The King's Wizard (20 page)

“What the world needs is justice and compassion more than charity,” Merlin said, thinking of the vision that had told him
this day would come. “Still, Camelot sounds like a dream worthy of a king. Come on, Rupert,” he said as the snail had passed.

Obediently, Sir Rupert moved forward, but Arthur stayed where he was, transfixed by the vision of his golden city.

“Camelot,” he murmured to himself, tasting the name. “Camelot. …”

“Come on, Arthur!” Merlin called back.

Merlin had purposely chosen a route to their destination that would keep them away from main roads and villages, for the country
was in a state of great unrest following Uther’s death. Mab did not attack them again, and so, just as he had planned, they
arrived at Excalibur Village near midnight.

The full moon shone high above them. The rim of Arianrhod’s Silver Wheel was a silvery slash across the heavens, and the stars
were bright pinpricks in the sky. The villagers and sword-pilgrims were asleep in the small village of tents and more permanent
buildings that had grown up at the foot of the mountain. No
dog barked, no nightbird cried, no person spoke, as Merlin and Arthur rode up to the base of the cliff where Excalibur waited.

There were candles stuck in the clefts of the rocks, their flames wavering in the wind. They had been left there as prayers
by members of both the New Religion and the Old Ways, for everyone knew that the sword Excalibur had great magic, and Britain’s
need was equally great.

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.