The King's Wizard (22 page)

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.
“Father—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.

But at this moment, his own isolation did not matter. This time Merlin’s hopes had not led him astray. He had forged a true
champion of justice to rule over Britain. His work was over. Now, at last, he could live his life for himself … for Nimue.

A few hours later, Merlin had said his good-byes and tied up his affairs. Quietly, unnoticed by anyone, even Arthur, Merlin
mounted Sir Rupert and rode away from the rejoicing camp into the soft dusk.

With Sir Rupert’s magical help, Merlin reached Avalon quickly. It was still dusk as he rode up to the gates, and he could
hear the church bells tolling for Vespers.

It had been twenty years since he first saw these walls. He had come here filled with hate, a dying girl in his arms. But
as the years had passed between that moment and this, Merlin had found far more cause for love than for hate, and now his
patience and his hope were to be rewarded. Now he and Nimue could be together.

He was well-known by now in Avalon, and the gatekeeper passed him without a challenge. He rode into the inner courtyard and
dismounted. The monk whose duty it was to receive all visitors to Avalon came forward to greet him, and Merlin sighed inwardly.
It was Father Giraldus, an unfortunate coincidence. Merlin and Giraldus did not get on—Giraldus blamed the Old Ways for the
disappearance of the Grail from Avalon, and thought that no Pagan should ever be allowed to set foot in its holy precincts.

“What is it?” Father Giraldus said grudgingly.

“I’ve come to see Nimue,” Merlin said. Even Giraldus’s surliness could not dampen his high spirits.

“
Sister
Nimue is at her prayers,” Giraldus said. “As are all good Christians. When they are over, you must ask the Novice Mistress
if you can see her.”

“What?” Suddenly all Merlin’s good humor vanished. “But Nimue is a lay sister among the Healers—your Church has no dominion
over her.”

“
Sister
Nimue has taken her first vows. Soon she will be wholly apart from the world,” Giraldus said with an angry look of triumph.

“Pride,” Merlin said tightly, “is the greatest sin, the one by which Lucifer fell from heaven. You should look to your soul,
Father.” With a flick of his fingers, Merlin made himself invisible, running toward the Grail Chapel before Giraldus could
stop him.

He could feel the faith of the nuns gathered here like a bright beacon in the night; though faith was not the same thing as
magic, it could work as many miracles. He stood outside the door as the nuns chanted their prayers, and when they filed out,
returning to their cells, he saw that Nimue was with them, dressed as one of them, though still veiled to hide her scars.

Unseen by everyone, Merlin followed Nimue back to her room. Even when she thought she was alone, he saw, she did not remove
her veil. She hummed softly to herself as she circled the room, lighting candles.

“Hello, Nimue,” Merlin said.

She gasped, spinning around to see Merlin standing beside the door. “Merlin! What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you. Nimue, why didn’t you tell me?”

Nimue hung her head. “I wanted a life. I couldn’t go on forever, suspended between you and God.”

“And you chose God,” Merlin said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“God needs me!” Nimue answered. “And you don’t! I waited, Merlin. I truly did. But when we all heard that Arthur had been
made king, and you didn’t come. …”

“I came as soon as I could,” Merlin said, crossing the room to stand before her. “Nimue, these vows are not binding. The Father
Abbot has been my good friend for years. He will release you if you ask. Come away with me. Arthur is secure upon his throne;
he doesn’t need me anymore.”

“And was there ever a king who did not need advisers?” Nimue asked bitterly.