The End of Magic (15 page)

“I want what everyone wants. My rights. I’m Arthur’s heir—and at the rate he’s going, I’ll have precious little competition
in that line. In fact, I’d go so far as to say I’m your only hope for a Crown Prince for this dreary little backwater. So
why don’t we just…”

He put a conspiratorial hand on her arm. Furious, Guinevere shook him off and stepped back.

“Monster! I’ll see you burn first,” Guinevere flared. “Guards!” she shouted.

“I wouldn’t say that if I were you,” Mordred said. “These things have a terrible way of recoiling against the speaker, Your
Highness.”

The guards finally appeared, four men wearing the white-and-gold livery of Camelot. They stared from the Queen to the well-dressed
young man in bafflement, unable to understand why they had been called.

“Put him in the dungeon,” Guinevere said, pointing at Mordred.

“Oh, I don’t think they’ll do anything like that,” Mordred said lightly. “After all, I’m an honored guest here at Camelot.
Prince Mordred, son of Marie of the Border Celts and Good King Arthur. And you were about to tell them to escort me to your
finest accommodation and treat me with all honor. Weren’t you, Your Highness?”

He smiled at her with heartless brilliance. The Old Magic vibrated on the air. All at once Guinevere felt confused, feverish.
She looked at Mordred, then at the guards, and smiled uncertainly. Was that what she’d been about to say? She couldn’t remember.
She looked back at Mordred, who smiled encouragingly at her.

“Yes, that’s right,” Guinevere said slowly. “Escort him to our finest accommodations. Treat him with all honor.”

She watched, numbly, as the guards led Prince Mordred from the chapel, feeling so ill and dizzy that she knelt on the cold
stone floor again, leaning forward to press her face against the cold slate flags.

After several minutes, her thoughts cleared, and she remembered the truth. Mordred had bewitched her!

She got to her feet, her heart hammering with alarm. Where had he gone, and what was he doing?

And why had he come? Guinevere ran from the chapel, fearful of what she might find, but everything seemed normal at first.
The castle’s inhabitants were going about their daily business, the servants and the young pages walking briskly toward their
destinations in a purposeful fashion. Her guards were back at their posts, just as they ought to be.

There was no sign of Mordred.

Perhaps it is I who have gone mad.
Perhaps there was no Mordred. Perhaps he was only a fantasy her mind had produced, a sin of Arthur’s to equal and even surpass
her own. Incest was a far darker sin than adultery, and if there had truly been a child…

But if Mordred is real, why is he sneaking around Camelot like this? And where is he?

Then she heard a burst of laughter from the door to the chamber that held the Round Table. No one had been in there except
to clean it since Arthur had taken most of the Knights of the Round Table away with him on his quest.

She peered through the half-open doors. Though it had been deserted the past several years, the room was full now. Torches
lined the walls, and servants moved to and fro with tankards of ale. Though the table had no head or foot, each knight’s name
marked his place, and Mordred sat now in Arthur’s seat, the Siege Perilous, surrounded by a group of the younger knights.

He was speaking earnestly to them, too low for Guinevere to hear him, using the same hellish power of suggestion that had
beguiled her in the chapel. When Mordred spoke, Guinevere knew, his hearers would believe anything he told them, no matter
how outlandish… including that a man only a few years younger than the King himself could be Arthur’s trueborn son.

Madness that it was, Guinevere no longer doubted that it was the truth. All she knew of Morgan le Fay was that she was the
daughter of the Duke of Cornwall and the Duchess who had been Arthur’s ill-starred mother, but her name suggested that she
was in league with dark forces. Morgan’s son was undoubtedly the product of the same Pagan magic Morgan worshiped, here to
destroy the peace and prosperity Britain had found under Arthur’s reign.

Suddenly Mordred broke off what he was saying and got to his feet.

“Is someone there?” he called, staring toward the doorway.

Guinevere shuddered at the sound of his voice, and shrank back. When he resumed speaking, she hurried away before he caught
her there listening to him. She did not know what it was that he meant to do here in Camelot, but she knew he must be stopped.
Somehow.

Merlin had gone off on one of his mysterious errands, so even if she could bring herself to call upon him, he was not here.
But Sir Hector and the rest of the royal council were. She must summon them at once and tell them all that she knew and suspected
about Mordred. Perhaps they could think of some way to imprison him until Arthur returned, though how one could imprison a
man who could convince anyone of anything Guinevere did not know. There must be some way to stop him.

Frightened and confused, Guinevere prayed for a miracle.

They had landed at Dover the day before, but Arthur had not sent word ahead to Camelot of his arrival. If the people knew
they were coming, there would be holidays and celebrations, and in his heart, Arthur did not feel he deserved them. He had
failed on his quest, after all. The Grail was still lost.

But Britain was just as he had remembered it, lush and verdant, heartbreakingly lovely, and he knew, seeing it, that he had
made the right choice in coming home. He could not understand, seeing it with the fresh eyes of long exile, how he had ever
been able to bring himself to leave it, and vowed he would never leave it again.

Only now that they were home could he bring himself to admit how battered and weary his surviving companions were. Seven long
years of adventures had taken their toll. Even the horses they rode were thin and jaded, their coats dull and their gaits
shambling. The once-bright banners that they had carried through the gates of Camelot with such high hopes were faded and
tattered, as were the ideals of the men who bore them. The bright dreams Arthur had cherished as a young man were gone, lost
somewhere in all the long years of wandering.

But now, at last, he was home.

“Camelot…” he whispered, gazing down at the city on the shore of the lake. It was evening, and the setting sun touched the
walls and the rooftops with gold. “It’s built. Lancelot kept his word.”

A stubborn spark of pride swelled within his heart. No matter what else he had failed at, Camelot was real. His golden city
of peace and charity had been built. Tears of thanksgiving rose in Arthur’s eyes.

“We have to ride in with banners held high, Sire,” Gawain said, beside him. Loyal Gawain! The first to follow him, always
there, faithful and uncomplaining.

“You’re right, Gawain,” Arthur said. “Lift up your banners and your hearts, men!” he shouted. “We’re home!”

Joy and thanksgiving kindled a last spark of energy among the weary company, and the knights rallied, sitting straighter in
their saddles and raising their pennons to jaunty angles. Even the horses caught some of their masters’ eagerness, and pranced
like young colts as the small band rode forward, down through the gates of Camelot.

Guinevere had summoned the Royal Council to the throne room to tell them about Mordred, but at once things had begun to go
wrong. Merlin would have understood better than any of them, but he was nowhere to be found, and before she could explain
to the others about Mordred, a party of the younger knights forced their way in to the Great Hall, demanding an audience with
the Queen. Members of the Queen’s Bodyguard followed them.

“What is it that you want?” Guinevere demanded coldly. She recognized only a few of them—Sir Hoel, Lord Caradoc, Lord Melegraunce—but
those she recognized had been troublemakers even before Arthur left, and in his absence had constantly challenged her authority.
She thought they were some of the men who had been gathered with Mordred around the Round Table.

“We want you to step down. Your Highness. You’re unfit to rule,” Sir Hoel said.

Guinevere stared at him coldly and did not reply.

“Gentlemen,” Sir Hector said, “Let’s be reasonable.”

“When did
she
ever listen to reason?” Lord Melegraunce demanded, gesturing at Guinevere as she sat upon the canopied throne. “We’re tired
of a frivolous Queen and an absentee King. You say Arthur is coming back, but when? Where is he? We want someone fit to rule
us seated on the throne of Britain—”

“In that case, I’ll crown my donkey,” Guinevere said tartly, “because you’re a jackass, Lord Melegraunce, and you always have
been!”

“Better a jackass than a trollop,” someone called from the back of the angry crowd.

There was a sound of clashing steel, as several of the knights of the Queen’s Bodyguard drew their swords.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Sir Hector said desperately. “Please! We must not be so hasty. The King will return to Camelot within
the week. Surely we can reason together about this matter. Lord Melegraunce, Sir Hoel, your concerns do you credit. Put up
your swords. I’m sure we can settle these matters to our mutual satisfaction.”

More knights and nobles had pushed into the throne room while Sir Hector had been speaking, until the room was dangerously
crowded with armed men jostling one another.

“Down with the Queen!” someone cried.

“Prince Mordred and Britain!” someone else shouted.

“Where is everyone?” Arthur asked wonderingly.

The courtyard they had ridden into was deserted. Though it was nearly the dinner hour, when the life of the castle drew inward
for the night, there were no servants going about their business, no horses waiting for stabling. The courtyard—the entire
town that they’d ridden through, in fact—was as silent and still as if it had been enchanted.

“Something’s wrong,” Gawain said, worry in his voice.

Arthur flung back his faded black cape and swung down from his horse. He gazed around the deserted stab-leyard, his eyes wary,
then gestured curtly for his men to follow him. Something was wrong in Camelot, and he meant to discover what it was. Though
the castle had not been finished when he left, he had designed it. He knew his way.

But when he reached it, the great doors stood unguarded, and the corridors of Camelot were deserted as well. There were no
servants to be seen, no guards to challenge the men they could only perceive as intruders. All was as silent as if the castle’s
inhabitants had been put to sleep.

“I didn’t expect this kind of homecoming,” Arthur muttered to Gawain as he reached the doors of the throne room. He flung
them open and stopped in shock. Though there had been no one elsewhere, the throne room was jammed with people, and all of
them seemed to be arguing at once.

“What’s wrong here?” Arthur shouted.

Silence spread in the wake of his outcry, and the crowd parted to let him and his companions pass, though few of them recognized
the tall blond bearded man as their King.

But Guinevere recognized him. His Queen was more lovely than ever before. As he came toward her, she stepped down from the
throne and watched him advance, expressions of fear and longing mingled on her face.

“Guinevere…” Arthur whispered.

He clasped her shoulders, but instead of greeting him with joy, the Queen hung her head in shame. He put a hand beneath her
chin and raised it to look into her eyes. They were filled with anger and grief.

All around him, the room was filled with the silence of guilty, frightened men. Arthur looked up, gazing at each member of
the Royal Council in turn. Sir Bors would not even meet his eyes. He turned to Sir Hector and Lord Lot.

“Where’s Merlin?” Arthur demanded. “Where’s Lancelot?”

They shuffled uneasily, unwilling to speak, and Arthur’s trepidation grew. What terrible thing had occurred in his absence?
He knew that a letter could have missed him as he traveled, but surely…?

“I’ll
tell you,” a new voice said.

Arthur turned toward the doorway. A young man dressed all in black stood leaning negligently against the doorframe. Arthur
had never seen him before.

“Who the devil are you?” the King asked. The day had been a long one and his temper was close to fraying.

“Elegantly put,” the young man said, straightening up. His voice held a faint mocking smile that filled Arthur with alarm.
“ ‘Who the devil?’ ” he repeated musingly. “Yes, indeed.”

Something in Arthur’s words seemed to amuse him a great deal; he smiled as he swaggered toward the King. “ ‘Who the devil?’
” he repeated once more. “Well, don’t you recognize me?” he asked as he advanced.

“No,” Arthur said bluntly. “Should I?”

“I’m hurt,” the young stranger said. “Here… in my heart.” He touched his breast, and his smile grew more cynical. “Not usually
my most vulnerable spot,” he added confidingly.

An expression of malicious triumph seemed to kindle like flame in his pale grey eyes as he stopped before Arthur. He reached
out and clasped Arthur’s shoulders overfamiliarly.

“I recognize
you,
Father. I’m your long-lost son, Mordred!” he cried in mock delight.

Whispers of consternation and disbelief filled the room like the sound of a rising wind. “How is that possible?” someone gasped.
Arthur stared into Mordred’s eyes and knew.

“There will be a child. Mab will see to that. He’ll be the future, and he’ll destroy us.”
The terrible words Merlin had spoken on that long-ago day echoed in Arthur’s ears now. The fruit of that single careless
heedless act stood before him, as dangerous as Merlin had prophesied.

“He’ll be the future, and he’ll destroy us.”

Merlin had told him that Mordred would be his enemy, but Arthur was a straightforward and honest man, unused to subtlety.
An enemy was someone who met you on a battlefield with an army, not someone who came to your home while you were away.

“Morgan le Fay is your mother?” Arthur asked, hoping against hope that he was wrong. Deep in his heart, Arthur still hoped
that he and Mordred could be friends.