J. M. C. Blair
The Excalibur Murders

The first book in the Merlin Investigation series, 2008

ONE. A DEATH AT CAMELOT

“Good heavens, look at them, Colin. They actually enjoy hitting each other. And hurting each other. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.” Merlin stood at the window at the top of his tower in Camelot. A large raven sat perched on his shoulder, and another one sat on the windowsill beside him; he fed them from a pocketful of bread crumbs. Below in the courtyard knights were exercising, which meant drilling with sword and shield. The clang of metal on metal rang clearly, as did their cries and grunts.

“They slice each other to slivers, then come to me and expect me to heal them,” he grumped.

“You are a wizard, after all.”

“Be quiet. I am a modestly skilled doctor, no more, and you know it.”

Merlin’s study was large and circular. Rough stone walls were lined with shelves of scrolls and parchments. There were four chairs and a rough-hewn wooden table. Some manuscripts were spread out on it; his assistant held another one and studied it. It was nearly sundown. Two torches gave the light.

“They seem fixed on the belief that the only reasonable way to resolve a conflict is by hitting someone or something. ”

The assistant read without looking up. “I’m surprised more of them don’t kill each other.”

“There are accidents all the time.”

“I mean actual murders. You know them, Merlin. Jealousy, rivalry, spite…”

Merlin leaned against the window. “We’re a civilized court, Ni-Colin.”

“Nonsense.” The assistant put down the scroll and joined Merlin at the window. “I wish you’d call me by my right name when we’re alone. If I’m not careful, I’ll actually start to think I really am Colin. Not that I don’t enjoy being him. Cutting my hair, dyeing it and donning men’s clothes was perhaps the smartest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Excuse it, please. Force of habit.” Below them, one of the knights sustained a deep wound; blood flowed. Merlin turned away from the sight. “But then you wouldn’t want me to slip and call you Nimue in front of anyone else, would you? You’re my apprentice-my male apprentice-for a good reason. For several, in fact.”

“I went along with this because I wanted to, Merlin. Are you saying I should never have let you talk me into it?”

“It wasn’t difficult. You weren’t exactly reluctant.”

Merlin turned his back and made himself watch the spar-ring knights again. “I don’t know how they do it. I didn’t have that much energy, or that much competitiveness, even when I was young. The knight who was injured will be up here soon, expecting me to treat his wound.”

“You’re the most competitive man at court, Merlin. It just doesn’t express itself physically, that’s all.”

“I am no such thing.”

“You are and you know it. You never stop. Doing everything you can to counter ignorance and superstition. Chipping away at foolishness and wasted effort. Trying your level best to turn Camelot into a court worthy of modern Europe instead of the Bronze Age backwater it is.”

He turned to face her. “You know perfectly well why I want you disguised as Colin. Morgan and the women of her court would be relentless if they knew you’d abandoned them and their assorted gods and goddesses to study with a champion of reason.”

“I can handle my dear cousin Morgan le Fay.”

“Do you know how many of the corpses in the cemetery thought that? She’s vicious when she thinks she’s been crossed. She is named for the death goddess, after all.”

“You don’t fool me, Merlin. You want me to pretend to be a boy for your own reasons.”

“Don’t be preposterous.” He pulled a wooden stool to himself and sat down.

“Merlin the Wise Man. With a carefully calculated image: pure, devoted to reason, unsullied by anything as base as emotion. Or lust.” She smiled and went back to her stool. Another raven flew into the room and landed at the edge of the table not far from her; she stroked its head. “You don’t want people to think you might be in love with a woman thirty years younger than yourself. Or even just sleeping with her.”

“For the excellent reason that I am not.”

She hopped up onto the window ledge. “Besides, I think having me pretend to be someone I’m not gives you a kind of vicarious pleasure. I’m a constant reminder that the others at court aren’t as clever as you.”

“I don’t have that kind of ego.”

“You’re a courtier, exactly like the rest of them. You do.” She grinned. “Besides, I have my own personal reasons for wanting to hide.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What would those be?”

“Never mind.” She stretched and yawned. “You’ve been giving me too much homework. How long do you think we can get away with this, anyway?”

“As long as we need to and want to, I imagine. It’s been more than six months.”

Before she could respond, there was a loud knock at the door, it flew open and King Arthur strode in. Arthur, tall, athletic, virile, broad-shouldered. He had bright reddish-yellow hair; some people called him the Sun King, which seemed to fit. Middle age was creeping up on him; he was not quite as fit as he’d been in his youth. But he was beaming and alive with energy. “Merlin, we’ve found it!”

Merlin and Nimue jumped to their feet. Nimue bowed. “Your Majesty.”

Arthur seemed surprised to see him there. “Oh, hello, Colin. How are your lessons coming?”

“Just fine, Your Majesty.”

“It’s such a pity you’re a scholar. You’ve got a good strong frame. The best build of any young man in Camelot. You could make a fine knight.”

She glanced at Merlin from the corner of her eye. “Horses make me nervous.”

“Oh.” Arthur seemed uncertain whether Colin was serious. “But you’d get used to them, surely.”

“I-”

“Arthur.” Merlin spoke up firmly. “As happy as I am at your ambition for my apprentice, I can’t help wondering what brings you up here.”

Arthur stopped short. “It’s what I said.”

“All you said was that we’ve found it. Who are ‘we,’ and what exactly is ‘it’?”

Arthur looked from Merlin to Colin and back. “Why, the stone of course.”

“Stone? What stone? What the devil are you talking about?”

Arthur sat down, rested his back against the wall and put a leg up on the table. “The stone. The Stone of Bran. You’ve heard me talk about it often enough. You still let those damned birds in here?”

“Be careful of those scrolls, will you? They’re not replaceable. ”

Arthur grinned. “I’m the king. I can replace anything I want.”

“Not those.”

“Anything.” He said it firmly. “If we can’t find them here, then somewhere else. Rome, Alexandria, Constantinople, someplace. I’m the richest man in England, remember?”

“Yes, you have enough plunder to buy what you want- if it exists. But Arthur, these books are precious. Look-this is a manuscript of Sophocles in his own hand. And this-an original Plotinus, an unknown essay on reason. There may not be any other copies in the world.”

“You told me the Stone of Bran didn’t exist, too. It does. We have it.”

Merlin stepped to the table and carefully rolled up his manuscripts. The raven on his left shoulder clambered across his back to the right one. “There is,” he said emphatically, “no such thing. For the excellent reason that there is no such being as the god Bran.”

“Don’t blaspheme the gods, Merlin. They have a way of getting their revenge.”

“Arthur, what is this stone? I mean, who found it and where?”

Arthur smiled a satisfied smile and pretended to examine his fingernails. “Percival found it. In Wales.”

“In Wales?” Merlin laughed. “What is it made of, then? Mud and onions?”

“Scoff all you like. The stone is real. And we have it.”

Nimue sat up. “Am I missing something? I’ve never heard of this-this-”

“Stone of Bran,” Arthur said patiently. “It figures in any number of ancient legends, Colin. A skull-shaped stone. Originally fashioned by the god Bran. Some even say it is his own divine skull. And it has mystical powers. It works wonders.”

“Gods have skulls?”

“I only said that was one of the legends. But the stone is shaped like one. I’ve wanted to get my hands on it for years. Sent knight after knight out questing for it. It could actually bring peace to Camelot.”

“That,” Merlin said emphatically, “would be a wonder on the order of Creation.”

Arthur ignored him. “It might even reconcile my wife to the fact that she’s my wife.”

“Arthur.” Merlin adopted the tone of a stern school-teacher talking to a dim student.

But Arthur was in too buoyant a mood to be scolded. “Yes, scholar?”

“I don’t doubt Percival found some kind of stone, maybe even one carved into a skull. But it is not magical. Work, study, scholarship, patience, even a bit of love-those are the things that will civilize England and stop all this constant infighting. No stone, magic or otherwise, can do that. We have to put our faith in ourselves, not a lot of arcane claptrap.”

“We’ll just see, won’t we?”

“I can’t stand it when you turn smug.” He added ironically, “Your Majesty.”

“I know. That’s why I do it. Merlin, indulge me in this. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t. I’ll be the first to admit it. But if the stone is real-just think of the possibilities.”

“If pie cured leprosy…”

“You spend too much time inhaling book dust.”

Merlin was about to tell the king that he himself ought to spend more time with books when the door opened. One of Arthur’s squires, a tall young man with bright red hair named Borolet, looked in. “Excuse me, Majesty.”

Before he could say anything else Nimue spoke up. “Ganelin! How are you?”

“I’m Borolet. Hello, Colin.”

“Oh. Borolet, then. I haven’t seen you in a while.”

Borolet turned to the king. “You wanted me to remind you when the council meeting is set to start.”

Arthur sprang to his feet. “Just so. I can’t wait to tell everyone the news.” He stepped toward the door.

“Arthur, don’t.” Merlin was frowning deeply. “Hold off. At least wait and see what Percival actually brings.”

“He who hesitates is lost, scholar.”

“Fools rush in, king.”

For the first time Arthur seemed deflated. “You really think it might be a-a mistake?”

“There’s a remote possibility of it.”

The king took a deep breath. “I’ve already told Mark.”

“Good heavens, Arthur. You know how he prattles. And you know how superstitious he is. He couldn’t keep a secret like this to save his life.”

“Oh-and I sent word to Morgan.”

Merlin sighed and rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Morgan? Why on earth did you do that? Arthur, when will you get the hang of kingship? Power is about discretion. About keeping secrets, if you want to look at it that way.”

“She is the high priestess, after all. She deals with the gods. Even though, as everyone knows, you are a powerful sorcerer.”

“Stop it, Arthur.”

“You are. Everyone says so. Any man as learned as you must have entered into a pact with the dark powers. It’s common knowledge.”

“It may be common but, Arthur, it is not knowledge.”

“Look at these birds. They do as you tell them. No wonder people think you’re a kind of enchanter.”

“Because I’ve trained a few ravens? Be serious.”

“You’re a wizard. It’s common knowledge.”

He stiffened. “It is nonsense, not knowledge.”

The king chuckled. “You shouldn’t let yourself grow annoyed so easily. It takes all the fun out of it. Anyway, when the stone gets here, I want Morgan to conduct some kind of ceremony, consecrating it to Camelot or England or some such.”

“ ‘Some such’?”

“She’ll know the proper form. You know what I mean. It’s an important relic. Its arrival here will be an event. Besides, we need something to liven this place up.”

“Why not just watch the knights in the courtyard trying to slaughter each other?”

“Really, Merlin.” Arthur sighed. “You’re such a killjoy.

It’s a good thing you’re as smart as you are or you’d end up in a dungeon someplace, on principle.” He put on a wide smile. “We’ll talk later. Are you coming to council?”

“I’ll be along.”

“Good. I want you there. Mark will be there. I want to announce the news before he has the chance to gossip it all over the castle.”

“Why isn’t he off in Cornwall, refining tin for you? Or seducing every woman he can get his hands on?”

“He’s here, Merlin. He’s my chief military advisor, and tensions with the French are getting worse.”

With that he rushed out of the room, leaving Merlin and Nimue to bow to the empty space where he’d been.

A moment later Borolet looked into the room again. “You shouldn’t disagree with him that way, Merlin. He is the king, after all.”

“And I’m his chief counselor. Disagreeing with him is my job. Evidently eavesdropping is yours.”

Borolet turned to Colin. “My brother and I are going to do some wrestling later. Would you like to join us?”

Nimue stiffened slightly. “No thank you.”

“Arthur was right. You’re a couple of sticks-in-the-mud.” He looked from one of them to the other, grinned a smart-ass grin then left, pulling the door shut loudly behind him.

Merlin sat, heavily. “You see what I’m up against? The Stone of Bran. What rubbish.”

“When it gets here and he sees that it’s just a stone…”

“He’ll see what he wants to see. He’s a king.”

“Oh.”

For an instant Merlin seemed to be lost in his thoughts. Then he looked squarely at Nimue. “You probably ought to go and wrestle with them. If you never exercise at all, they might start to get suspicious.”

“Let them.”

“Besides, I thought you told me once that you find him attractive.”

“No, that was his brother Ganelin.”

“They’re twins. It comes to the same thing.”

“To another man, perhaps.”

“And another man is exactly what you are. Don’t forget it.”

“Yes, sir.” She grinned impishly. “Are we going to council? ”

“I am. You are staying here. I want you to memorize the first pages of Oedipus Rex.”

“Sphinxes? Divine curses? That doesn’t sound like the champion of reason you pretend to be.”

“Take the scroll and go, will you? Leave me alone for a while. I need to think about this new development and decide how to deal with it.”

“I can help.”

“Colin, go and wrestle somebody.”

“Nimue.”

“Damn it, go and study.” He tossed a quill pen playfully at her.

She dodged it and left. A moment later the wounded knight appeared. Merlin cleaned the wound, rubbed it with an anesthetic salve and bandaged it.

Camelot, like many another castle, had grown haphazardly for generations. It was not especially large by royal standards, but it sprawled in every direction, conforming to no architectural geometry. Wings and towers were added when and where they were needed, with no deference to a plan. Some corridors led nowhere; others wound back on themselves,confusing unsuspecting visitors. Still others rose or descended imperceptibly; a person not in the know might never realize he’d changed levels till it was too late to avoid complete disorientation. It had been built by King Pellenore, who was known to be mad.

Merlin spent ten minutes walking the halls alone, thinking. Not only would Arthur believe this foolishness about a magical stone, no one else would have the nerve to speak up and tell him how absurd he was being. For that matter, half of them would probably believe in the silly thing themselves.

From ahead of him he heard footsteps. After a moment Pellenore came into view. He was one of the petty kings Arthur had overcome on the road to power. He was a generation older than Merlin, short, a bit plump, bald but with a magnificent mustache. The loss of his lands had unhinged him, or so the story went. Merlin sometimes suspected he was crazy like a fox. But at any rate he had managed to survive untouched for years in a court notorious for intrigue. At least he was pleasant and likeable-and generally sober- which was more than most of Arthur’s minions were.

He came cantering down the hall toward Merlin like a small boy pretending to ride a horse. “Merlin. Good day. Have you seen it?”

“Hello, Pellenore. You’re looking well. Seen what?”

“The dragon I’m chasing. It’s green.”

Merlin pretended to turn thoughtful. “Green? No, I don’t think I’ve seen that one.”

Pellenore narrowed his eyes. “It came this way. There are times when I wonder about you, Merlin.”

“Really? I never wonder about you.”

“A wizard like you might be the one responsible for all the monsters in this castle.”

Merlin leaned close to him and whispered dramatically, “Just between us, I am.”

“No!”

“I swear it.”

“Well, this one’s green.”

“So you said.”

“I think it’s after Arthur.”

“Who isn’t?”

This seemed to come as a new thought. Pellenore scratched his head and started off down the corridor.

“Are you coming to council?” Merlin called after him.

Pellenore looked back over his shoulder and shrugged an exaggerated shrug. “Keep an eye out for my dragon, will you?”

“I will.”

“You’ll know it-it’s green.”

Then he was gone. Merlin decided to walk for a few more minutes; the day and the situation called for thought, and he might be the only one doing it.

By the time Merlin reached the Great Hall, many of the others were already there. Pellenore had gotten there ahead of him and was agitatedly going from one group of people to the next, warning them about dragons, griffins and rogue unicorns. Ganelin and Borolet were playing hosts for their king, who hadn’t yet put in an appearance. Sagramore, a minor lord, was complaining loudly about the heavy burden of his yearly tribute to Arthur. And everyone, it seemed, was buzzing about the reason for the council.

The hall itself was at the heart of the castle keep, the most impregnable part of Camelot. It was built of the largest, heaviest stones, and it was always claimed that not even the largest battering ram could hope to penetrate them. This struck Merlin as problematic; the place was full of drafts.

The room was circular as was the great council table at its center. Though to be precise it was not a table but a series of connecting tables, each an arc. Arthur had adopted it so that everyone at council would feel equal with all the others, but of course, given the court’s nature, squabbles erupted all the time anyway. It seated thirty-seven people; at larger council meetings some people had to stand or sit behind the others, and this caused fights as well.

Today the Great Hall was ablaze with torchlight; dozens of torches burned in sconces along the walls and in tall holders around the table. Drafts made them flicker and dance. A small band of musicians played military music off in a spot along the northeast wall. Servants passed through the hall with trays of fruit, cheese, bread. Others carried drinks-wine, beer, mead-for the lords and knights. And everyone seemed to be in a celebratory mood. The hall, it seemed to Merlin, had not seen such merry activity in a long time.

There were the petty kings, now vassals of Arthur, attended by their retinues. The most important of them was Mark of Cornwall, whose tin mines Arthur had taken by main force and who was now his chief military advisor. There was Sagramore from Kent, Bialich from Ireland and assorted others. And there were knights-Dinadan, Gawain, Petrilock, Bors and dozens more-most of them accompanied by their squires.

They never stopped bickering, jockeying for position in the court hierarchy, even starting minor wars among themselves. All but old Pellenore, who was the only one of them who had anything like a sense of humor about it all, squirrelly as he was. Merlin had seen the court of the Byzantine emperor Justinian, and courtiers there never ceased their jockeying and backstabbing, but at least they did it with a measure of subtlety. At Camelot, on the other hand, subtlety was all but unknown.

Everyone was drinking. Cups were huge; it wasn’t hard to see most of the assembled nobles were already tipsy, not to say drunk.

Merlin had talked to Arthur time and again about this. No respectable court would try to conduct business this way, especially when there might be important decisions to be made. Camelot was gossiped about and laughed at all across Europe.

Arthur’s response, as usual, was to call him a spoilsport. “They say the court of Alexander the Great was like this. You told me so yourself, when I was a boy and you were my tutor. Wine and beer everywhere. And Alexander conquered the world.”

Merlin was sanguine. “Alexander didn’t have Justinian and the Byzantines to deal with. Arthur, your court is an embarrassment.”

“Nonsense.”

Other times he tried a more direct approach. “Arthur, England is being held together with baling wire. Look at all the bickering, the feuds, the petty wars.You’ve unified the country, but it could come unraveled anytime. Alexander’s empire splintered when he died. Letting these people get drunk every time they’re together can only speed that here, too.”

“Don’t be such a pessimist, Merlin.” The king clearly didn’t want to hear this. “A unified England benefits everyone. It makes us all stronger, militarily, culturally, in so many ways. No one would be foolish enough to upset that. We are adults, here, after all.”

“When have you ever known anyone to place the higher good above his own self-interest, Arthur?”

But the king wasn’t to be moved. “It’s only drinking, Merlin. We’re only having fun. What’s the point of being a king or even a knight if you can’t have a little fun now and then?”

“You call self-destructiveness fun?”

“Merlin, let it go.” And that was that. As often as Merlin had broached the subject Arthur ignored him.

At one side of the Great Hall, watching the others but neither dunking nor socializing with them, stood Britomart, the only female knight at Camelot. Her mere presence sent most of the men into shivers of anger and jealousy for several reasons, not least because she was a better knight than most of them. Merlin adored her.

He made his way through the throng and joined her. “Hello, Brit. It looks like a particularly big court today.”

She smiled at him. “Wonderful. More councilors means more fights. Have you heard the news?”

“I live in a tower. I never hear anything.”

“Don’t be absurd, Merlin. Apparently Percival has found this stone everyone’s been questing after. Arthur’s going to make a surprise announcement.”

It caught him off guard. “How did you know?”

“Everyone does. Arthur told Mark, and you know him. He gossips like somebody’s grandmother.”

“That is a disrespectful way to talk about your commander. ”

“It’s true and you know it. The news has been spreading like a fire in a hayloft.”

“I hope everyone has sense enough to act astonished when Arthur springs it on them.”

“I doubt he’ll know the difference.” She nodded toward the main doorway. “Look.”

Arthur was there, and his squires Ganelin and Borolet were at his side. He was carrying the largest goblet Merlin had ever seen, and drinking freely. Apparently this was a day for celebration. Merlin realized that the king must have started to drink as soon as he left the tower; he was already unsteady on his feet.

Britomart was wry. “Should we go and pay our respects? ”

“Don’t be catty, Brit.”

Suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, Mark of Cornwall was beside them.

Mark was the youngest of Arthur’s close councilors. He was short, broadly built and had thick black hair; he wore a mustache but, unlike most of the knights and kings, no beard. Merlin often wondered about Arthur’s wisdom in making someone he’d conquered his chief military advisor, but as usual the king wasn’t to be moved. “I’ve conquered everyone in England,” he would always respond. “So who does that leave?”

Mark, like nearly everyone, had been drinking. He put an arm around Merlin then tried to kiss Britomart. She pulled away.

“You two are looking even more serious than usual. This is a day for feasting.”

Brit looked at the king, not at Mark. “Shouldn’t you be off refining tin for England?”

“The mines are in good hands. Arthur wanted me to be here.”

“The king’s wisdom,” she said wryly.

“Do you both know why he convened this council today?”

Merlin decided to speak up before Brit could needle him more. “We do. Arthur wants it to be a surprise. I hope you’ve cautioned everyone to act like it is one.”

“Don’t give it a thought, Merlin.” He turned to Britomart. “And you declined when Arthur asked you to search for the stone.”

“I did. And I’d decline again.”

“Lèse majesté.”

“Common sense. Hunting all over the British Isles for a rock…” She made a sour face to show what she thought of the idea.

“Finding the stone is a great triumph for all of us, Brit.” He took a long swallow of wine. “It will unite Arthur’s court as nothing else has.”

“Except drinking.” Merlin put on a tight smile. “Whatever our differences, we do have that in common.”

Mark stepped away from him. “Most of us do. Arthur’s right, Merlin. You are a killjoy.” He turned to Britomart and grinned at her. “You too.”

“Tomorrow morning,” Merlin said heavily, “while the rest of you are sleeping off hangovers, Brit and I will be conducting the court’s business.”

“Alexander the Great-”

“Don’t bring that up. Alexander’s been dead a thousand years. And,” he added emphatically, “he died young. I’ve seen him, embalmed in honey, resting in that glass coffin in Alexandria.”

“Show-off. People say you’ve traveled more and seen more things than one man could do in the span of a natural lifetime.”

Merlin looked past him to Brit. With a resigned air he asked her, “Why do so many people here mistake rudeness for wise self-assertion?”

Two of the knights, Bors and Accolon, got into a fight. Accolon was French, one of the men who’d come to England in the retinue of Queen Guenevere. Then, when the king and queen fell out, he had switched his loyalties to Arthur, which made him distrusted on both sides. Bors was a native-born Englishman. Ethnic epithets got exchanged, then blows. The people around them managed to pull them apart and calm them down.

Britomart was going to say something, but before she could, Arthur raised a hand to give a signal to the musicians, and they played a loud fanfare to signal that the council was about to start.

Most of the assembled crowd ignored it and kept doing what they were doing. A few, the ones who were relatively sober, moved to the round table and took seats. Merlin, Mark and Britomart were among them; they took chairs close to the king’s.

Borolet and Ganelin, to get everyone else moving, took a pair of shields and began to hit them with spears. The sound echoed loudly in the stone room and finally got the crowd’s attention. Arthur moved to the table, staggering slightly. People began jostling one another to reach the remaining seats. The musicians fell silent.

In unison the two squires announced, “Oyez, Oyez! Attend you all! The high council of Arthur, King of the Britons, is in session.”

With that the room fell relatively quiet. Arthur sat back in his chair and smiled at them all. “Good afternoon, everyone. I know most of you are wondering why I’ve called this extraordinary council today. The fact is, we have important news. Momentous news.”

Since most of the crowd had already heard about the finding of the stone, this caused barely a stir. Arthur seemed not to notice. Instead, he went on to talk about Percival’s quest, the legends surrounding the stone and the fact that the knight was due back at Camelot with it in a week or less. Then he added that he had requested his sister, Morgan le Fay, to conduct a public ceremony to consecrate the sacred relic to the common good of the people of England.

This, not even Mark had known. And it created the hoped-for effect. Everyone started clamoring to speak. Morgan was not especially popular with most of the kings and knights and, worse, was not trusted. All kinds of objections were raised. When Arthur pointed out she was the high priestess and therefore the logical person to conduct such a rite, ten different men demanded that Arthur’s own court wizard Merlin perform any necessary rituals. Merlin buried his face in has hands and moaned.

When Arthur finally managed to quiet everyone, he asked Merlin whether he’d be willing to officiate. Merlin slowly got to his feet. “Arthur, as you know perfectly well, I am not a wizard or any other variety of wonder-worker. I am merely a well-traveled scholar, and I’m more than willing to defer to Morgan’s office and expertise.”

A dozen more knights rose up and agitated to be recognized.

But before Arthur could acknowledge any of them, a loud sound filled the room. Everyone looked around to see what was causing it. A thin, pale young man was spinning a bullroarer above his head near one of the doors. The sound was awful.

A few people recognized the man as Mordred, Morgan’s son. There had always been rumors he was the product of an incestuous union between Morgan and Arthur. Quite suddenly, before anyone could react to his presence, all the torches in the room went out. Merlin noticed that it was several of Morgan’s servants who were putting them out.

But two remained lit-on either side of the main door. And there, lit in an orange-red halo by them, stood Morgan le Fay herself. She was a tall woman, even paler than her son, and she was dressed in flowing black robes. Her manner could not have been more imperious.

“Arthur,” she intoned. “You have rendered a great service to this nation in your determination to locate the Stone of Bran. With it, England will prosper. With it, your power and the influence of this court will grow ever greater. With the great god Bran as our protector, this blessed nation shall attain greatness of a kind not known since Imperial Rome.”

She paused and looked around. Her appearance had caught nearly everyone off guard. None of them seemed at all certain what to make of her presence or her pronouncement. But the mention of Rome, which was always spoken of with some awe, impressed them properly. She spread her arms wide, and her enormous black sleeves seemed to resemble the wings of an ominous bird.

“Arthur,” she went on, “the gods salute you and recognize your power and authority.”

Merlin took in the scene, fascinated. Morgan had certainly stage-managed her entrance effectively. Her servants were placed unobtrusively around the Great Hall; they had extinguished the torches on cue. But it was quite out of character for her to acknowledge Arthur’s position in any but a grudging way. What was she up to? Did she hope to get her hands on the stone for her own ends? It seemed the only likely explanation.

She went on a bit more, apparently oblivious to the fact that most of her audience was too tipsy to follow a long speech. As she continued, people began to talk among themselves, more and more loudly. In one corner of the hall someone actually began to sing. Several times she mentioned “my beloved son Mordred, beloved of my august brother Arthur.”

Her sense of audience finally told her it was time to finish; she repeated her little benediction on Arthur and England then raised her arms again to signal that the torches should be relit.

The hall broke out in loud talking, arguing, ranting. Everyone seemed to have reacted to Morgan differently. Arthur, wine goblet still in hand, got to his feet, took Merlin by the sleeve and crossed to where Morgan was standing with her son. The royal siblings hugged in a way Merlin had never seen them do before.

Close-to, Mordred looked even worse than he had at a distance. Thin, short, rickety, pale as flour, with pimples and a runny nose he kept wiping on his sleeve. He was, Merlin knew, the same age as Nimue-nearly twenty-but his small stature made him look years younger.

“Morgan, I didn’t expect you here today.” Arthur smiled a political smile.

Morgan, the would-be queen named for the death goddess, smiled in return. “Arthur, I know it. But the god moved me to attend. How wonderful all this is.” She turned to Merlin. “And Merlin. It is always so interesting to see you.”

“And you, Morgan. When was the last time?”

“It has been nearly a year.” She brushed him aside. “When will the stone arrive here, Arthur? And when do you want the ceremony?”

“I was thinking perhaps at the end of October.”

“The thirty-first! A day of power, of magic. That is quite appropriate. But why not till then?”

“There are some preparations I want to make.”

“Such as?”

“In time, Morgan. I’m sure you’ll approve.”

“This sacred object must be treated with proper reverence, of course.”

Merlin couldn’t resist. “Maybe we can have it conjure up a handkerchief for your son.”

Mordred took a step behind his mother and sniffled. “Mother says you keep ravens, Merlin. You should be more observant, then. The god Bran sometimes takes the form of one.”

“If he shows up, I’ll give him some extra corn.”

“Mother says you’re not really a magician.”

“That is nothing, Mordred. I say the same thing.”

Mordred sniffled.

Mark made his way through the crowd and joined them. “Hello, Morgan.” Like most of Arthur’s men, he didn’t like or trust her.

“Mark. How nice to see you. But you must excuse me. The full moon will be rising shortly. I really must be going.”

With that she turned and swept out of the hall followed by Mordred and the servants who’d worked the “magic” with the torches.

Merlin watched her go, frowning. “Are you honestly impressed by all that flummery, Arthur?”

“She is the hereditary high priestess, Merlin. And my sister, a member of the royal house. These things matter.”

Mark spoke up. “What was it you wanted to ask me, Arthur?”

“Ask you?” He drank some wine.

“You told me to find you after council, remember?”

He didn’t remember and it showed. The strain of thinking was evident in his face. Then it came to him. “Oh- metal!”

“Metal?”

“You have skilled metalsmiths in Cornwall, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course, but-”

“Send for one of them. The best of them.”

Merlin was as baffled as Mark seemed to be. “What on earth do you need a tinsmith for?”

“Not tin, Merlin,” he said in a loud stage whisper. “Gold or silver.”

“What on earth-? At least wait till you’re certain the thing’s real.”

“I want to have a precious shrine made to house the stone. It’s the least a divine relic deserves, don’t you think?”

“Oh, naturally.” He didn’t try to hide his irony.

“You need to learn reverence, Merlin. It ill becomes a man of learning to be such a cynic.”

“The Cynics were a respected school of philosophy in Greece. ‘The Cynic questions everything in order to learn what is true.’ ”

“This is not Greece.”

“I’ll say it isn’t.”

“Even though we drink like the court of Alexander the Great.”

Mark got between them. “I have a particularly skilled metalsmith in my service, a Roman named Pastorini. I’ll send him to you as soon as I get home.”

Merlin found it too exasperating. “If you’ll excuse me, Arthur, I’m due to give Colin a lesson.” He added sarcastically, “In Greek.”

“Go, then.” He handed his goblet to a servant. “Get me more wine.”

The weather stayed warm and dry despite the change from summer to autumn. The knights were able to keep up their outdoor exercise much later in the season than they would have normally. But thick banks of black clouds were beginning to build up in the western sky. That more than anything else-more, even, than the trees turning color-seemed to presage the coming winter.

Borolet and Ganelin were exercising in the castle courtyard. Except for the fact that Borolet’s hair was a lighter shade of red, they were quite startlingly identical, so much so that Nimue could only tell them apart when they were standing side by side. Of the two, Borolet was much more somber and taciturn; it was Ganelin she found appealing. He had the better physique and was the better athlete. He almost always had the advantage over his brother.

She sat on a stone bench and watched them wrestling, stripped to the waist and covered with sweat. The light of the half-obscured sun, dimmed as it was by the clouds, lit their bodies sharply, outlining them in brilliant detail. She couldn’t take her eyes off them.

“Colin, you should come join in. Exercise is good for you.” Borolet wiped some sweat from his eyes and took a deep breath. While he was off guard Ganelin caught him by one leg and dropped him to the ground.

Nimue laughed at the sight. “I’m no athlete, Borolet. If Ganelin did that to me, I’d crumble.”

Ganelin got a headlock on his brother. “You would. But you’d love it.”

“Not as much as you’d think.”

Borolet pulled free and pinned Ganelin. “Why’d you come down here, then?”

“I enjoy seeing half-naked twins.” She laughed.

“If I thought you meant that…”

“Yes?”

“Never mind.”

Britomart came walking across the courtyard to them and sat down beside Nimue. “Hello, Colin.” There was a slight sneer in her voice when she said the name. “Enjoying the show?”

“How could I not? They’re the most beautiful men at Camelot.”

Brit was wry. “Except for the king, of course. He’s the handsomest by definition.”

“Of course.”

The brothers said hello to her then went back to their contest. Brit leaned very close to Colin and whispered, “You ought to be more careful. You’ll give yourself away.”

Caught off balance by this, Nimue stammered, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“No.” Brit grinned. “Of course not.” She got up and crossed quickly to where the brothers were wrestling and caught Ganelin in an arm lock. He struggled, apparently mortified that a woman had gotten the drop on him.

Borolet came and sat down beside Colin. “You really ought to work out with us, Colin. You could make a good knight.”

“I’m a scholar, Borolet.”

“You could be both.”

She shrugged. “That would be a good novelty, at least. Will the two of you be at the consecration ceremony?”

“Of course. We’ll be attending the king.” He smiled. “It’s an important occasion and we’ll be part of it.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of waiting on him?”

He seemed puzzled by the question. “He’s the king.”

Britomart was applying severe pressure to Ganelin’s arm. Finally, he cried out in pain and she let him go. Rubbing his arm, he sat next to his brother. “Serving the king is an honor, Colin. You should know that.”

“An honor.” Nimue was deadpan. “Of course it is.”

Robbed of her diversion, Britomart waved lightly and went off to join another group of knights.

“Yes,” Ganelin said emphatically. “We’re virtually the only ones beside the king himself who have access to his private chambers.” He gestured toward Camelot’s tallest tower, which everyone simply called the King’s Tower. “He keeps all his most precious things there, even Excalibur. How could we not be honored?”

“And he’s going to keep the Stone of Bran there, too.” Borolet was caught up in his brother’s enthusiasm. “Have you seen the shrine Pastorini’s making for it? Pure silver, all worked in intricate designs. It’s an exquisite thing, and Arthur will be placing it in our care.”

“Silver? Where on earth did he get it?”

Borolet shrugged. “Arthur’s the king.”

“Suppose it turns out to be just a stone?”

He didn’t like the sound of that at all. “It won’t.”

“I envy you your simple faith, Borolet.” Nimue looked up at Merlin’s tower. He was there at the window, watching them and scowling. She waved at him and he pulled back inside.

“I think I’m due for my Latin lesson,” she announced to the twins. “Merlin’s looking stern.”

Borolet looked up at the tower; Ganelin head-butted him. “Stay and wrestle with me.”

“Thanks, but I really have to be going.”

“You should train. Don’t you want to be a knight?”

“No.” She said it with heavy emphasis.

“You talk like a girl.”

She bristled at this. “Which girl did you have in mind, exactly?”

Abashed, he apologized. “Sorry.”

“I’ll see you both later.” Nimue crossed to the castle’s entrance and climbed the stairs to Merlin’s tower. He was there, waiting for her. Three of his ravens were perched in a row along the edge of the table as if they were scolding her for paying more attention to a red-haired, bare-chested twin than to her lessons.

“Merlin, Britomart knows about me. Did you tell her?”

“Of course not. How do you know?”

“She as much as told me just now.”

“I’ll talk to her and see.” He gestured to a scroll on the table. “See how you do translating that.”

“What is it?”

“Ovid. The Art of Love. I don’t think you have to worry about Brit. I know her pretty well, and she can be trusted.”

“I hope so.”

“She’s my closest friend. And she’s politician enough to know that if you spread a secret around it loses its value. But I promise I’ll talk to her as soon as I can.”

“Thanks. I’m having too much fun to have this end and go back to Morgan’s court.” She wrinkled her nose at the scroll in her hand. “The Art of Love. Why does that seem out of place at Camelot?”

He scowled at her. “The king’s marriage is the king’s affair. Mind your Latin.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s difficult stuff. You’ll have to concentrate.” But after a moment he couldn’t resist asking. “Are you smitten with one of the twins?”

She nodded and smiled, grateful for something to focus on other than Augustan Latin. “But don’t worry. It’s my mind I want to develop right now. I’m not ready for another betrothal, and I won’t be for a long time.”

This caught him by surprise. “You were betrothed?”

“Yes.” Her voice took on a bitter edge. “To Mordred.”

“Good God.”

“Exactly. Why do you think I fled Morgan’s court?”

“I had no idea. Mordred! What a ghastly marriage that would have been.”

“We’d have been as cold and distant as Arthur and Guenevere. ” She smiled sweetly.

He frowned at her again, even more deeply, but rose to the bait. “Theirs was a political marriage, not a love match. Her father, Leodegrance, is a minor king in France. He thought the union would open up opportunities for grabbing land and money here. And Arthur thought the same thing in reverse. It wasn’t long before they reached a stalemate.”

“Poor Guenevere.”

“Poor, nothing. She went into it with her eyes open, as an agent for her father’s interests. As soon as she realized she would never get one up on Arthur, she moved out, found a convenient castle and set up her own court. Why she chose Corfe…” He wrinkled his nose. "Is there an uglier castle in England? They don’t call it the Spider’s House for nothing.”

“At least she had the good grace to realize that a queen of England ought to live in England. She could easily have returned to her father. Give her credit for that.”

“I understand there is bad blood between her and her mother, Leonilla. But she never stops scheming, Nimue. I spend half my time trying to anticipate her plots. She’d do anything to bring Arthur down. And it isn’t just a matter of her father’s business, now. It is personal.”

“I hear she’s coming for the consecration ceremony.”

“Splendid. As if we won’t have enough chaos to deal with.” One of the ravens flapped its wings and flew out the window. “Guenevere has a pet ape. It is always with her; she keeps it on a silver chain. A lot of people have fun trying to tell the difference between it and Lancelot.”

“I’ve seen the queen but never him. Is he…?”

“An athlete. Tall, blond, strong, handsome and dumb as a sack of rocks. In one way it’s not hard to see why she took him as her lover. In another… I’ve never understood why so political a woman as Guenevere would choose a man with no connections. No thoughts.”

“Maybe she enjoys the change.” She held out the scroll. “Somehow this isn’t the kind of thing I want to read just now.”

He turned thoughtful. “No. I suppose it isn’t.” He searched the scrolls on the shelf nearest him and held one out. “Here, this might be more the thing.”

“What is it?”

“The Golden Ass.”

She laughed. “Are you talking about this book or Lancelot? Or Arthur?”

“Stop it. I tried to make friends with Guenevere when she first came here. She’s a smart woman. Very. But when it became clear she’d never stop working against Arthur- against us-I put some distance between us. There is a lesson there for you.”

“Yes, sir.” She turned her attention unhappily to Latin.

The weather turned harsh and stormy. Percival had been expected at Camelot within a week or so of sending the news about the Stone of Bran. As it turned out he was delayed at the Mersey River, which was swollen and impassable, for nearly ten days. Then he contracted influenza and was confined to bed for another five.

Arthur grew more impatient each day without his relic. “Where is he?” he grumbled to Merlin and Mark. “Every-one’s on edge.”

“Try and look at it in a positive way,” Mark counseled him. “If nothing else, the delay is giving Pastorini time to construct a shrine that’s genuinely worthy of such an important artifact.”

“And to waste more of the country’s treasure.” Merlin couldn’t resist adding it.

Arthur glared at him. “I want my stone. It will unify us all, it will stop all the fighting and bickering. I’m so tired of it all. No one knows that better than the two of you.”

“Cheer up, Arthur. If the stone really is what you say it is, maybe it will work a miracle, cure Percy and transport him here.”

“Stop it, will you?” He turned to Mark. “There was a report of a French raid on Dover. Guenevere’s father, most likely. Is there anything to it?”

“No. It turns out it was just a trading ship that was blown off course. You know the weather in the Channel.”

Merlin decided he had needled him enough. Arthur’s desire for some peace at court was quite understandable if not exactly realistic, given his style of governing. But it seemed politic to let him find it out on his own. When the stone arrived and proved to be… a stone, Arthur would realize quickly enough how foolish this enterprise was.

Then finally, more than two weeks after he was expected,word came that Percival was about to arrive at Camelot.

He had always struck Merlin as an unlikely knight. Short, plump, heavily bearded, he was not exactly the picture of chivalry. And he was not over his illness; he coughed nonstop.

But he had the stone with him, and that was all Arthur- or most anyone else-cared about. The king and a small circle of his closest advisors waited anxiously in Arthur’s chambers in the King’s Tower. Arthur paced; the others watched him.

There was always a guard on duty outside the rooms and another at the foot of the spiral steps that led up to them. People filed past them one by one, to wait in the king’s private study. It was where he kept his most precious belongings. In a case fronted with leaded glass rested Excalibur, the sword that was the emblem of his kinghood. It was crusted with gemstones, and somehow, improbably, a shaft of light lit it brightly.

Percival left his horse in the care of a servant and went directly up to Arthur’s rooms. He carried the stone in a flour sack, which hardly seemed the way to transport a powerful relic. Arthur, Mark and Merlin were there, attended by Nimue, Borolet and Ganelin. Out of breath from the climb and covered in dirt, Percy said nothing but produced the thing with a flourish.

And it was not impressive: roughly skull-shaped, caked with mud and soil.

Merlin touched a fingertip to it and scraped away some of the dirt. “I think it might be some dark variety of quartz, or perhaps obsidian. Not the easiest stone to carve. Assuming it is carved, that is.”

“So you admit it might be miraculous?” Arthur was pleased with himself and his knight and the stone he’d found.

“I admit it might be carved. Let me see it work a miracle. Then I’ll admit that.”

“In time, Merlin, in time. Morgan is studying all the old legends about it. She’ll know how to unleash its power.”

“Of course.” He didn’t try to hide his exasperation. “Arthur, how can you trust her? She never stops plotting. She wants to be queen.”

“She’s a member of the royal house, Merlin. Plotting is what we do. I can handle her.” He grinned. “I always have.”

Mark picked the stone up and tossed it in his hand a few times. Some of the dirt flaked off. “It’s heavy.” He looked at Arthur. “Like gold.”

Percival seemed pleased that the king liked his find. “It was buried in the corner of an old ruined barn.”

“How miraculous.” Merlin grinned sarcastically.

“Stop it, Merlin.” Arthur took the stone and handed it to Ganelin. “Here. Place it in the cabinet next to Excalibur. It will be safe here.”

Ganelin took it, unlocked the wooden case and placed the stone carefully on a shelf.

Arthur beamed. “The Stone of Bran. I never really believed we’d possess it. But just look at it.” Torchlight glistened on its surface. “The ceremony is in five days. I need to check with Morgan and see if she needs anything special for it.”

“I’ll go to her,” Mark volunteered.

“She doesn’t like you.”

“I know.” He smiled impishly. “But the stone gives us a common interest.”

Before Arthur could respond to this, Merlin spoke up. “Then go, by all means.”

And so with no more fuss the gathering broke up. On the way back to his tower Merlin told Nimue, “Miracles. He wants miracles. Well, it will be one if we get through this without all looking like fools.”

The night before the ritual Camelot was full. People had come from all over England to see the spectacle. Knights and nobles were packed in like the poor, two and three to a bed. They grumbled; such accommodations were beneath their station and dignity. But there was nothing to be done.

Merlin was in his tower, reading. A raven perched on his shoulder; two more rested on the table in front of him. He heard someone on the stairs. There was no knock, but the door flew open rather violently. He looked up, startled; the bird on his shoulder flew away. “Guenevere. You came.”

Imperious despite her short stature, dark as Arthur was fair, the queen looked around as if she’d never seen anything as strange as the contents of the room. She was approaching middle age but looked younger. “You’ve taken over my old apartments.” Though she had been in England for years her French accent was still strong.

“You moved out.” He got to his feet and added in an ironic tone, “Your Majesty.”

Guenevere had her pet ape with her. It scrambled to the table and chased the two remaining ravens, which flew away in alarm. Then it tried to jump at Merlin, but its chain was too short.

Merlin scowled. “You ought to teach that beast better manners.”

“I shall,” she announced imperiously, “require my rooms while I am here.”

“You wouldn’t like them anymore, Guenevere. The bed only holds one.”

She ignored the dig. “Nevertheless, you will please take your things and go.”

“Arthur assigned me this tower. I’m afraid it’s up to him.”

The queen glared. “This is a royal order.”

“Not from my royal. This isn’t Corfe, Guenevere. You’re a guest here, not a queen, not as far as I’m concerned.”

“Merlin, I am ordering you out of these rooms.”

“And when Arthur seconds that order I’ll obey it.”

The ape lunged at him again, and Guenevere pulled on its chain. The creature returned to her unhappily.

“This will all crumble someday, Merlin.”

“Camelot is as solidly built as any castle I know.”

“Not the castle. You know perfectly well what I mean. Arthur’s little empire. He’s not fit to rule. No one here is. And when Arthur falls, I will be waiting at Corfe to pick up what’s left and reassemble it. And I promise you, there will be no room for scholarly quasi-wizards.”

“Fair enough. But I can’t shake the feeling you’re always doing what you can to hasten that fall. Aren’t you?”

She smiled a tight, patient smile. “I will have these rooms again, Merlin. Just wait.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. As I said, it’s Arthur’s decision. Good-bye, Guenevere.” He couldn’t resist adding, to the ape, “Good-bye, Lancelot.”

She froze; she turned to ice. “Do you really think there is any point throwing that in my face? Do you honestly believe you can make me feel ashamed? We could populate five counties with the bastards Arthur has fathered.” She sneered. “English morality.”

“Is it worse than the French kind?”

“I am living for the day when I can prove it.”

With that she turned and left, pulling the reluctant ape after her. She did not bother to close the door. Merlin did so; it wouldn’t do to have his ravens fly that way and get lost in the rest of the castle.

Morgan took over the Great Hall. Her people, under Mordred’s supervision, arranged the torches and candles according to some prearranged but mysterious plan. A high dais filled one side of the room, with three steps leading up to it. Chairs for the audience were carefully arranged, apparently with the object of giving everyone a good sight line.

Merlin and Nimue watched the preparations for a few minutes, not certain what to make of it all. Seeing them, Morgan joined them.

“You’re turning this room into a theater worthy of Aeschylus.” Merlin was suitably impressed. “Is it for the Stone of Bran or yourself?”

“You expect a tragedy?” She focused on the arrangements, not on Merlin.

Nimue, standing just behind Merlin, spoke up. “The question is, what do you expect? Is all this really necessary? ”

“Arthur wants the ceremony to be as impressive as possible, ” Morgan told Merlin. “This is as much a political event-a state occasion-as a religious one.” Then, suddenly seeming to notice Colin, Morgan looked closely.

Nimue moved farther behind Merlin. Happily, Morgan seemed not to recognize her through the disguise. A loud noise from the dais caught Morgan’s attention, and she rushed to see what had fallen.

“You ought to get out of here, Colin,” Merlin whispered. “We don’t want her recognizing you.”

Nimue was going to protest that her disguise was too good, but she thought better of it.

Then Merlin decided to leave as well. “Wait-I’ll go with you. I don’t want to see how she rigs her magic tricks. That would take all the fun out of it.”

The two of them left Morgan to oversee her preparations. A moment later they ran into Arthur. “Come with me,” he told them. “The kitchen staff are making special treats for tonight. We get first taste.”

“No thank you, Arthur.” Merlin was grateful the king wasn’t drinking.

“Colin, then. You have to like honey cakes-a boy your age.”

“No thank you, Your Majesty.”

Arthur sighed, exasperated. “You two never want to have any fun.”

“Different people derive fun from different activities.” Merlin was offhand. “I get mine from thinking.”

“Well, come on anyway. You haven’t seen the shrine yet, have you? Pastorini did a splendid job with it. Let me get a few cakes and I’ll show it to you.”

This, Merlin couldn’t resist. They went with Arthur to the kitchen, watched him eat three fair-sized cakes then accompanied him up the spiral stone stairs to his chambers.

As always, there was a guard posted at the door. There was a large anteroom, a sitting room and a bedroom off to one side of it. Windows looked out in every direction. Beyond was the study where Excalibur and the Stone of Bran were kept among Arthur’s other treasures. Jewels glistened; gold and silver glinted.

The shrine was evidently too large to fit into the shelved cabinet that held the crown jewels. It rested on a small wooden table in one corner of the room. And it was a fine piece of work, much more so than Merlin expected and more so than anything else he’d seen in England. It was cubical, more than two feet on a side. The walls were made of burnished silver; silver filigree covered most of it, and carefully placed rubies provided bright accents. With no special lighting at all, it gleamed.

Merlin and Nimue were duly impressed and said so.

“But, Your Majesty, shouldn’t it be locked securely away?”

“Of course not, Colin. There’s a guard here and another at the foot of the stairs. Besides, no one would ever dare come in here without permission. No one ever has.”

“My grandfather never died,” Merlin said dryly, “until last year.”

Arthur scowled. “This is a big day for me, Merlin. For all of us. Try not to dampen it too badly, will you?”

Merlin ignored this and bent down to inspect the shrine more closely. “This really is excellent workmanship. As good as some of the things I saw at the court of the emperor Justinian.” He had also seen much better ones there, and in Rome, in Jerusalem and elsewhere, but he decided not to mention the fact. “How did Mark ever lure a craftsman this skilled to Cornwall?”

“There is money in Cornwall,” Arthur said, pleased by the thought. “All Europe buys our tin for their bronze. They need it.”

Merlin ran a finger along one edge of the shrine. And he found he couldn’t hold his tongue after all. “And Pastorini is probably a second-rank metalsmith or he wouldn’t have come here. Imagine what a really first-rate one could do, a Roman or a Byzantine.”

“Nothing better than this.” Arthur beamed.

Merlin decided not to press the point. There was no politic way to do so without pricking Arthur’s sense of importance. But he wanted to learn what he could about the art of metalworking. “Where is Pastorini? I’d like to congratulate him.”

“Back in Cornwall.”

“You’re not letting him attend the ceremony?”

“Tonight is for the stone, Merlin, not the shrine.”

“Still, it seems unfair to deny him recognition for this.”

Arthur shrugged. “He’s been paid. That’s the kind of recognition artists like best. I’m going down to the courtyard to exercise now. To burn off some of this energy. Would you like to do some fencing, Colin?”

“No thank you, sir.”

“Oh.” He seemed puzzled by the refusal. “I’ll never get used to the two of you. Well, I’ll see you both tonight in the Great Hall. The ceremony starts promptly at eight.”

Something occurred to Merlin. “I haven’t seen Percival anywhere lately. He will be there, won’t he? In a place of honor?”

“His influenza has turned to pneumonia. He’s infected half a dozen people already. I don’t wanting him spreading his sickness any further.”

“Maybe you should have him share quarters with Guenevere. ”

“Don’t give me any ideas.”

“I can’t help it. Guenevere inspires them. Well, we will see you tonight, then.”

“Till then.” Arthur beamed, pleased they were duly impressed, and reached for a fencing saber.

“Aren’t you going to show us the stone?” Nimue couldn’t hide her disappointment.

Merlin could never resist needling him. “You know-the really important object?”

Arthur ignored him and addressed Colin. “Oh, that’s right. You haven’t seen it yet, have you?”

“No, sir.”

Voice lowered, he said, “Here it is.” He scowled briefly at Merlin, as if warning him not to make any impertinent comments, then turned his attention to the shrine. Slowly, carefully, almost reverently, he slid the door open on its hinges.

And there it was. The stone had been polished since Merlin last saw it. It was perfectly smooth, perfectly brilliant: a sleek glass skull, four inches high. It caught the light; dark as it was, it seemed almost to glow.

Colin’s eyes widened with wonder, and even Merlin seemed impressed.

“It’s beautiful, Your Majesty.” Colin reached out a fingertip to touch it but Arthur caught his hand and moved it away.

“No! I don’t want that finish ruined. Pastorini spent hours polishing it.”

Merlin looked around the room to see if there was a light trained on it; there was none. Then he moved close and inspected it carefully. “It is beautiful, Arthur. But is it magical? ”

“We’ll know soon enough, won’t we?”

“What miracles has it worked so far?”

“Stop it, Merlin.” Carefully he closed the shrine. “The rite begins promptly at eight o’clock.” He smiled and made a little salute to each of them. “Till then.”

The Great Hall was crowded, even more than it had been on the day when Arthur announced the finding of the stone. People had come from all over the country; entire noble families with their retainers wanted to see the Stone of Bran. There were nowhere near enough chairs; many people were standing. Tapestries depicting the exploits of Bran had been hung all along the wall. The court musicians played festive music. Servants circulated with cakes and ale. This was a holiday, it seemed, even if it wasn’t official.

Mordred and his servants had done a fine job of creating the proper mood. The hall was mostly dark, lit only by occasional candles, except for the dais, which was ablaze with torchlight. There were two thrones set up, a large one for Arthur and a smaller one for Morgan, who was of course not merely the high priestess but Arthur’s sister, a member of the royal family. Between them stood a table elaborately carved from blackthorn on which the shrine would rest.

Merlin and Nimue had a good dinner together then headed to the hall. Nimue decided to stay at the rear near one of the entrances just in case either Morgan or Mordred seemed suspicious of her. Merlin, too late to get a seat, circulated among the crowd, much more interested in seeing the people and their reactions than in the relic.

People stood talking in small groups, wondering loudly just what they were going to see. Arthur had shown the stone and its shrine to only a handful of people, and there were all sorts of rumors about its precise nature. It was a skull made of solid gold, or silver, or the alloy of both called electrum. Or it was made from wood from an ancient prophetic oak. Or it was an actual skull, encrusted with jewels and somehow endowed with miraculous powers by the god. There were skeptics, though not many, who argued that it was all hokum. Wagers were being made.

Pellenore was there, warning people, more or less at random, not about his usual dragon but about a malevolent water sprite. Merlin avoided him quite carefully and ambled about the hall, eavesdropping, pleased that not everyone had been taken in.

When he found Nimue, he told her so. “All this flummery… I can’t tell you how it disgusts me.”

“Yes, you can.” Nimue was wry. “And you have, several dozen times.”

“You have an annoying habit of being contrary, Colin.”

She smiled sweetly. “I can’t imagine who I got it from.”

Just at that moment Mordred walked by and nodded at the two of them. For an instant he seemed to recognize Nimue; then he seemed to think better of it, shrugged and kept moving.

“He’s going to realize who I am sooner or later. He has to.”

“Do you think so? I don’t have the impression he’s any brighter than he needs to be.”

“All he’d have to do is drop a suggestion to his mother, and…”

“I’d worry about her, not him.” Merlin looked to the entrance where Morgan and Arthur would be coming in. There was no sign of them. “Morgan and her boy don’t come here often. After this nonsense is over, I’m sure they’ll be going back to their own castle.”

She glanced around nervously. “I hope you’re right.”

Mark of Cornwall joined them, in a festive mood. “Have you tried the honey cakes? They’re wonderful.”

“I’m dieting,” Merlin said irritably. “How is Percival? He should be here.”

“His pneumonia is getting worse.”

“I’ll go and see him after the ceremony. I am the court physician, after all.”

“He asked for a doctor who believes in the gods. He says someone like you could never cure him.”

“Some things,” Merlin said dryly, “aren’t curable.”

Nimue smiled. “Merlin has an annoying habit of being contrary. Have you ever noticed, Mark?”

“Everyone has.” He scanned the crowd. “There’s Britomart. I have to talk to her about a new drill I want to introduce. ”

“I’m going to get as close to the dais as I can, Mark. Why don’t you join me there?”

Mark nodded, then shouted, “Brit!” and disappeared quickly into the crowd.

A moment later the musicians played a fanfare and then a slow, solemn march. Servants extinguished some of the lights, as they had at the council. The crowd fell nearly silent. Then slowly, majestically, Arthur and his sister came in.

They were dressed in their best court finery, Arthur in white robes trimmed with gold and Morgan in black ones with silver trim. They climbed slowly to the dais and stood in front of their respective thrones.

Ganelin and Borolet stood at attention just beside the platform. Arthur nodded to Borolet, and the squire left quickly, presumably to fetch the shrine. Merlin elbowed his way through the crowd, trying to get closer, without much success. He found himself standing next to Britomart. “Mark is looking for you.”

“I know. I’m avoiding him.”

Suddenly Guenevere swept into the hall, followed closely by Lancelot and several lesser retainers. She went directly to the dais and began to climb the steps to it, clearly expecting to have a place there. Ganelin blocked her way. There was an exchange of words; Merlin couldn’t quite hear what was being said, but it was fairly plain she wanted to take her place on the second throne. At least she had decorum enough not to raise her voice.

Lancelot, who was built like an athlete, slender and fit, ten years younger than the queen, moved past her to confront the squire.

Arthur got quickly to his feet to join his squire and his wife. Morgan did not budge. There were more words. Then Arthur signaled that a third chair should be brought for the queen. A servant brought one, and Ganelin placed it carefully on the other side of Arthur’s throne from Morgan. The queen, trying without success to not look slighted, walked slowly to her makeshift throne and sat. Lancelot turned, descended the steps and disappeared into the audience.

Pellenore, evidently in a great hurry, pushed his way past Merlin and Britomart and disappeared into the crowd as well. Merlin looked around for Mark, but there was no sign of him.

Several moments passed. Arthur bent down and whispered something to Ganelin, who looked around the hall, evidently worried. Morgan sat perfectly still, staring directly ahead. The crowd began to grow restless; they started to talk and move about. When the noise level began to be quite noticeable, Morgan frowned; this was not seemly behavior at a sacred rite. Where was Borolet? Merlin wondered why, with all her careful preparations, Morgan hadn’t made provision for the shrine to be brought more quickly, or better yet to have it brought before the ceremony began.

More time passed. More people ignored the royals on the dais and talked, drank, ate or whatever. Merlin and Brit made their way to the platform. Arthur bent down and told Ganelin, “Go and see what’s holding him up.”

Merlin was enjoying it all. He whispered to Britomart, “Maybe it will transport itself here miraculously.”

“Something’s wrong, Merlin. For once why don’t you keep your thoughts to yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Borolet’s delay was now quite pointed, quite unmistakable. No one could have failed to realize things were not going as planned. The assembled audience was getting more and more restless. Several people took extinguished torches and relit them from the ones that were still burning. A servant came and told Arthur the cakes were almost gone.

Then Ganelin rushed back into the hall and climbed to the dais. He was pale and agitated. He whispered something to Arthur, who turned pale as well. The king looked around the hall and called out, “Mark? Where is Mark of Cornwall? ”

There was no response. Arthur looked uncharacteristically grave. He gestured to Merlin and said, “Come with us.” The three men left the Great Hall quickly.

Camelot’s halls were nearly deserted; only servants came and went, each bowing deferentially as the king passed. In a matter of moments the little party reached the foot of the stairs to Arthur’s chambers.

The guard who had been stationed there lay on the floor. Merlin rushed to him and did a quick examination. “He’s unconscious, not dead.”

They climbed quickly. The guard at the top, outside the king’s rooms, had been knocked unconscious, too.

“In here,” said Ganelin, his voice shaking. He led them quickly through the outer chambers.

Blood covered the floor in the study. In the center of a large pool of it lay Borolet’s body. He had been hacked to pieces, evidently with a broadsword. The silver shrine was gone. The Stone of Bran was gone. And so was Excalibur.