The King's Wizard (30 page)

Lancelot recovered swiftly from his wound, aided by Merlin’s salves and cordials and the sincere wish of the attending physicians
not to face Gawain’s temper again. Much of the wizard’s healing magic stemmed from the same source that Avalon’s did; the
herbcraft of the country people, taught to him by his Aunt Ambrosia, but just to be sure that no dark forces were involved,
the Bishop of Camelot offered up a special Mass for Lancelot’s welfare, and even Arthur took time from his preparations for
departure to visit Lancelot almost every day. Whatever the cause, Lancelot of the Lake healed quickly and well, and was able
to tour Camelot with Arthur a few days before the king’s departure.

The golden city was expanding in all directions at once. Its buildings were shrouded by scaffolding, and its defensive walls
were barely six feet high as yet. The great gates that would be hung when the walls were finished lay protected beneath a
tarpaulin until they were needed. Outside the castle walls a small city of workmen’s huts had sprung up; many would vanish
when construction was complete, but the rest would
remain to form the nucleus of the village that would be a part of Camelot, and of Arthur’s dream.

He had told Lancelot much about his hopes for the future in the time they had spent together, and the two men had laid the
groundwork of a strong friendship.

“When I go,” Arthur said, “I want you to see that Camelot is finished just as I planned.”

“Of course I will,” Lancelot said warmly. “It is a mighty dream, my friend, and, God willing, a dream that will endure forever.”

As they walked through the streets that would someday be a bustling city, Arthur pointed out particular details—here a gargoyle
imported from France, there, windows that would someday be bright with stained glass crafted by skilled Flemish artisans.
He spoke of the law-courts and hospitals the city would someday contain, of the peace and charity it would spread over all
the land like the radiance of the Grail itself.

“Better that Camelot should become real than remain a dream,” Arthur said. “I entrust that to you, Lancelot. You must make
my city real.”

“I will,” Lancelot said. “Both the city and the dream.”

It seemed to Lancelot that he could almost see the city through Arthur’s eyes—its shining towers rising into the sky, its
streets filled with happy, peaceful people. How like his own Joyous Gard it would be when it was finished. Already he could
see ways in which he could make Camelot greater than Arthur’s vision. He would lay the perfected Camelot as a gift at the
feet of his friend when Arthur returned with the Grail.

“Ah, here’s Merlin,” Arthur said, his arm draped companionably around Lancelot’s shoulder. “I was just showing Lancelot the
city.”

Arthur spoke as though Camelot were finished, and Lancelot saw Merlin smile.

“And what do you think of Camelot, Sir Knight?” Merlin asked.

“I think it will be a very great city,” Lancelot said. “A city worthy of its king … and queen.”

Late into the evening, a lone candle burned in a hut at the edge of the workmen’s village. Even after all these years, Merlin
still disliked being confined within stone walls, so Arthur had built for him a small hut at the edge of the builders’ city.
Inside, Merlin had all that he needed: a table, a chair, some books. The cool breezes of spring wafted through the walls;
the woven withes would have to be chinked with mud before the hut would be warm enough for winter. But the thatched roof was
tight, and the hut would be a pleasant place through the spring and summer.

A candle flickered in a clay candlestick upon the table. Arthur had promised to take a letter to Nimue when he went to Avalon,
but Merlin was finding it hard to find the words. What could he say to her? That he loved her but dared not be with her? That
their happiness could not be allowed to matter more than Arthur’s kingdom? That he feared that any weakness he showed could
be turned into a weapon by Queen Mab?

All of these things. None of these things
. Merlin sighed.
Oh, Auntie A, I do miss you so. I am sure that if
all of this had been left to you, you would not have made as much of a muddle of it as I have!

He didn’t even know that Nimue would be willing to read the letter. Each time he thought of what she must have felt that morning
when she awoke and found herself alone, something twisted deep inside him. Did Mab’s blood flowing in his veins count for
so much that he could never bring anything but pain to those he loved?

But half of me is mortal. I had a mortal mother. I have a mortal heart. Surely those matter at least as much as magic?

The night did not answer. Sighing, Merlin bent to his task once more. Tonight was Beltaine Eve, one of the holiest days of
the Old Calendar. It seemed somehow fitting that one who had rejected the old world and had no place in the new should spend
this holy night in such homely tasks as these. The only place he had ever belonged was in Nimue’s arms, and the place he wanted
most to be was the one farthest out of his reach.

If nothing else, Merlin felt that he owed Nimue an explanation, but no matter how hard he tried, the right words would not
come. The hours stretched on into the darkness just before dawn as his eyelids grew heavy and Merlin subsided, slowly and
unwillingly, into Idath’s lesser kingdom: sleep.

Merlin stood upon a mist-shrouded plain, hearing the clash of battle and the screams of the wounded as they echoed through
the mist. Even in his dreams, he knew that this was no false phantasm, but a true vision
of what would someday be. In the sky a blood-red comet bathed the landscape in a fearful scarlet light, burning like a red
eye through the mist
.

He saw men running wildly through the fog, their beards and their swords crusted with blood, and the knowledge came to him
that Arthur’s quest had been all in vain. That Mab had been right—she had charmed him and robbed him while still in the cradle
of any chance to achieve the Grail. His quest had been for nothing, all for nothing, and this was its end
.

Again he saw the warrior with the bat-winged helm. His sword was covered in blood—Caliban, the black sword, Excalibur’s dark
twin—and his black and silver armor bore the symbol of the eclipse
.

Merlin had been sent this vision before, but this time the wizard knew the identity of the Knight of the Eclipse. This was
Mordred of Tintagel, Arthur’s ill-starred bastard, Mab’s cat’s-paw. Her final weapon upon this day of judgment
.

YOU WILL NOT WIN. In the face of terrible defeat and the death of all he loved, Merlin was still defiant. He would not despair.
He would not surrender. Even if this was how all his dreams must end, as long as he lived Merlin would fight. Mab would not
claim the victory, nor would Mordred
.

Even as Merlin watched, Arthur staggered out of the mists to confront his rebel son. They were like sunlight and shadow, glory
and its dark echo. They fought like titans, but in the end, Arthur raised his sword and could not deal the death stroke, and
Merlin’s world ended in the dimming of the day
.

YOU WILL NOT WIN. Again the vow came, as if
from outside himself, yet a part of him, giving Merlin the strength for what must be done in the time to come
.

And the world dissolved in shouting and blood and the promise of darkness. …

Merlin awoke with a strangled cry. The candle had long since burned out, and spilled wax had puddled across his unfinished
letter to Nimue. The grey light of dawn was in the eastern sky. In a few hours Arthur would embark upon his journey.

And all for nothing
.

Merlin got to his feet, groaning with stiffness. He rubbed his eyes, trying to force the jumbled images of the prophecy into
some proper pattern, but all he could see was ruin and chaos, blood and war.

And there was nothing he could do to stop it. The realization grew inside Merlin like a cancer. If he told Arthur that his
quest for the Holy Grail was doomed to failure, Arthur would not listen. The king could not bear to believe himself unworthy
of the Grail. It was something he could never accept.

And so he will go, and he will fail. But my old master Blaise would tell me that the attempt is as glorious as the achievement.
Have I the right to take that away from Arthur?

Merlin knew the answer to that. His part in Arthur’s life had ended when he led the young king to Excalibur. Now Arthur must
forge his own destiny.

And Merlin must do what he could.

The first rays of sun shone through the window of the little hut, onto the litter of spilled wax and spoiled drafts. Merlin
scooped up the papers and dumped
them into his brazier. A flick of his fingers set the papers alight.

There was no point in writing to Nimue. He had no words to give her. Everything that could be said between them had already
been said. He must trust that she knew his heart.

Dawn. The land outside the gates of the city was filled with well-wishers eager to see the King depart upon his quest.

Arthur wore a suit of golden armor that was a gift from Lord Lot. A round helm, chased with figures of men and beasts in the
Iceni style, protected his head, and he wore a shirt of golden plate-mail that caused him to shine like the sun itself on
this Beltaine morning. The young King was a splendid figure in scarlet and gold, as proud and regal as the Old Gods themselves.
Boukephalos had been curried until he shone, and many of Arthur’s subjects, gazing upon the king among his knights upon this
May morning, called not upon the gods and saints of the New Religion, but upon Llew Long-hand, Baldur the Beautiful, Hyborean
Apollo, and other golden gods and heroes of ages past. In this moment, Arthur was more than a king to his people: he was a
force of nature, a myth.

And like all gods of myth and heroes of story, his dark twin stood nearby. Merlin waited with the others to bid Arthur farewell,
his thoughts somber. Beside him stood Lancelot and Guinevere.

The queen was very pale, but stood steadfast and composed, wrapped in the invisible cloak of royalty. Beside her stood Lancelot
in full plate armor.

“Sir Lancelot,” Arthur said, turning in his saddle. “Guard the honor of our sovereign lady, the Queen.”

“I will, Sire,” Lancelot said. He looked wistful as he watched Arthur prepare to depart, as though he wished more than anything
to be going with him.

“Go in God’s good grace, my love,” Guinevere said. She reached up to Arthur, and he leaned down out of the saddle, kissing
her with all the passion their marriage had lacked, as if he thought he would never see her again. Tears glittered in her
eyes when she stepped back.

“Good-bye, Merlin,” Arthur said.

“Good-bye, Arthur,” the wizard said gently. “Come back to us.”

“I leave the country in your hands.”

Arthur reached out and took his standard from a waiting squire. The crowds fell back as he raised it up. Boukephalos began
to step forward, and the blue silk billowed, exposing the silver image of the Lady. Arthur spurred his horse to a trot, and
then to a gallop, and the knights who were accompanying him followed, the thunder of their hooves making harsh music on this
golden May morning. In moments they were gone, a cloud of dust upon the road, gilded by the rising sun.

The others turned away, back to their daily lives, but neither Guinevere nor Lancelot did. The two of them ascended to the
wall and watched after Arthur until even the last sign of his dust cloud was gone.

Merlin watched them as they stood, silhouetted against the morning sky, the flower of chivalry and the queen of Britain.

Arthur is gone
. Merlin sighed, feeling suddenly old.
He goes to chase dreams—shadows
. The vision that had come to him last night weighted his bones with foreknowledge, but like Cassandra at the walls of Troy,
it would do no one any good for him to tell what he knew. Arthur would not have listened, and how could any of them escape
their futures?

Sadly, he watched Guinevere and Lancelot as they stood together upon the battlements, and waited for the future to begin.

James Mallory attended schools in California and the Midwest before moving to New York to pursue a career in writing. From
an early age Mallory has been fascinated both with the Arthurian legends and their historical evolution, an avocation which
also triggered a lifelong interest in fantasy literature. Mallory’s interests include hiking, comparative religion, and cinema.

Mab is the powerful Queen of Magic, but her cruel evil has turned the wizard Merlin into her implacable enemy. And Mab’s sister,
the Lady of the Lake, comes to Merlin’s aid, giving him Excalibur. The singing Sword of the lust, held in the stone grip of
a sleeping giant, released only to the hand of the man Mab most fears …

A good and true Christian King, Merlin’s student … King Arthur Pendragon.

But Mab has her own disciple—or pawn. For, in a monstrous act of sorcery and sin, Arthur’s half-sister, Morgan Le Fay, gives
Mab the weapon she needs to ravage Arthur’s kingdom and Merlin’s dreams of peace …

A child. Mordred.

And the Magic that raised a kingdom may be the Magic that destroys it.

LOOK FOR THE CONCLUSION OF THIS EXCITING TRILOGY,
MERLIN: THE END OF MAGIC
AVAILABLE MARCH 2000