The End of Magic (9 page)

Bedivere snorted. “That’s a tale I’ve heard before. They say ‘you can’t miss it,’ and next thing you know you’re up to your
nose in some bog.”

“Thank her for her help,” Arthur said, ignoring the Welsh knight. Bradamante spoke to the old woman again, and gave her a
few coins for her trouble. She returned the way she had come, and in a few moments the knights from Camelot were alone.

“This is a fool’s errand,” Kay said roundly. “We are all good Christian men. What cause can we have to resort to a Pagan sorceress?”

“It was a wizard who helped me to the throne of Britain,” Arthur reminded his foster brother, “and gave both of us our lessons
as boys. Merlin taught me not to be too proud to accept help from any source. If this prophetess can help me to find the Grail,
then it ill behooves any of us to despise her aid.”

After that they proceeded in silence along the path, as the night darkened further and the moon rose, until at last they could
hear the sound of running water up ahead. Soon thereafter they reached their goal.

The water issued in a thin stream from the mouth of a grinning gargoyle face carved high above into the rock face, then fell
a dozen feet into a basin cut into the rock below. The edge of the basin was strewn with the offerings of the countryfolk:
flowers, and honeycakes wrapped in paper, and small dolls twisted out of harvest grasses. These things belonged to the Old
Ways, and Arthur automatically crossed himself, lest any of the forces summoned here wish to do him harm.

“You have no reason to fear, Arthur of Britain,” a voice said. It was a quiet voice, but it seemed to come from everywhere
at once. Arthur grabbed for his sword, then forced himself to relax as a woman in a long hooded cloak stepped out of the rocks.
There was a flurry as the knights with him drew their swords, but she did not move.

“Will you drink with me?” she asked. By her voice she could have been almost any age. He could not tell; her face was in shadow.

In her hands she held a silver cup. For a moment Arthur thought it might be the Grail, but it did not shine with the Grail’s
holy light. She stooped and dipped it into the spring, then held it out to him. Long silver bracelets in the shape of snakes
coiled around her forearms, gleaming in the moonlight.

“Who are you?” Arthur asked, taking the cup, gingerly. He had not drawn Excalibur.

“I am the Memory of this place. I see that which has been, and that which is yet to be.”

“Show yourself,” Arthur demanded.

She threw back the hood of her cloak. To Arthur’s surprise, she was quite young. He had expected the Pagan priestess to be
as old as the laundress who had directed them here. Upon her forehead was bound a small silver crescent moon, but without
it, she could have been any woman. Even her clothes were ordinary.

Once again, she gestured toward the cup he held. Arthur raised it to his lips. The water was sweet and pure, and as cold as
the moonlight itself. He drank it all, and handed the cup back to her.

“Why do you come to me, King of Britain? My powers are weak. They wane as the Moon does, not to grow strong again for many
generations, while the New Religion shines as bright and steady as the summer sun.”

“I come seeking answers,” Arthur said. “The people say you know the answers to all questions. For many years I have searched
for the Holy Grail. I believed it was my duty to restore it to Britain. But now I wonder: was I wrong? Is that why I cannot
find it? Please tell me.”

The Priestess of the Spring of Memory smiled, and her pale face was as lovely as the full moon. “You grow wise with the years,
King Arthur. It is a good question, and so I will give you the answer. The Grail was never yours to find. That task is for
another to accomplish.”

“Then all this has been in vain?” Arthur asked.

The priestess shook her head, smiling gently.

“No honorable action is in vain, King of Britain. Much good will come of what you have done, though you will not live to see
it. But go now, for you have been absent from your own place for far too long. It is time for you to return home.”

“Wait!” Arthur said. “How can I—?”

But he was speaking only to the moonlight. The woman was gone. She had vanished before his eyes.

“So that’s it?” Kay said, in a tone of mingled relief and disappointment.

“I guess we can all turn around and go home now,” Bedivere said, to no one in particular.

“Do you believe her?” Gawain asked his friend.

Arthur sighed wearily. “I think she told me no more than what was in my own thoughts, but perhaps it is still true all the
same. Perhaps I have been too proud in thinking I was meant to restore the Grail to Britain. If I were meant to find it, surely
God would have sent me some sign by now.” He paused for a long time, staring down into the spring whose waters sparkled in
the moonlight. “I think it is time to go home.”

It had been a month since Lancelot had left Camelot. More and more of the running of the kingdom fell to Merlin, Sir Hector,
and Sir Bors, for the Queen, inconsolable with grief at the loss of Lancelot, kept to her own rooms. And for the first time
in a very long time, Merlin was unsure of what to do. He must remain at Camelot until Arthur returned, for there was no one
else who could face the threat that Mordred presented to Arthur’s throne, but that was the only certainty. At the moment he
was attempting to write a letter to Arthur, and having little success. He could not think of what to say. If only he knew
when Arthur was coming home!

With Lancelot gone, perhaps a new champion was needed for Camelot. But who could Merlin choose? Arthur had taken the best
of the younger knights with him, and the rest of the able men of Britain were occupied with the running of the kingdom. Even
if he had the authority to appoint someone, Merlin could not think which of them could be spared to this task.

Further, though the older generation accepted Merlin and his wizardry, those who followed the New Religion—mostly those born
during Uther’s reign—wanted nothing to do with the Old Ways. They did not welcome Merlin’s interference in the business of
government. Though Merlin accepted this philosophically—it was what he had planned toward, hoped for, from the moment he had
first had the vision of what Arthur’s birth would mean to Britain—there was no denying it was highly in convenient.

Not for the first time, he wondered if it was time to leave Camelot. Perhaps his fears regarding Mordred were groundless.
Merlin had always meant to go home to his beloved forest when Mab’s power was destroyed and Arthur no longer needed him, to
live there quietly with Nimue. Perhaps now was the time. If Mordred meant to strike, wouldn’t he have done it years ago?

For the first time in many months, Merlin allowed his thoughts to dwell upon the woman he loved. Just as Lancelot and Guinevere
had, he and Nimue had been caught between love and duty. Lancelot and Guinevere had chosen love. Merlin had chosen duty.

And Nimue…?

She had always urged him to be the best he could be, to set aside personal desires in the name of his higher calling. She
had always been staunch in her belief that Arthur and the good of Britain must take precedence over their own desires. Merlin
believed that in her little world of Avalon, Nimue worked as hard for Britain as Merlin did in Camelot, knowing as Merlin
did that someday their labors would end and they could be together.

Was now the time?

Merlin hesitated, and sadly shook his head. It was his eager heart that tempted him, as always. Until Arthur returned to Britain,
Merlin’s task was not complete. The threat that Mordred presented could not be dismissed through wishful thinking.

He heard a faint scrabbling sound and turned toward the door. Opening it, he surprised Llewellyn, a young page sent to Camelot
to learn the ways of chivalry here. Llewellyn’s people, the Prydain, still followed the Old Ways, and Llewellyn had been fascinated
by Merlin, attaching himself to the wizard as his unofficial servant.

“M’lord!” Llewellyn gasped, sprawling backward.

Repressing a smile, Merlin said sternly: “Up to mischief again, young sir?”

“Oh, no, m’lord!” the young page said virtuously. “There’s a message—a message has come from the King!”

Guinevere and her senior advisers were gathered in the throne room when Merlin arrived.

Her sorrow had not aged the Queen, for Guinevere still looked as lovely as she had on the day she married Arthur, but it had
purified her, the loss of Lancelot hardening her as the sword blade is hardened upon the smith’s anvil.

“Merlin,” she said in an expressionless voice, “how kind of you to join us. A letter has come from the King.”

She held the scroll out to him, though her eyes did not meet his. It was the usual form in which messages that must travel
far were sent; a long sheet of paper wrapped tightly around a bronze spindle and inserted in a waxed leather case that could
be tightly sealed against water damage. Merlin took the scroll carefully. The vellum crackled in his hands; Guinevere had
already unrolled the letter to read it.

“To my Queen and my dear friends—many adventures have befallen me since last I wrote. I have been to Rome, and seen many wonders
there, as well as things which cause me great concern, but all of these would take too long to tell, and I must have this
missive in the hands of the courier before he departs. Suffice it to say that though my search for the Grail has enjoyed no
more success than before, I have been persuaded that I may neglect my kingdom and my people no longer, and—”

“He is coming home,” Guinevere said, before Merlin could finish reading.

“He says that Kay and Gawain are well,” Sir Hector added. He looked troubled, for he loved both Arthur and Guinevere, and
her adultery had divided his loyalties painfully.

“He may arrive as soon as the spring,” Sir Bors said. “The winter snows will delay him in crossing the Alps—you may take that
from an old campaigner—but he’s a resourceful lad.”

“A lad no longer,” Merlin said. Arthur must be nearly thirty—a far cry from the boy-king Merlin had set on the throne.

“I have called you here to share this news in order to discourage the spread of rumor,” Guinevere said, firmly taking control
of the meeting. “If rumors of Arthur’s return begin to appear, I wish you to be able to confirm them, but until they do, I
do not wish the news widely disseminated. As Merlin has often reminded me, Camelot is not without enemies.”

And they might well choose a moment such as this, when the people were distracted by the joyful news of Arthur’s return, to
strike.

There was a murmur of assent from the gathered nobles—the half-dozen men who had seen Uther to his throne and been the first
to support his son—and the Queen dismissed them with a gesture. Merlin turned to go as well.

“Stay, Merlin.”

He waited until they all had gone, and the attendants had closed the doors of the Great Hall once more. As he waited, he studied
the Queen closely. She had changed so much in the past years. He wondered how Arthur had changed as well.

“My lady?” Merlin said courteously.

“What will you do once Arthur returns?” Guinevere asked him.

“I suppose I shall retire from court and tend to business of my own,” Merlin said. “He will have no need of me, and neither
will you.”

“That is a good answer,” Guinevere said. Perhaps she thought that sounded a little harsh, for she leaned toward him, and when
she spoke again there was real warmth in her voice. “You have spent so much time making Arthur king, following his dreams.
Do you not have any dreams of your own, Merlin?”

“My dreams are the same as Arthur’s, my lady: of peace and plenty for all. But I have never wished to govern. I will be just
as glad to return to my forest, and conclude my days in peace and quiet.”

“Peace,” Guinevere said sadly. “I do not think that is a thing that any of us can be certain of.”

When he left the Queen’s presence, Merlin returned to his tower room and his interrupted letter, though this time it was to
have a different recipient. For the first time in many years Merlin wrote to Nimue at Avalon, to tell her the glad news that
the King was returning, and that soon the king’s wizard would be free at last, his duties ended. He wrote the message in tiny
even letters on a fine scroll of thin parchment, and when he was done he went to the window and whistled. The pigeons that
circled the tower cooed and fluttered, and at last one came spiraling down to land upon the sill.

“There you are, Peregrin,” Merlin said. He picked up the small grey bird and tied the message carefully to its leg. “Now go
and find Nimue. You can reach Avalon by nightfall if you hurry.”

Leaning far out the window, he tossed the pigeon into the air. It spread its wings wide, spiraling down toward the cobblestones
for a few seconds, then began to flap wildly until it was soaring westward, toward Avalon.

Merlin watched it go, feeling truly content for the first time in years. Soon Arthur would return, and the years of fear and
worry would be at an end.

Soon.

Unblinking black eyes watched the small grey form as it flew toward its destination. Soon it had left the towns and villages
surrounding Camelot behind, and once it had, the raven struck, arrowing down through the air to bury its cruel talons deep
in the pigeon’s feathery back. The two forms fell through the sky like a thunderbolt cast to earth, to strike with a dull
thud.

Queen Mab got to her feet, brushing feathers from her hands. The wind whipped her black hair away from her face, causing the
crystals braided into it to chime softly.

Sometimes there was a certain satisfaction to doing things yourself. And with Frik spending all of his time mooning over Morgan
these days, Mab was thrown more and more on her own resources.

Still, it wouldn’t do to upset Morgan just yet. Not while Mab still needed her.

She stooped again and picked up the dead pigeon. Mab plucked the scroll from its leg and tossed the dead bird over her shoulder,
wincing slightly as she did so. The shapechanging had taken a great deal out of her; she was less powerful than she once had
been. But this time of weakness would end once Mordred came into his power. This time, at last, she had found a champion who
would truly be loyal unto death.