Camelot's Blood (16 page)

Finally alone, Laurel collapsed into the chair. Her knees were shaking from too many waves of overwhelming emotion. She felt as if she had been scooped hollow and nothing remained to stand before the world but the shell of her skin.

Partly, it was hunger. If her maids came back undisturbed from their quest to find firewood, she must send them out to find something to eat. Or perhaps she should just give herself over to fasting. Given the little demonstration in the yard, she could not be sure how the kitchens might express their disapproval.

A fast can be my penance for causing so much trouble
. She slumped backwards, staring at the little fire. Earthen coolness oozed from the stone walls around her. She could smell evening in the draught that slipped under the shutters. She wondered where Agravain was, and what was being said to him, or about him.

Will he come to me again tonight? I should be ready. She stirred, but somehow could not bring herself to stand. Perhaps, when I'm decent again, I should go wait in his rooms … No. Let him be alone if he needs to.

She rubbed her hands together. The chill settled more heavily against her skin. Why did it make her so uneasy? She was used to the cold of night. This was more than that. It felt like prophecy, like the promise of grim news to come. Something was happening. She could tell in the prickling on her arms and the restlessness that spread from the back of her neck. Something has gone very wrong.

Agravain?

Even as she thought this, Meg burst into the room. “My lady!” she gasped. “My lady, the sorcerer, Merlin. He's gone … he's gone, and his house is destroyed!”

In an instant, Laurel was on her feet. Forgetting place and appearance, and all other delicate decencies, she hiked her hems up around her ankles and barreled down stairs and corridor, out into the yard. Probably Camelot's folk stopped and stared. Laurel heeded none of them. She ran across the yard towards the low, lime-washed house that was home to Merlin the sorcerer.

Her first thought was that Meg was wrong. The low, white cottage stood whole and sound, with its window was tightly shuttered. Her woman had made some mistake. Everything was clearly all right. The nervous, shifting crowd in front of the open door was there because she, Laurel, had dared to come to this place.

But as she circled the edge of the crowd, she saw this fleeting hope was mistaken. What she had first taken for a stick of firewood dropped across the threshold was Merlin's carved staff, lying like a fallen branch.

Fury moved Laurel forward, shouldering the gawpers out of her path. How could all these fools just stand about like sheep? Never mind that this was Merlin's house, never mind that no one dared enter here without permission even in broad daylight, let alone with night approaching, something was wrong!

She pushed her way out of the crowd and caught up the staff, shoving the door open wide.

All at once, Laurel found herself in the midst of a ruin.

Overturned tables lay like driftwood in the sea of smashed crockery and trampled herbs. Inks and dyes ran in rivulets down the walls. Precious books lay trampled on the dirt floor, their pages torn and scattered. The well's cover had been tossed aside and the well beneath was dark and cold. Laurel thought of death as she looked at it, but did not know why. Then she realized the curved grey fragments beside the wall were not broken crockery, but broken skulls. Skulls someone had thrown against the wall.

What had happened here?
She turned slowly, looking at the whole of the ruined cottage.
What could do this while Merlin …?

God and Mary, is Merlin dead?
The sight of Agravain so worried about her coming here returned in a rush. It could not be possible he had a hand in this. It could not! Suddenly ice cold, she gripped Merlin's staff and crossed herself with one shaking hand.

“Do not distress yourself, lady. I am here.”

Laurel whirled around. There in the threshold stood Merlin, silhouetted against the dimming evening light. He hunched over, bracing himself against the door frame like a crippled old man. One shuffling step at a time he walked into the wreckage of his house.

“That is mine, I believe.” He held out his crabbed hand, and she put the staff into it. He drew it to his chest, embracing it like a child might a favoured toy as he gazed around at the devastation.

Laurel forced her mouth to move. “Where have you been, Master?”

Merlin smiled grimly. “Can you not tell?” He spread out the hems of his black robe. On the rich cloth, Laurel saw the wavering white line that was unmistakably the stain of salt water. The thought of him up to his knees in the crashing waves came to Laurel and she frowned.

Merlin reached one shaking hand down to pull a stool out of the flotsam and stumbled. Laurel grabbed his shoulders to help steady him, but he shook her off angrily. She backed away. Merlin set the stool down, and set himself on it.

“Why did you go to the sea?” she asked softly.

The sorcerer's mouth twitched. It was terrible to see him this way, so weak and dishevelled in the midst of the ruin of his home, which he did not even remark on, as if it was no surprise to him.

“To ask her to take you back.”

Her? Grandmother? He asked Grandmother to
take
me …
It was too much. Her thoughts could not compass it. “I do not understand.”

“No. No you don't.” He lifted his face and his eyes glittered brightly with the cold light of anger. “You careen into the middle of this war, hazarding everything, bringing death with your every act and you do not understand!” He slammed the butt of his staff against the floor and Laurel jumped. She could not help it. But she did not retreat. She must understand what had happened here.

Slowly, the burn of anger dimmed and Merlin's face fell, all violence in him changing into simple grief. “Leave here,” he pleaded softly. “Return to your home. Let you yourself be the one who delivers the message to Geraint and Gareth.”

Laurel could barely breathe. Her hands knotted in her skirts. She wanted to run, to flee Camelot altogether, just because he spoke. She wanted with a terrible force to abandon Agravain, and the whole of this suddenly cursed place and go home.

She swallowed hard. “Master Merlin,” she croaked. “Master Merlin, please, tell me what you know.”

To her horror, a laugh bubbled out from Merlin's throat. Shaking as if fever gripped him, the sorcerer threw back his head, howling with horrifying mirth.

“What I know? Ah, lady ask anything but that! Anything at all!” Tears streamed down his face and the laughter dissolved becoming a hiccoughing sob.

“What is this, Master?” Laurel dropped to her knees beside him. “If there is anything I can do, tell me, only speak plainly!”

“Speak, speak, speak! When will I be bid to keep silent!” Merlin wagged his head, his face flushed, his eyes fevered. “I destroyed everything here, the charts, the oracles, so I could give no more answers.”

You did this, Master? Oh, God and Mary no …

“Even as I did it, I knew it wouldn't be enough. I meant to kill myself,” he whispered. “I stood there in the sea. I could have thrown myself down, drowned in the waters. Could have … could have done any of a thousand things. Except …” He turned the staff in his hands, gripping it until his knuckles turned as white as the wood. “Except I could not. It would have changed nothing. All still would have unfolded, the only difference would be that I was spared having to watch, and I found … I found I had just that much honour left.”

Laurel gripped his arm. This time he did not shake her off. She doubted he had the strength. “Master Merlin, if my presence will bring harm to Agravain, to this war he must wage, then tell me. I will leave, at once. I swear it.”

Merlin's mouth moved. He chewed at his own lips, bringing blood. Laurel's mouth spasmed with pain in sympathy.
He's mad, he's mad
, whispered a voice in her head. But he was not mad, and she knew it. He had just seen too much.

At last, Merlin leaned forward, his face alight in a dreadful parody of a child who is about to tell a secret. “Do you know what it is to be a prophet, Laurel?”

“No.”

“It is to give up your freedom to do what is most human.” He smiled broadly, delighted. “I cannot lie. I cannot even keep silent. I made myself a vessel years ago, when I thought … when I thought I could hold enough knowledge to shape the world.” His voice grew hoarse, and the levity bled away from them, bringing the weight of all his long years crashing down like a stone. “The oldest sin,” he whispered. “The sin of Adam himself. And for it, I pay, and pay, and those better and stronger and greater than I am pay with me.”

She could not speak. All her words had turned to sand in her throat.

“Will your presence bring harm to Agravain?” He grinned, showing her his teeth, gone grey with age. “Oh no. It is you who save him. You who wins his war.”

Then why do you wish me gone? “How?”

“You bring him the thing Guinevere brought to Arthur.” He leered at her. “The thing most precious but least regarded. Riddle that, Laurel Carnbrea!” he cried triumphantly.

“Master.” Laurel took his hand. It was hot and light and dry. Instantly, she remembered her mother on her death bed, and the child inside Laurel struggled not to cry. “Master, why didn't you kill her? Why did you let Morgaine live?”

Merlin's face twisted and contorted. He tried to hold back his flood of feeling and failed. The ancient sorcerer bowed his head as weakly as any old man, and wept. Laurel sat back on her heels, stunned for a moment. Then, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held him while he sobbed for the loss that tore at his soul.

“I could not … I could not kille …”

The light was blotted away. Rough hands grabbed Laurel's shoulders, jerking her backwards, spinning her around.

When her sight cleared, Laurel found herself face to face with Sir Gawain.

“What are you doing here?” Gawain demanded, his face flushed red. “What have you done!”

Behind them, Merlin had not ceased to weep. It was as if he could not stop.

“I have done nothing, Sir Gawain,” said Laurel carefully. “I only sent to find if the master would speak with me. When I was told his house had been broken, I came to see.”

“It was not your place!” His grip tightened on her shoulder, his blunt fingers digging into her flesh. “You should have sent for me!”

“Perhaps I should,” replied Laurel, struggling to keep her voice even. “I did not think of it.”

“Gawain, take your hands from my wife.”

Agravain stood behind them in the courtyard. The crowd of witnesses gathered around the door had trebled in size. The courteous, civilized folk of Camelot had all grown dark and staring. All their watching eyes tallied the ruin they saw, their minds running far ahead of what was known, straight into the worst conclusions they could imagine.

If Agravain was aware of all the people at his back, he gave no sign. He was looking at his brother. He stood easily, his feet apart, his arms at his side. He wore no sword, but that did not seem to matter.

Laurel felt a cold bead of perspiration trickle down her cheek as she saw Agravain so ready to work cold violence upon his brother for her sake. Agravain and Gawain stared at each other for a long moment, the air thrumming with tension between them. All the crowd at Agravain's back silently, urgently wished for something to happen, and the only sound was Merlin's wordless lament.

Gawain let her go.

Laurel's arm hurt where Gawain had gripped her, but she did not rub it, or give any other sign. As calmly as she was able, she walked across the yard to stand beside her husband. Agravain laid held out his hand, the meaning of the gesture plain, although he did not let his attention flicker from Gawain. Laurel took Agravain's hand and let herself be drawn to his side.

“You are still kin and guest, Agravain,” said Gawain. “I would not break the king's courtesy and quarrel with you in his house.”

“No, you would not,” answered Agravain flatly. “And it is as well.”

Agravain turned away from Gawain, turning Laurel with him. It required all her force of will not to look back at Gawain and Merlin, but to instead face the storm darkness of the gathered crowd. She thought Agravain would walk around them, but he did not. Instead he met their collected gaze with his own, these people he had known for much of his life but who now saw him as an enemy. Knowing he was right, and in his rights, he stood and waited in absolute silence, daring them to act.

In the face of this, they backed away, falling apart into a dozen smaller knots. Saying nothing, Agravain unhurriedly walked her between them. It was a dreadful parody of their wedding march and Laurel's shoulders twitched and trembled from the force of their stares. She bit her tongue so that the pain would help focus her mind on the way ahead and keep it from straying to all the varied wrongs they left behind.

Agravain kept to his deliberate pace, so it took a long time to cross the yard and travel the corridors, but at long last, he walked her into his chamber, rather than hers, and shut the door. Only then did he let go of her hand and step away so he could look at her better.

“What,” he said, folding his arms, “was that?”

He would not criticize her in front of others, but his tone and stance made it equally plain he assumed she had just done something foolish in the extreme.

And should I explain myself to you?
Laurel thought with a kind of numb anger. She wanted to sit down. She wanted something to drink.
God Almighty, where is Meg? Where is anyone?

Agravain's jaw shifted, and his mistrust slipped. He pushed the chair beside his desk forward and held out his hand once more. She took it gratefully and let him sit her down. He brought a long-necked jar down from a shelf and poured some of its contents into a cup, which he handed to her. Laurel smelled brandywine and sipped sparingly. The warmth traced its way through her blood, calming and clearing her thoughts.

Agravain nodded, apparently satisfied. “Of your courtesy, my lady,” he said, setting the ewer down. “Tell me what brought you to the state I found you in?”

It was not a patient request, but it was an attempt at courtesy and understanding, and she accepted it as it was meant. Stopping every so often to sip more of the strengthening brandywine, she told him how Meg had come rushing into her, and how she had gone down to Merlin's house. Though the words came to her slowly and with difficulty, she told him all that Merlin had said to her. These were not matters she would have willingly discussed with anyone, but she knew full well she could only do damage by being less than honest with Agravain at this moment.

At last she was done with both words and wine. Agravain watched her in silence for a moment, arms folded, slowly digesting all she had said.

When he did speak, his question surprised her. “Could he have taken you away? To … to the sea?”

“I don't know,” she admitted. She had not had time to think about it. No, that was not true she had not wanted to think about it. Merlin, Arthur's cunning man, Arthur's astrologer and sage adviser, had gone to the sea, to petition her immortal kindred to take her away. Away from the land, away from her life.

Away from Agravain. He had said she was to win Agravian's victory, and he still wanted her dead or gone. How could that be?

Her hand trembled. She stilled it. “Most likely not. I am not … I was born of earth, as others are. It is not enchantment holds me here.”