laughing at me in death, just as he did so often in life.”
By the time they rejoined Arthur in the courtyard, the sky had clouded over with a thick layer of ominous black clouds. There was distant lightning. Simon had returned from wherever he had fled to and was busily overseeing a new group of servants as they made ready for the journey. They grumbled. Robert stowed all of Merlin’s things in the carriage.
“So our majordomo is back on the job.” Merlin did not try to hide his disdain for Simon.
But Arthur wanted to be conciliatory. “Simon keeps everything running efficiently. You should have a bit of respect for his office, at least, if not for the man himself.”
Merlin ignored this. “It is going to rain.”
Arthur scowled at him. “Would a bit of peace cost you so much?”
“If it rains much, the roads to the west may become impassable.”
“Merlin, please. If you are determined to be difficult, at least do it in an amusing way. Better yet, tell me what you found in your examination of John’s body.”
Merlin hesitated for a moment. “All signs indicate that he died from the plague, as everyone had assumed. But-”
“Yes?”
“I am not satisfied. I do not know why, but something about his death is nagging at me, as if there were something obvious I have overlooked and I cannot remember what.”
“It will come to you. Sooner or later, you think of everything. As does Simon.” He added this pointedly.
“You have the mind of a bulldog, Arthur.”
“A British bulldog. I will take that as a compliment.”
“But since you have mentioned Simon again, you must instruct him to cremate John’s body as soon as possible.”
“I was planning on carrying him home, so that his family could bury him. We should be passing near Paintonbury on our journey.”
“That would be unwise, Arthur. You remember his father. He was one of your fiercest opponents. Avoiding Paintonbury would be wise. Besides, assuming he really did die of the plague, his corpse could possibly infect everyone who comes near it. You could be helping to spread the disease to another part of the country.”
“You honestly think so?”
“I do not know. And that is the problem. There is so little we know. Why has only John been stricken, of all the people here? And why him, at all? He came to us from the west. The plague is raging in the east.
“At the very least, I would like to return to Dover to interview some of the people who have been ill with it but recovered. We could learn so much that way. As things stand, we have no idea how it is transmitted from one person to the next. By touch? Through the air, like malaria? It would be so helpful if we could know.”
Arthur paused. “You think this journey is foolish, don’t you?”
“There are so many ways that we know diseases are transmitted. And none of them involve crystalline skulls. There are times I fear I will never persuade you to reject all these superstitions and approach the nation’s problems with reason. If it actually is the plague that killed John, his corpse could potentially spread the contagion to every town it passes through.”
“If you don’t know how the disease is spread, Merlin, how can you be so certain it has nothing to do with the Stone of Bran?”
Merlin threw his hands up to show his exasperation. “Fine, Arthur. We will go to Wales and bury your rock. Then, when we return, you and I can go over all the reports of mounting deaths in the meantime.”
“Don’t be morbid. This may work. It is the only concrete idea anyone’s come up with. The fact that two of my advisors have proposed it gives it force enough, in my mind.”
“I’m through arguing, Arthur. Let us get this journey over with as quickly as possible. I will leave instructions for the cremation of John’s body with my assistant Colin. Please see that Simon will cooperate with him.”
“Yes, of course.” Arthur’s mood changed suddenly. “Merlin, I have lost another of my sons.”
“The lot of kings and princes…”
“I know. I hoped it would be different.”
“It never is, Arthur. Nothing human ever is.”
The first drops of rain fell. There was a quick shower, then it passed. Arthur glanced up at the sky disapprovingly.
“Simon, give the signal that we are ready to start. Have everyone form into a proper train.”
Simon was about to do so when someone appeared from inside Camelot, shouting loudly, “Dragons! He said there were dragons!” It took Merlin a moment to recognize the shouter. It was mad old King Pellenore.
Merlin sighed, exasperated. To Arthur he said, “It appears your permanent guest has news for us.”
Pellenore rushed across the courtyard to Arthur’s side. “They told me that awful boy jester of yours has died.”
“Sadly, yes. But there is no time to discuss it now, Pellenore. As you can see, we are about to leave.”
“He said there were dragons devouring him. Attacking him. Their flames burned him to death.”
Arthur looked to Merlin. “Say something.”
Merlin laughed. “What would you suggest?”
“Dragons!” Pellenore shouted the alarm so everyone could hear. People began to break their formation, confused. To Arthur and Merlin, Pellenore said, “You see? I’ve been telling you for years they are here. And they pose a very real danger to us all.”
“Pellenore.” Arthur made his voice firm. “Listen to me. John died of the plague. The first case this far inland. Dragons had nothing to do with it.”
“The servants ran into the castle to hide.” The old man was terribly worked up. “They said he was screaming about dragons. He knew what killed him, all right.”
A streak of lightning crossed the sky and more rain began to fall.
“You see?” Pellenore could not have been more distressed. “Their fire is inflaming the very sky!”
“Enough of this.” Arthur was usually patient with the mad king whose castle he had stolen. But he was at the end of his patience. “Pellenore, we have to go. This rain will slow our progress. I promise you we will be on guard for any dragons that may attack us.”
Pellenore started to reply, but Arthur made a signal and the column departed on its progress across the countryside.
The journey was easy enough, or would have been. The rain never turned heavy, and as a result the roads remained easily passable. There were relatively few other travelers, so the column would have made good time except for a persistent mist. It snaked its way in streamers among the trees. It billowed in translucent banks, at times blinding the riders. Arthur ordered the knights with the best vision to lead the way. For three days their progress grew slower and slower.
At night the mist developed into fog. Thick walls of it welled up in the road, slowing progress even more. Worse yet, it made hunting difficult. Simon had ordered sufficient provisions for the journey, but there was an expectation that they would be complimented by freshly caught game. Instead of that, the party relied on stocks of dried venison and salt pork; it was not long before the knights began to grumble.
Villages along the way were fogbound. There was no more fresh meat to be obtained in them than there was in the forest. Inns were low on food. Most of them could not accommodate so large a number of guests anyway. Arthur and his close advisors got rooms. Everyone else was left to camp out.
Late the third night at one inn, over a meager supper of soup and bread, Arthur muttered, “I wish the gods would give us decent weather for this.”
Gildas jumped at the opening he had given him. “Perhaps the One is angry at your repeated blasphemies.”
“Let him send us some fresh beef, then, and the blasphemies will stop.” Merlin grinned.
Arthur got between them and ordered them to stop their bickering.
“I was not bickering,” Merlin said emphatically. “Merely making an idle comment about the weather is enough to get himstarted.” He pointed at Gildas with his spoon.
“Stop it, both of you.” Arthur used his best command voice. “If you have to engage in this kind of nonsense, do it outside where it won’t bother anyone else.”
Suddenly a young man rushed into the room. Merlin recognized him as one of the knights’ squires; he was not certain which one. The squire bowed deeply to Arthur. “Your Majesty, I am Philip of Manchester, squire to Sir Accolon.”
Arthur stopped eating. “Yes, Philip. What is on your mind?”
“Accolon sent me to report to you, Sire. We have a crisis.”
“Crisis? We’re in the middle of a forest. What kind of crisis can there be?”
“The knights, Your Majesty…”
Arthur wanted to get back to his dinner, such as it was. “Well, what about them?”
“Someone is bothering them, Sire.”
“Bothering them?”
“Throwing things.”
Merlin broke out laughing. “Someone is throwing things at the knights? And that is your idea of a crisis?”
Arthur brushed this aside. “What is being thrown?”
“Stones, sir. And handfuls of mud.”
Again Merlin laughed. “Which knights have been spattered with mud?”
Philip started to answer but Arthur cut him off. “Try and hide your amusement, Merlin. Philip, who is doing this?”
“No one knows, Your Majesty. He throws his missiles, then disappears into the forest.” He looked abashed but added, “The undergrowth is especially thick here.”
“This is all well and good.” Merlin sipped his soup. “But in the name of everything human, what do you want us to do about it?”
Philip blushed. “The knights and the other squires sent me to ask you for instructions. How are we to deal with this?”
“Surely,” Merlin said gravely, “Camelot’s finest knights can mange to catch a trickster.”
“But is it merely a trickster?” Arthur directed the question at no one in particular. “We are moving into unfriendly territory. The local kings and barons here have never really reconciled themselves to the idea of a central government under one man’s rule.”
“Excellent point, Arthur. But if our knights cannot capture one mud-throwing hooligan, what chance will they stand against an armed force led by a determined ruler?”
Arthur sighed heavily. “There are times when I think I should never have made myself king.”
Merlin put on his best schoolteacherly manner. “Nevertheless you did it.”
“Yes,” the king said, a bit sadly. “I suppose I did. All those wars I fought. We fought. All that bloodshed.” Then he found his resolve again. To Philip he said, “Tell the knights to redouble their efforts at catching this… whoever it is.”
“They won’t like hearing that, Sire.”
“Well, what the devil do they want to hear? I can’t very well go out and capture this imp for them.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Philip bowed and left. Arthur bit into a piece of bread more fiercely than seemed quite necessary. Merlin held his tongue and ate, too.
The next morning Accolon, rested and looking fit except for a cut over his eye, approached Merlin.
“Accolon. You are looking quite fine. Travel agrees with you.”
“Thank you, Merlin. I wish I were as well rested as you think I look.”
“Troubled sleep?” He chuckled. “What is bothering your conscience?”
“Spare me your sarcasm, Merlin.” Accolon had been in England since Arthur took the throne. His English was only mildly inflected with a French accent. “I’d like you to have a word with the king.”
“Why not talk to him yourself? You are as close to him as any of the knights.”
Accolon sighed deeply. “What I have to say to him, he doesn’t want to hear.”
“Oh. And what do you have to say?”
“It’s about this pest that’s dogging us. Throwing things.” He reached up and rubbed his brow. “That is how I got this cut.”
“I see.”
“No, I don’t think you do. I’m far from the only member of the party who’s suffered an injury. Most of them are minor, granted, but the number of them… Arthur has to do something.”
“If you can’t catch whoever is doing this, how do you expect Arthur to?”
Peter of Darrowfield was standing nearby, eavesdropping. He joined them. “How hard can it be to run down one prankster?”
“We don’t know that it’s only one,” Accolon grumped. “Stones, twigs, blobs of mud, leaves chewed up and soaking with spittle-they seem to come at us from every direction.”
Merlin clucked his tongue in sympathy and shook his head. “So you think this may be a band of random pranksters?”
Accolon scowled at the dig. “We don’t know what to think, Merlin. The barons in this territory are not friendly to Arthur. This may be their way of letting us know we’re not welcome.”
“I see.”
“Still,” Peter went on, “there can’t be that many of them or you’d have caught a glimpse of them by now. Perhaps you should redouble your efforts.”
Accolon brushed this aside. “Arthur told Bors this morning that he thinks this is probably just a matter of mischievous boys. He doesn’t want us using too much force.”
“That’s quite sensible.” Peter was not about to be left out of the conversation. “If they really are just boys, being too hard on them would only antagonize their fathers. That would be the last thing Arthur wants.”
Again Accolon ignored him. “We don’t want to impale them or behead them or anything. We only want to use a bit more force and tenacity hunting them down-and making them stop this puerile behavior. By whatever means.”
Merlin rubbed his brow thoughtfully. “Fine. I’ll have a word with the king. But let us wait until he is in a generous mood.”
“When will that be, in this god-awful country?”
“Patience, Accolon. I will do what I can.”
And in due course, he did so. Later that night, Arthur was rested and seemingly at peace with himself and the world. Merlin broached the subject. “They are insisting that something be done. You have told them to try and capture the culprit or culprits, but not to hurt him. The knights say that makes no sense. They want action. As usual, they want bloody action.”
Arthur was breezy. “What do they want me to do?”
“Give them permission to use force.”
“I don’t believe that would be advisable, Merlin. This attacker, whoever he is, might well be injured. Or worse.”
“You know I dislike violent conflict, Arthur. But for goodness’ sake, so a few bumpkins get their ears boxed. What of it?”
“I am the king of all Britain’s people, bumpkins as well as knights. How can I authorize such a thing?”
Merlin sighed. “I am the one who is supposed to persuade you to use reason. You are turning the tables on me.”
“Relax, Merlin. You can’t always be reasonable. No one is, not even you.”
“I-”
“I’ve seen that contraption you use to go up into your tower. There is nothing even remotely reasonable about risking your neck to save a few steps.”
“Stop it, Arthur.”
“We’ll be out of this country in another day or two. Suppose our villain-in-hiding is the son of one of the local barons? One whose loyalty to me is shaky? And suppose the knights present the boy’s head to me on a pole? Do you realize how much trouble that could cause?”
Again Merlin sighed. “I suppose I see your point. But your knights are restive. If they decide to take this matter into their own hands… Well, you could find yourself with more than one disloyal vassal.”
“Merlin, I know it.”
“Good. If only you’d been persuaded to bring a larger force… There has to be some way out of this.”
“I can’t think what. Let us trust time to correct the situation.”
And so the journey continued, with the knights grumbling more and more about the indignities these “guerrillas” were subjecting them to. From time to time one of them would get stung by a flying stone or spattered with chewed leaves. At one point Sir Kay was hit in the face with a huge blob of mud. Then Kay went, furious, from one of his comrades to the next, demanding that this affront to the dignity of the Knights of the Round Table be avenged. But most of the others merely laughed in his muddied face. He found his squire Jumonet and had him clean it for him.
Livid, so angry he was almost foaming at the mouth, Kay rode along the column to Arthur. But Arthur held his ground. There was to be no violent retaliation.
The weather worsened; there were storms. Progress was slow. Roads were soaked with rain, which fell relentlessly. Forests were more and more heavily fog shrouded. Merlin’s carriage got mired repeatedly and the knights, already grumbling, made no secret that they were unhappy at having to free it.
Merlin watched the expedition’s mood turn darker and darker. The “guerrillas” threw more and more rocks, sticks, blobs of mud. The knights were talking openly about turning back to Camelot, despite the king’s wishes. Then one evening, at a place between two towns, over bread and venison at the fireside, Merlin broached the subject with Arthur.
“Returning the Stone to Wales may be more of a challenge than you anticipated.”
Arthur was concerned only mildly. “Soldiers always grumble, Merlin. You know that. Wait till the weather warms up and dries out. Wait till we’re able to hunt for game. Wait till we reach a place with a strong, friendly overlord. The knights will be singing a different tune then.”
Peter was dining with them in the king’s tent. He seemed more concerned than either of them. “But in the meanwhile, Your Majesty…”
“Yes?”
“Suppose we have to rely on these men while they are still so disgruntled?”
“Fair point.” Arthur called for a tankard of ale. “But my knights are made of better stuff than you think. They will go on complaining about this and that. That is their nature. But when it comes to a crisis, you will see them to be loyal.”
“Grudgingly loyal,” Merlin added, “but loyal. In a way, this rock-throwing pest is a blessing.”
Peter was lost. “How do you mean, exactly?”
“Our ‘guerrilla’ will have the full force of their anger directed at him. Their unhappiness with whatever Arthur does will be secondary.”
“Still, it would be better if Britomart was here, or Bedivere. To help keep them in line.”
“Bedivere has his orders. He-”
Just then, there was a commotion outside the inn. Men were shouting raucously. In the middle of it could be heard cheers; from the sound of them they were of victory. Arthur got up and went to the door; Merlin followed. “Can you see what is going on, Arthur?”
“It’s the knights. Naturally.”
“Naturally.”
“They’ve… they’ve… Let’s go and see.”
Peter followed them, and they went out to where the ruckus was happening. Arthur carried a joint of venison and chewed it as they went.
The knights had formed into a loose circle. In the center of it, bound hand and foot and kneeling in the mud, was a young man, not much more than a boy really, in his late teens. His head was bent down; Merlin heard sobs. The first knight they came to was Accolon. Merlin asked him, “One of the guerrillas?”
“The guerrilla, more like. The one we’ve caught, at any rate.”
“There was only one?” Arthur sounded astonished. “All that mischief was done by only one man?”
“Apparently, Sire.”
Arthur pushed his way through the press and came to Sir Kay, who stood imperiously over the prisoner. Just as Arthur reached him, he kicked the young man viciously. “Rocks, is it? Mud, is it? We’ll teach you better than to trifle with the Knights of the Round Table.” Again he kicked the young man, who cried out, louder than before.
“Stop it, Accolon.” Arthur used his sternest command voice. “He’s harmless enough now. There’s no glory in maltreating a helpless boy.”
The knights stepped back from the young man. Slowly he looked up. And he was indeed not much of a man, barely eighteen or so. He was dressed in homespun. His hair was dirty blond and he had blue eyes and freckles. When he saw Arthur a look of alarmed recognition crossed his face and vanished quickly.
Merlin looked him up and down with evident amusement. “So this is our dangerous subversive. Very impressive.”
“He’s only one of them.” Accolon was insistent. “There must be more, still in the woods.”
Merlin took a step toward the boy. “Is that so? Are there more of you?”
The boy looked away diffidently. “No. I’m alone.”
Accolon took hold of his arm and began twisting. “Tell the truth, you little fiend, or I’ll-”
The boy screamed. “I am telling you the truth. There’s only me.”
Accolon twisted his arm again, and again he cried out.
“I think you can stop that now.” Merlin took Accolon’s hand and moved it firmly away. “If he has allies, where are they? Do you think they would stand by and let you torture him?”
The knight shrugged. “Who knows what these villains would do? Let’s find out.” He moved to take the boy’s arm again.
But Arthur got between them. “Not now, Accolon. Let’s give Merlin a chance to interrogate him. You can always use more forceful methods later, if need be.”
Accolon took a step back. A number of the other knights grumbled. Sir Kay stepped forward and caught the young prisoner by his hair. “So it’s mud, is it? You think spattering people with mud is good sport, do you?”
The boy struggled to get free of him. “Let me go! The mud wasn’t meant for you.”
“Then your aim is mighty poor, boy.”
“Let me go!” He fought valiantly, but his captors were too strong for him. Struggling to get free, he bit Kay’s hand and kicked Merlin in the shin. “Get off me, damn you all! Wait till my brother hears about this.”
Sir Accolon joined the fray. “So you’re going to tell your big brother on us, are you?” Gleefully he boxed the boy’s ears.
“Stop it now! All of you!” Arthur’s voice rang. “This won’t get us anywhere. Peter, escort the boy to my tent. Merlin and I will interrogate him there. If we don’t learn what we want to… well, there are other ways of extracting information from prisoners.”
Accolon looked at the boy and grinned. “More emphatic ways.”
Peter took hold of the young prisoner’s collar and escorted him to the king’s tent. Merlin followed, bending to rub his shin as he walked.
“Did he hurt you that badly?” The king walked just behind him.
“Yes, blast him.” They paused outside the tent and Merlin leaned on one of the poles. “But is he the one I should be questioning?”
Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “What the devil do you mean?”
“He knows you. It showed. How?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Merlin.” Merlin’s eyes pierced Arthur. “He’s another one, is he not?”
“Another what? I wish you’d get to the point.”
“And I wish you would. Tell me the truth, Arthur.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do. He’s another one of your damned innumerable bastards. Admit it. Do you ever keep your trousers buttoned up?”
Arthur sighed, muttered something incomprehensible and stomped into the pavilion.
The boy had been left alone in a small, sparsely furnished corner. He was seated on a three-legged stool. And he was beginning to look alarmed. Before Arthur could speak, his prisoner said, “You’re the king, aren’t you? King Arthur?”
Arthur glared at him “If you know I’m the king, then you should know enough to stand in my presence till I give you permission to do otherwise.”
“Sorry, Your Majesty.” The boy got to his feet. As he did so, a slingshot fell out of his pocket and onto the floor.
Arthur bent and picked it up. “I take it that is the fearsome weapon with which you’ve been harassing my knights?”
Merlin approached, followed by Peter of Darrowfield. Peter stepped discreetly aside. Merlin, seeing the slingshot in Arthur’s hand, glared at the boy. “Oh, this bloody arthritis.”
The boy said, “Sorry, sir. It’s only a toy.”
Arthur advanced on the boy. “Never mind that. Tell us who you are and why you’ve been hectoring my men.”
“Bruce, my lord. I’m called Bruce.”
“Address the king,” Merlin told the boy, “as Your Majesty, not your lord.”
“Sorry, sir. Your Majesty.”
The king glanced at Merlin, indicating he should go on with the questioning. Merlin wasn’t sure what would work best, authoritative menace or kindly, grandfatherly understanding. The boy didn’t seem especially dangerous, so he decided on the latter. “Now, then, Bruce. His Majesty wants to know what you have been up to, and why.”
“I said, sir. I’m looking for my brother.”
“Of course.” Merlin glanced at Arthur, but the king’s face was impassive. “And you are not looking for the king, here? Whom you know?”
“Know?” Bewilderment showed in Bruce’s features. “I’ve heard his name often enough, yes. And heard him described. But know him?”
“Tell me the truth, boy.”
“I am, sir. I’ve never seen the k-His Majesty before.”
“Never?”
“No, sir.”
“You have been in touch with him by letter, then.”
“No, sir.” The boy was quite lost, and it showed. “Never.” Merlin looked skeptical, or perhaps unhappy. He turned to Arthur, who was smiling smugly.
“And why,” Arthur asked the boy, “have you been following us and shooting things?”
“Like I said, sir-Your Majesty-my brother. I thought he might be traveling with you. I knew, or rather I had heard, that this was a royal party. I was hoping he might be with you.”
Arthur’s face was a blank. “Your brother.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. John.”
“John?”
“John of Paintonbury, Your Majesty.”
For the first time, Arthur registered something like emotion-genuine surprise. “You are the brother of John of Paintonbury?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“I see.”
“When he left home, he told me you had invited him to join your court. In some important position, he said. Father was furious. So when I heard you were making a progress through our land, I-”
“Your land?!” Merlin almost shouted it. “Who are you? I mean, who are your people?”
The boy averted his eyes. “Our father is baron of these lands, sir. Marmaduke of Paintonbury.”
Arthur looked at Merlin and said in a lowered voice, “One of the more troublesome barons.”
“Arthur, I remember.” He turned back to Bruce. “Young man, I am afraid I have bad news for you.” He found a skin of wine and poured a cup. “Here. You will need this.”
Uncertainly, Bruce took the cup. “Bad news, sir?”
“I regret to tell you that your brother is dead. He died of the plague, just as we were setting out from Camelot.”
“Dead, sir?” Bruce took a long drink. “The plague?”
Arthur told him, “I’m afraid so.”
“But-”
“He was a fine young man,” Arthur went on. “With a good mind. In time he would have been a valued member of our retinue. But-but if it was John you were looking for, why were you harassing the rest of us?”
“I’m sorry about that, sir. I mistook the others for him. The fog, you see. John and I had always… Well, we had always teased each other. Playfully, you understand. I didn’t realize he was…” The boy’s face was twisted; he had obviously loved his brother. He took up the wine cup and drained it. “I was only playing.”
Peter had listened to all of this in silence. Finally he spoke up. “You must return to your father now, young man. We are on a quest.”
“Please, Your Majesty, may I not join you? I could take John’s place. Our father is…” He let the sentence die unfinished. “Please, may I join you?”
“I’ll have to think about that. You may spend the night here in our camp. I’ll have some of the servants make a bath for you. You’re covered with mud.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I know I can be of service to you. Especially if all the knights I hit are typical of your forces.”
Merlin suppressed a chuckle. “You are John’s brother, all right.”
“Peter, will you take Bruce off to the servants?” Arthur looked mildly nonplussed by the boy’s presence. “And Bruce, I would suggest that you keep a low profile for the night. You will find many of the knights are humorless and less than forgiving.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. And thank you.”
“Go along now and get scrubbed up.”
“Can I… May I have my slingshot back”
“No.”
“But I-Very well, Your Majesty. But…”
“Yes?”
“Might I stay with you? Join you? Return to Camelot with you?”
Arthur rubbed his chin. “I’m not sure that would be a good idea. For either of us.”
“But-”
“I promise to give it some thought. Now go and sleep.”
Pouting slightly, the boy left.
Merlin stared pointedly at Arthur. And Arthur knew immediately what was on his mind. “I told you, Merlin, he is not mine.”
Merlin was skeptical, and it showed. “His brother, but not him?”
“You have grasped it.”
“Arthur-”
“You remember Marmaduke of Paintonbury, surely.”
“Well, I recall the name. And of course there was John. But I am afraid the details-”
“Fat man. Coarse man. During the wars that brought me to the throne, he was one of our bitterest enemies. You must remember that.”
“Something comes back to me. Not much.”
“Why do you think he hated me so ferociously?”
Merlin narrowed his eyes. “His wife?”
“Exactly. John was the product of our… union. But it only happened the once. Bruce is Marmaduke’s, all Marmaduke’s.”
Merlin sighed. “If there are any gods, I pray they will rescue England from its noblemen. There can’t be a more irresponsible class of people anywhere.”
At this, Arthur laughed. “Just point anyplace on the map of Europe. You’ll find them. Nobles are human beings, Merlin.”
“I wish you would not remind me.”
“We do what everyone else does. But we do it more… vigorously. Power and wealth make that possible.”
“Of course.”
“What concerns me at the moment is that we seem to have drifted into Marmaduke’s territory. All this bloody fog… We must have missed a turning or a fork in the road. We need to move on as quickly as this weather will permit.”
“Let us hope Marmaduke has learned to show more temperance than you showed him back in the day. You should post guards on the boy.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake? Now that he knows John is dead, he would have no reason to-”
“Can we trust him? He is Marmaduke’s son. His story might be…”
“I see your point.”
“And of course he will need protecting from our own men.”
Arthur frowned. “I wish you wouldn’t always take such a dark view of things.”
Merlin shrugged. “The facts of human nature-”
“That’s enough. No guards. If only so I can prove you wrong, for once.”
Late in the night, Merlin was awakened by shouts. A moment later, Arthur woke, too.
They stared at each other across the tent. Merlin said, “Do you suppose…?”
Arthur jumped up and began to dress. “Marmaduke’s men. It must be.”
A moment later, still half undressed, they were outside. There was confusion; knights and servants were running about, carrying torches against the forest blackness, plainly not knowing where the shouts came from. An instant later Accolon’s voice cut through it all. “Here! Over here!”
They took torches and rushed to see what was happening there.
Next to his bedroll, Bruce of Paintonbury was lying on the ground, bleeding horribly. “Help! Murder! Help me! Please!” He was sobbing horribly.
Merlin took charge at once. He ordered men to carry the boy to the king’s tent. Then he rushed to his carriage and got his medical supplies.
Bruce’s arm was nearly severed. Merlin dressed the wound as well as he could and gave the boy a drink of strong wine to help dull the pain. When he was calmer, Merlin asked him, “Who did this? Tell me.”
“A knight. It must have been a knight. I couldn’t really see well, what with the night and the fog, but it must have been a knight.”
Merlin looked skeptical. “Must have been.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Might it not have been one of your father’s men? You are consorting with his enemy, after all.”
“No, sir. They don’t know I’m here.”
“They might have some inkling. Your brother-”
“They don’t know I’m here. Besides, they’re more brutal than that. My head would be lying in the mud. Only Camelot’s knights are so humane as to do this.” With his good arm he gestured at the bandages.
“You are John’s brother, all right…”
“You keep saying that.”
Merlin put a hand on his good arm. “You should try and get some sleep now. That will hurt terribly in the morning.”
“I’m used to pain, sir. It’s the way we were raised. Father saw to that.”
“Not like this. Sleep.”
A few moments later Merlin was alone again with Arthur. “The boy thinks it must have been one of our knights.”
Arthur rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “They were furious at his little… should we call them pranks? And they did swear to punish whoever was doing it.”
“Yes, but Arthur, an attack this brutal… Our men had him. He would be brought to justice by you. They know that. I can’t help but suspect it was one of Marmaduke’s men.”
“Perhaps they thought I would be too lenient. But why this sudden faith in the integrity of our knights? And would Marmaduke’s men try to kill their own baron’s son?”
“If I remember the character of these outlying tribes, yes, they would do that in a minute.”
“Is it possible the boy did this himself? To give us a reason to keep him with us?”
“Arthur, his arm was nearly off.”
“Of course.” He frowned. “But our men… I don’t want to believe it.”
“The knights would be glad to hear you say so.”
The king sighed. “Stay here with him, will you? Keep an eye on him.” He lowered his voice. “He was my son’s brother, after all. I… I wouldn’t want to see him follow John to the grave.”
“He’s not as much a brat as John was. There is that, at least.”
“Stop it, Merlin. Stay with him tonight.”
In the morning, the forest fog was even more dense. Thick clouds of it surged among the trees. The road, such as it was, was all but invisible. Arthur cursed the autumn weather.
Merlin, as always, was wry. “This is England. The weather is the same in springtime-miserable.”
“I know it. I wish we didn’t have to rebury the Stone.” Merlin started to speak, but Arthur cut him off. “And don’t say I told you so. We have a long way to go yet. Clearly, the fog has led us off our course. Let us hope we don’t actually have to deal with Marmaduke.”
“Marmaduke is hardly the only baron who bristles at your rule.”
“How is young Bruce this morning?”
Merlin shrugged. “I wish I could tell. He slept fairly quietly. But this morning he has no appetite. I can’t even persuade him to take a bit of soup. Some blood has seeped through the bandages. And he says he can’t feel his arm at all.”
“That is not good.”
“No. It is early yet. The attack only happened last night. But I am afraid the signs are not good.”
“Keep an eye on him, will you? I don’t want him to-” He cut off whatever he was going to say. “He can ride in your carriage. Will that be all right?”
“Of course, Arthur. I was going to suggest the same thing. The seat opposite mine is wide enough for him to lie and sleep. Peter and I can ride side by side.”
“That’s good.”
And so they set forth again. Except for the presence of Bruce, everything was as it had been before. Knights grumbled while their servants did the work. Arthur commanded, breezily ignoring the complaints in the ranks. Merlin chatted with Peter or passed the time by reading.
The one thing that did change, for the worse, was the weather. There was constant fog, all day long. Dense banks of it clogged the forest. Thicker streamers of it coiled among the trees. It was impossible to see very far along the road in front of them. A constant drizzle began to fall.
Bruce slept in Merlin’s carriage, but only fitfully. He kept waking every few minutes, complaining of pain in his shoulder. Merlin applied a painkilling salve to his wounds as often as necessary, but it helped only so much. When the carriage hit a bump in the road Bruce would cry out, softly if he was asleep, more loudly if he was awake. His arm was still quite numb.
Merlin and Peter avoided talking about anything too alarming when the boy could hear. But when he was asleep, or when they thought he was asleep, they let their guard down.
“How much worse can this get?” Peter asked, staring out the window.
“This is England, Peter.” Merlin was sanguine. “Our one claim to distinction on the world stage is our atrocious weather.”
“A fine distinction.”
“A humble thing, but our own.” Merlin was wry.
“What worries me most is security. There could be anyone or anything out there in the fog, and we’d never know it till it was too late. Half the Byzantine Empire could be out there, sharpening their spears.”
“Just for us. But do you really think we have to worry so much about external threats?”
Peter scowled. “You mean whoever tried to kill our young companion, here.”
“Precisely. With a murderer-attempted murderer-in our midst, why fret about imaginary armies?”
“His father’s men-”
“Do you really think so? Would not Marmaduke’s men be more likely to try and assassinate Arthur? Why would they go after their own leader’s son?”
“It’s been known to happen, Merlin.”
Slowly, groggily, Bruce opened his eyes. Weakly he announced, “My father’s men hate me. At least the ones who want to take his place. All of them hate me.”
Peter, mildly startled at this, asked him, “Why would they hate a boy like you?”
“I’m next. It’s no more complicated than that.” He closed his eyes again and, to appearances, fell instantly asleep.
Peter looked at Merlin. “Does he mean next in line for leadership, or next to die, do you think?”
Merlin shrugged. “I am a scholar, not a mind reader.”
“To hear people tell it, you’re both.”
Merlin ignored this and looked out at the fog-shrouded landscape. The world was a blank gray. After a few moments, Peter fell asleep, too, lulled by the motion of the carriage. Merlin became lost in his thoughts.
Then suddenly, quite abruptly with a jolt, the carriage stopped. Merlin craned his head out the window to see what the holdup might be. But the fog made it impossible for him to see more than a few mounted riders ahead.
But then a rider appeared out of the fog. It was Sir Kay, driving his horse to gallop back along the line. “Merlin! Merlin, come quickly!”
Merlin opened the carriage door and began to climb down. “I cannot do much of anything quickly, Kay. Blame this bloody arthritis.”
“Come! Let me help you up onto my horse.”
“What is the problem?”
“My squire, Jumonet. He’s been hit.”
Merlin let the knight pull him up just behind him on the mount. “Hit? What on earth do you mean?”
“Hit.” The knight said nothing else but spurred his horse back to a gallop. Merlin held on tightly and watched the puzzled faces as they flew past the rest of the party.
In a short time they were near the front of the line. Kay slowed the horse and turned to the left, and they headed into the woods.
“Will you please tell me what happened? And where we are going?”
“Not far.”
Through the fog a group of men appeared, clustered around something or someone on the ground. Merlin squinted but could not make out much more than that Arthur and Peter were among them. He sniffed the air. “We must be close to a town or a village. There is smoke mixed with the fog.”
“That is what we thought. We sent out scouts to see. Jumonet was one of them.”
They reached the group, and Kay reined the horse to a standstill. “Here we are.”
“Give me a hand down, will you please?”
With difficulty, even with Kay’s assistance, Merlin dismounted. He stretched to work kinks out of his back. Then he advanced to where the men were clustered. Peter appeared, on foot and out of breath.
On the ground in the center of their circle was a young man. Dark hair, pale white skin. His eyes were closed tightly; he was evidently in pain. Arthur was on one knee beside him, cradling his head. Through the boy’s throat was an arrow. Blood cascaded onto the ground. Arthur tried to staunch it with a piece of cloth, but there was too much.
The king looked up at Merlin helplessly. Weakly he said, “Someone shot him.”
“So I see.”
Kay stepped to Merlin’s side. “We think it’s another prankster, like that little fiend in your carriage.”
Merlin bent down and touched the arrow lightly. “This is hardly what I would call a prank.”
“Even so.” Kay stamped the ground.
Suddenly another arrow came out of the fog. This one lodged itself in a tree trunk with an unpleasant thwunk sound. Kay scowled at Merlin as if to say I told you so.
Jumonet was still bleeding horribly. His body heaved and shuddered, as if the pain was too much to bear. Merlin told Peter to run back to the carriage and get his medical kit. “No-ride. Take one of the horses. And tear up some cloth for bandages.”
Peter ran off. Merlin looked up at Kay. “I am not sure there is any hope. If we try to pull the arrow out, we may only do more damage. Even to stop the bleeding may be beyond my ability.”
Kay scowled. “You have to do something. Jumonet is the best squire I’ve ever had. Bright, loyal, attentive…”
Jumonet opened his eyes and looked up at the knight. “Thank you, Sir Kay. I have always tried to do my best.” The last few words were not much more than a gurgle in his throat.
“You have, Jumonet.”
The squire heaved an enormous sigh. “Now all of you, please leave me alone here.”
“Alone?” Kay’s face registered puzzlement and alarm. “But-”
“Alone.” The squire said it forcefully. It brought on a fit of coughing and another heave of his body. When it subsided he added, “Please. Merlin understands.”
Merlin looked up at Kay. “Yes, I think I do. If you give it a moment’s thought, you will, too.”
But Kay’s expression turned fierce. “No!” He got down on his knees beside his stricken squire. “I’ve always taught you to fight. Don’t give up, boy. Fight. Fight harder than you ever have before.”
Weakly Jumonet said, “There is no use. Fighting the facts…” His voice trailed off and his eyes closed. Then a moment later he managed to open them again. “Please.” It was no more than a whisper.
Peter returned with Merlin’s medical things and a handful of strips of white cloth.
Suddenly Jumonet cried out loudly, “All of you, please go!” He caught hold of Merlin’s arm. “Please, Merlin, make them go away.”
Merlin got slowly to his feet, looked around and gestured to everyone, indicating they should move off and leave the young man, as he wished. Arthur had stood silently through all this. He raised a hand, seconding Merlin’s gesture. And slowly everyone began to move off. Merlin and Kay stood over the squire for a moment, watching him wordlessly.
Jumonet whispered faintly, “I can’t see. I’ve lost my sight. Go away from me.”
Merlin put a hand on Kay’s shoulder and they moved off and joined the others.
When a few moments later, the two of them went back to the squire, he was dead. Kay was plainly shaken by it. Merlin tried to console him. “He died bravely. He was brave enough to want to die alone and not require any of us to watch it. We should all have such fortitude.”
But Kay was not consoled. “He was so young. My nephew, you know. I don’t know how I’ll tell my sister.”
Before Merlin could say anything more, another arrow whizzed by his head, barely missing him, and planted itself in the ground beyond him. It was followed by another, and another, and then even more. They whizzed through the air like large evil insects.
Kay put an arm around Merlin’s shoulder protectively and steered him toward the main party. By that point arrows were coming in a rain. Arthur and his best knights immediately armed themselves with their own bows and shields and began firing back. But through the fog they could barely see who or what they were shooting at. Dim figures moved through the mist around them, but none was distinct enough to make a good target.
It became apparent almost at once that they were surrounded. The hail of arrows kept coming, from all directions, and kept growing thicker.
“What kind of fools would attack with bows and arrows in a fog like this?” Arthur seemed genuinely baffled. “They can’t possibly see what they’re shooting at.”
Merlin shrugged. “Warriors… With so many of them shooting, some of them are bound to hit… something.”
“Take cover!” Arthur shouted. “Protect yourselves. Don’t give them good targets to aim at!” He himself ducked under the second carriage, the one that carried the Stone. “But keep fighting!”
Merlin and Kay joined him there. Merlin said simply, “Marmaduke’s men.”
“Perhaps.” Arthur sent off another arrow. “Perhaps not. If word has gotten round about the mission we’re on…”
An arrow landed three feet in front of Merlin. He ignored it. “You are suggesting that someone else may want the Stone of Bran?”
Arthur nodded and kept firing.
“You may have a point. These petty warlords are even more superstitious than our people at Camelot.”
Arthur scowled at him.
From out of the fog a warrior ran, screaming a battle cry as he came. He was dressed in furs and was wielding a sword in one hand and a mace in the other. Kay ran forward to meet him. The mace crashed down onto Kay’s head, making an awful crunching sound. But Kay, perhaps angered by the slaughter of his squire, kept fighting. His sword plunged into the man’s stomach. Guts spilled, and the man fell to earth.
More and more of them came out of the fog, screaming and killing as they went. There were scores of them, easily three times the number of Arthur’s men. In short order nearly a dozen members of the king’s party lay dead, knights, squires, servants.
It was clear the royal party was greatly outnumbered. Arthur called for his men to stop fighting.
“Surrender?” Sir Kay was appalled. “Never!”
“We can’t win, Kay. If we stop fighting, they will. At least we can hope they will. They can hardly want to kill every last one of us. Bedivere and his men will be here before-”
“They must be bogged down in this fog the same as we are. If we’d had any warning… If we’d had time to form all the horses and wagons into a circle, instead of being strung out like sitting ducks…”
“ ‘If’ is a game for scholars, Kay. What if fairies danced on specks of dust? Leave that kind of thinking to Merlin.”
Merlin bristled at this but held his tongue.
And so Arthur stepped forward from under the wagon, hands raised. Seeing him, the rest of his men surrendered as well. In a moment, they were completely surrounded by mounted warriors in fur and rags, arrows and swords pointed at them. More warriors, on foot, augmented their numbers.
One of the mounted warriors rode forward. He focused immediately on Arthur. “You are Arthur Pendragon, self-styled King of the Britons?”
“I am.” Arthur’s face was granite.
The mounted man clapped his hands, and a dozen of his warriors came forward and bound Arthur and his immediate circle, including Merlin and Peter, in chains. The man on horseback, who was clearly the party leader, clapped again, and the entire army started moving forward, with all their prisoners on foot.
Kay muttered, “Surrender, hah! We are knights of Camelot.”
“Bedivere will be here. He must. Would you rather have kept fighting, and be dead knights of Camelot?”
“There is no honor in surrender.”
“Nor in death, Kay.”
Merlin, weighted down by his chains, was having trouble keeping pace with the others. He kept stumbling, and he was stooped by the heavy weight. “Stop complaining, Kay. If anyone here has reason to complain, it is I.”
But Kay was not about to be swayed. “The fact that the king’s chief counselor is here among us, and is so infirm, is one more reason why we should never have given in.”
The lead warrior reined his horse and waited for the captives to catch up to him. “What is all this mumbling?”
“Mumbling. Nothing more.” Arthur tried to use a reasonable tone. “Did you expect us to sing happy songs?”
“Well, stop it.”
“Yes, sir. Uh… may we know who you are?”
The man seemed lost in thought for a moment, as if he was unsure whether to answer this-as if it might be giving something away. Finally he answered, “Robin of Paintonbury. Chief lieutenant to Lord Marmaduke of Paintonbury.”
“I see. It is not quite a pleasure to meet you, Robin.”
Robin laughed, then spit on the ground. “King of the Britons.”
“Tell me, does your master know what he’s bitten off by attacking my party and taking me prisoner?”
“I suppose it makes him King of the Britons, or would if he was enough of a megalomaniac.”
Arthur laughed at this. “My advisor, here, Merlin, is quite infirm. Might you arrange for him to ride, somehow?”
Robin narrowed his eyes. “Merlin? The famous magician?”
Calmly, Arthur said, “The same. I would suggest you not anger him.”
“The man who erected the rocks at Stonehenge with his magic?”
“You have it.”
Merlin was looking less and less comfortable with this. Finally he said, “Arthur, stop.”
Robin laughed. “He doesn’t look like much of a magician to me.”
“If truth be told,” Merlin said to him, “I am not one.”
Skepticism showed in Robin’s face. “Of course not. I would advise you not to try any of your spells while you’re in this territory. We know how to deal with sorcerers here.”
“I am not a-”
“There is no place in Paintonbury for the black arts. Except those of our own priestess.”
“Of course not.” Merlin raised his shackled arms and clanked his chains.
“Let’s get moving. Marmaduke is expecting us.”