The End of Magic (17 page)

Arthur did not bow his head. He was too kingly for that. He got slowly to his feet and stared steadily into Mordred’s eyes
as he spoke. “Guinevere will be tried for treason,” he said in a low voice.

A murmuring filled the room as every man there spoke at once—approving, denying, who could say? Rising above the voices was
the sound of Mordred’s slow mocking applause, as though Arthur’s agony had been a performance staged for him alone.

“A splendid decision, both fair and just, eh, Father?” Mordred said delightedly. He seated himself contentedly at the Round
Table, as though he had a right to be there. “Now, let’s drink and enjoy ourselves.” Behind him, his cronies laughed and agreed,
pleasure on their vulpine faces.

“I want you out of Camelot!” Arthur shouted, loathing filling his voice. He began to walk around the perimeter of the Round
Table, toward Mordred and the door.

“But Father, I only just arrived,” Mordred said innocently. “I thought we’d reminisce about old times and play happy families.”

“Stop him talking!” Arthur pleaded, goaded halfway to madness by Mordred’s spiteful self-absorption. The boy prattled on as
if he did not know what harm he had caused—or worse, knew and did not care.

“You can’t mean that, Father,” Mordred said as Arthur approached him. “I’m your devoted son, the crown prince, your one and
only heir.” His face still wore that maddening half-smile.

The greatest horror of it all was that everything that Mordred said was true, Merlin realized. He
was
Arthur’s heir, the crown prince. But if all he had wanted was recognition, he would never have staged his entry into Camelot
in this fashion, forcing a public trial of the Queen that would leave a war in its wake. Mordred’s every action was a lie.
He hadn’t come to gain his rightful place but to destroy the kingdom—and Arthur—completely.

“Get out of my sight,” Arthur spat, leaning over Mordred.

“Embrace me, Father,” Mordred said, rising to his feet. There was a curious note of warning in his voice as he confronted
his father, their faces only inches apart.

“Never!”

“Or I’ll take what is rightfully mine.”

“Guards! Seize him!” Arthur shouted, turning away as if even the sight of Mordred was intolerable.

The black-mailed guards moved forward to carry out Arthur’s command, but Mordred shoved them back with enough unnatural strength
to send the men flying across the room.

“Please don’t get up. I know my way out,” he said blandly.

Holding his hands fastidiously away from himself—as though he had just performed some distasteful task—Mordred walked toward
the doorway and ascended the three steps. Then he stopped, turning to face Arthur one last time.

“I’m sorry, Father, but I’m going to destroy you,” he said, and his voice was still bloodlessly polite. It gathered venom
with his next words. “And this time your pet wizard won’t save you.”

Mordred turned away again and walked out. And as he went, two-thirds of the knights who had filled the room followed him.

The Queen was sitting at her window, a length of embroidery in her lap. The last light of day framed the window in silver.
Someone should have come to light the candles, but none of the servants had dared to enter with the guards on the door, and
so Guinevere sat alone in the dark.

She must be told, and Arthur could not bear to face her. Rather than leave the task of bearing these ill tidings to someone
else, Merlin had come himself.

Guinevere looked up as he came in. In the evening light, her face was expressionless.

“You are to be tried for treason,” Merlin said, his voice gentle.

“Mordred,” Guinevere said, as if that name explained everything. Sorrow had touched both her and Arthur with royalty, and
she had never looked more queenly than in this moment. She turned away from the window and stood. “Arthur’s son. Was that
your doing, Merlin?”

“Not mine,” Merlin said, “but that of my great enemy, Queen Mab of the Old Ways. Mordred is the tool with which she means
to destroy us.”

“Arthur, and Camelot, and me—and you,” the Queen said dispassionately. “But I will go first, I think, burned at the stake
as if I were a heretic, when my only sin was to love a worthy man. When is the trial?”

“Tomorrow,” Merlin said reluctantly. “I’m afraid it won’t take very long.”

Guinevere said nothing.

“If there’s anything I can do—” Merlin began.

“You!” the Queen said in sudden fury. “When did you ever do anything for any of us that didn’t end in disaster, Merlin? It
was you who made an enemy of Queen Mab—you who let Mordred live to grow up—you who encouraged Arthur to go on this senseless
quest—you who brought Lancelot to Camelot.…”

For a moment her grief almost overcame her, and she swayed and nearly fell, but then she regained her formidable self-control
and glared at him icily. “If you want to do something for me, Wizard, then free me from this prison so I can go in search
of Lancelot! I won’t die for your and Arthur’s sins.”

Merlin hung his head. “I cannot do that, my lady.”

“Then leave me.” Guinevere’s voice was hard. “And when I die, my blood will be on your hands—and Arthur’s.”

Merlin walked slowly away from the Queen’s chambers. There was just enough truth to Guinevere’s accusations, though hurled
in the heat of thoughtless anger, to make Merlin writhe inwardly. His war had been with Mab, and he had drawn Arthur into
it thoughtlessly.

But to make him a tool of the Light!
Merlin argued.
I wanted Arthur to be a force for good!

But it was the goodness in Arthur that was destroying him now.

And what of Mordred? How could everything have gone so wrong so dreadfully fast? It was as if Mordred were a lighted match
that had found ready tinder. Merlin should have done something the moment he knew the child had been born—but what? Mordred
had only been an innocent baby then. Wouldn’t destroying him have made Merlin as evil as Mab? And what else could Merlin have
done?

He pressed his hands to the sides of his head as though he could silence the accusing voices that way. What could he have
done differently? What could he have changed? All the choices he had made had led him to this end. It was Mab’s greatest trap,
and Merlin could see no way out.

He wandered through the secret passages of Camelot for hours, wrestling with his thoughts, and at last he reached a decision.

I am not guiltless in all of this. Guinevere was right: if I had not brought Lancelot here, none of this would have happened.
The fault is mine, and so if I meddle now, I can hardly complain of a little more guilt…

Slowly he ascended the twelve-dozen steps to the top of his tower and went inside. He closed and barred the door behind him,
and with a gesture set the candles and braziers alight.

Fire, you once told me, is the simplest magic. Where are you now, I wonder, Master Frik?
Though Frik had been Mab’s creature, Merlin did not think that even he would have countenanced what Mordred had become.

With a savage gesture, Merlin swept a pile of books and papers from the surface of his worktable. They were plans for some
additions to Camelot, but they didn’t matter now. There was no future left for Arthur’s dream unless Mordred could be stopped.

Working quickly, Merlin set a mirror, a candle, and a bowl of water upon the table. He wrote quickly on a small scroll of
parchment, and tied the scroll to an eagle feather he found in a box. He hefted the bundle in his hand. Too light. After a
short search, he added a large gold ring. It had the king’s symbol, the Red Dragon, inlaid upon it in scarlet enamel. Arthur
had given the ring to him a long time ago as a mark of royal favor. Now it would serve another man equally well.

Merlin tied the ring to the feather and the scroll and set them beside the bowl of water. Then he turned to the mirror.

Merlin did not really like magic, but over the years he’d become very good at it. This mirror was formed of a solid piece
of glass that had come from a place where a star had fallen to earth. The glass was a dark opaque green, smooth as water,
and had been shaped into a slightly concave bowl about eight inches across. When it had come into Merlin’s possession, he
had set it into a frame of blackthorn wood inlaid with silver knotwork around the edge. Just as the knot formed a tangled
line impossible to unravel, so did human lives twine and coil together, until it was impossible to disentangle one person’s
destiny from the next’s.

He picked up the mirror. The candle flame was reflected in it, distorted into streaky shapes by the curve of the glass.

Lancelot,
Merlin commanded silently.
Appear to me, in the name of the Powers which spin out the destinies of Men. Be you in the Land of Men, the Land of Death,
or the Land of Magic, appear to me now!

Slowly, faint colored shadows gathered in the bottom of the glass. As they collected, they formed vague shapes, and suddenly
Merlin saw Lancelot. The best knight in the world was camped by the side of the road, staring into the flames of a small fire.
Black Bayard cropped grass placidly nearby, and Lancelot was roasting a rabbit on the point of his sword. Everything about
Lancelot’s actions spoke of a time of long and pointless wandering, without purpose or goal.

Mab’s magic must have touched him as well, for I think he would have gone home to Joyous Gard to be with Galahad if he had
found it possible. And now I shall meddle in his life once more, but with Elaine dead, there is no one left to hurt.…

Summoning up his magic, Merlin picked up the small bundle he had made and dropped it into the bowl of water. It did not strike
the bottom, but vanished out of sight as if Merlin had dropped it into a deep hole. A moment later, he saw Lancelot start,
as though someone had thrown something at him, and then the vision in the magic mirror vanished.

Merlin sighed, straightening up, and blew out the candle. He had done as much as he could to repair some of his errors—it
was little enough, and it might come to nothing at all, but a man must try.

Perhaps it is the fact that we try that is the important thing, and not whether we succeed or fail. I wish I knew for certain,
but in the matter of the meaning of life I am as blind as any mortal.

He was weary—Magic always took a great deal out of him—and it was time to seek his bed. Today should have been a day of rejoicing
at Arthur’s safe return. Instead it had been a day of tragedy and sorrow, and tomorrow would bring fresh troubles of its own.
Mordred had prudently disappeared after Arthur had tried to have him arrested, but Merlin was certain the boy was still around,
waiting for the appropriate moment to continue his destructive agenda.

But as Merlin walked in the direction of his little hut at the edge of the village, he passed by the room that held the Round
Table, and saw pale light streaming out through the open doors. As Merlin looked in, he saw Arthur sitting alone beneath the
light of the burning candles. The remains of a hasty supper of bread and cheese lay untouched at his elbow, and Arthur was
still in the worn and threadbare riding clothes he had returned to Camelot wearing. His hair was still dusty from the road.

He looked up as Merlin’s shadow fell across the Round Table.

“Did you tell her?” he asked.

Merlin nodded.

“And?”

“She wasn’t pleased,” Merlin said mildly. “But she blames Mordred, not you.”
And she blames me, but there’s no need to burden you with that as well.

Arthur fell silent for a long moment, staring down at the honored names painted around the rim of the Round Table.

“I can’t let this happen,” Arthur said, as if his words continued some other conversation that the two of them had been having.
“They’ll burn her at the stake.”

Merlin came around the table and put a comforting hand on Arthur’s shoulder. Beneath the scale armor that he wore, Arthur
was so thin, worn down with cares and privation. He had wanted the Holy Grail so much.…

And sometimes we do not get what we want most,
Merlin thought, thinking of Nimue.
Sometimes, desire must be enough.

“It’s the only way to save the kingdom,” Merlin said.

But before the Queen was executed, there would have to be a trial, and perhaps there Arthur could find some way to sway his
nobles—appeal to their sense of mercy, and make them agree to spare the Queen’s life. He did not tell Arthur that he had sent
for Lancelot. Lancelot might not arrive in time. Merlin did not wish to add the heavy burden of hope to Arthur’s shoulders.

Arthur sighed heavily. “How many of my knights will side with Mordred?”

“About half, I think,” Merlin answered.

“That many? Why?” Arthur asked, honestly surprised.

Because you left them,
Merlin thought simply. But even if it was the truth—or
a
truth—he couldn’t bring himself to be so cruel. Still, Arthur deserved an answer.

“When they found out you had a child by Morgan le Fay, some of them felt they’d been betrayed. Others have gone over because
they want to be on the winning side.”
And because Mordred can make them believe anything he says, at least for a while. And that’s long enough.

Arthur sighed. “You taught me everything about how to be fair, and good, and just. But you could not teach me to be King.
I did not realize how hard it would be, Merlin. A King must be so much more than a man.”

“I know, Sire,” Merlin said gently. “Go to bed, Arthur. Tomorrow will be a wicked day.”

And in the morning the comet rose in the western sky as the sun rose in the east, brighter and more baleful than ever before.

T
he Queen’s trial was brief. There was only one question to be answered: had Lancelot and Guinevere been lovers?

Guinevere took the stand in all her finery, the crown glittering upon her head and her fingers covered with rings. She wore
a long golden brocade supertunica over a dress of scarlet samite, and her hair was coiled and braided with pearls. She looked
every inch a Queen.