The End of Magic (4 page)

And I need Merlin.…

The woods were bright with the leaves of spring, a dappled canopy of green and gold between the knights below and the sky
above. Arthur gazed up at the sunlight, sighing disconsolately. The beauty of springtime was eternal, but even that could
not buoy his spirits at this moment. His quest had never been closer to failure than it was now, nor Arthur closer to despair.

When they had ridden out through the gates of Camelot seven years before, they had been four-and-forty of the most puissant
knights in Christendom. In seven years their travels had led them through Gallacia, Allemagne, and the kingdom of the Rus,
all in fruitless search for the Grail. They had seen marvels and wonders—serpents made of living fire, giants taller than
trees, peasant huts that walked on chicken legs—but they had received only tantalizing rumors of the Grail. The years that
had passed had winnowed their numbers. Some had died, some had been taken hostage by foreign kings, some had succumbed to
magic and enchantments. Only a scant two dozen of them remained, and Arthur feared that by nightfall their numbers would be
thinned further.

A narrow path led through the woods down to the banks of the river. Across that river lay the road to Rome, and Arthur had
hopes that the Eternal City would at last hold the answers he and his men had sought so diligently. Surely Roma Magnus, once
the center of the world, held news of the whereabouts of the treasure they so eagerly sought? They had been following the
banks of the river for three days, looking for a place that was shallow and slow enough that the armored knights could cross
safely.

But finding a ford hadn’t solved their problems. The one they had found was guarded by a party of stranger knights who refused
to let them cross. The party had already tried to cross once, several hours earlier, and the knights had beaten them back
with almost contemptuous ease. Arthur could not bear for more of his comrades to die senselessly. Kay had been wounded, and
Arthur had retreated to consider what to do next.

I wish that Merlin were here,
Arthur thought despondently. His old tutor had always had some wise counsel for him when his plans became hopelessly muddled,
and, though Arthur followed the New Religion, he did have to admit that there were times when Merlin’s magic would come in
very handy.

Like now.

He glanced down the hill to where the party of stranger knights stood, blocking his men’s access to the ford. Their armor
gleamed brightly in the sun, perfect and polished, and Arthur felt the ragged condition of his own knights keenly. The years
of questing had battered away all their ornamental aspects, leaving only the warrior beneath the gilding.

“Let me go down and talk to them,” he said to his companions. “Perhaps they will be reasonable.”

“By my beard!” his foster-brother Kay swore. “We have already had a taste of their reason, have we not?”

The others grumbled their agreement—even Gawain, who had been unfailingly cheerful even in the face of disasters that had
claimed his three brothers one by one.

“Sure and there must be some other way across this foul river,” Sir Balan said.

“Perhaps,” Arthur said. “And I swear to you, Sir Balan, we shall seek it in haste if I cannot reason my way across this ford.”

“Reason!” Kay snorted. “The only reason they’ll understand has a sword blade.” He cradled his helmet in the crook of one arm
and rubbed gingerly at the large purplish welt over his right eye.

“I’d expect you to say such a thing, since you fight so much better than you can think,” Sir Bedivere shot back. Kay turned
on him, his hand going to his sword hilt, and Arthur stepped quickly between them.

“Gawain, stop these hotheads from killing each other. I’m going to go see if they’ll parley. I won’t be long,” Arthur said
tiredly.

He mounted Boukephalous and rode slowly down the wooded slope toward the ford where the three-and-thirty stranger knights
waited. Their leader wore a red surcoat with a black minotaur embroidered upon it, and his gleaming helm was ornamented with
a pair of painted and gilded bull’s horns.

“We wish to cross the ford,” Arthur said.

“No one crosses this ford and lives,” the horned knight rumbled. “We slay all who dare.”

“It must get tedious for you,” Arthur commented politely. He wished Merlin were here. Merlin had so much experience of the
world. Surely he would know what to do.

“It does,” the horned knight answered unexpectedly. “And so we will give you a choice, Arthur of Britain. Seek another path
to your goal, or answer my riddle.”

“What is your riddle?” Arthur asked. The other knights stood still and unmoving. Not even their armor creaked.

“It is a simple one,” the horned knight said, and now he sounded amused. “All you need to pass this ford unscathed with all
your men is the answer to the question: what is it that women desire most?”

“That isn’t a riddle,” Arthur said indignantly. “It’s a question.”

“If it is a question, then answer it, Arthur of Britain,” the horned knight said reasonably.

“Have I leave to consult with my men?” Arthur asked quickly.

The horned knight bowed his acquiescence, and Arthur rode quickly back up the hill.

“Well?” Gawain asked eagerly.

“He’s set us a riddle. If any of us can answer it, we may pass unmolested.”

“I say we fight them!” Kay said.

“Are we surprised?” Bedivere answered. Kay lunged for him.

Gawain pulled them apart with a clatter of armor. “What is the riddle, Arthur?”

“It seems to me to be more of a question,” Arthur answered, swinging down off his horse. “We have to tell him what women desire
most.”

“Ah, that’s easy enough. Love-talking and pretty clothes,” Balan’s brother Balin said.

“Castles.”

“Titles.”

“A handsome husband.”

“Jewels.”

“Tourneys fought in her honor.”

“To be always young and beautiful.”

Each of the knights made his suggestion, and Arthur listened to them all, but in his heart he knew the answer couldn’t be
as simple as this. The suggestions came slower and slower, and at last there was silence.

“Gentlemen, this is getting us nowhere,” Arthur said. “There can be only one right answer to such a question.”

Then Bradamante cleared her throat pointedly. The woman warrior was armed and armored just as her male companions were, for
she was under a vow not to assume women’s dress until Jerusalem had been freed. She had come to Britain to ride in Arthur’s
tourney, and had stayed to join in his quest. Alone of Arthur’s band, she had not offered an answer to the question the knights
of the ford had put.

The others all stared at her, until at last Arthur realized what she meant. He blushed. Painfully. In all their months of
traveling, he sometimes forgot what Bradamante was.

“My lady knight,” Arthur said humbly. “You are a woman. Can you answer this riddle?”

“It seems too simple to be a proper riddle, Your Majesty,” Bradamante said. “Women want what men want, and what men desire
most is their own way. That is your answer.”

“Preposterous!” Bedivere scoffed. Bradamante glared.

“But women want dresses, and jewels, and fine castles,” Kay protested. “While men want horses, and armor, and tourneys. The
answer cannot be the same for both.”

“Am I so different from you?” Bradamante demanded. “I bleed as you do, Sir Kay—and fight much better.”

Bedivere made a rude noise. Kay scowled.

“My lords,” Arthur said hastily. “And lady. I think Dame Bradamante’s answer is worth offering. I shall ride back down and
try it, for the hour grows late and I should not like to spend the night here in this desolate wilderness.”

“I will go, Sire,” Gawain said. “If they do not like the answer, better that I face their wrath than that Britain should be
without her King.”

Arthur smiled tiredly. “She is without her King
now,
Gawain. I will not give them any reason to call me a coward. I asked the question and I will deliver the answer. If necessary,
Excalibur will protect me.”

He touched the sword at his hip. This was the sword that the Lady of the Lake had given to Merlin, the sword that had defeated
the tyrant Vortigern. Arthur had pulled it from the grasp of the Old Man of the Mountain to become king, and it was filled
with magic. The true kings of Britain had carried it in an unbroken cycle stretching back into the mists of history. It would
not fail him.

He rode back to the water’s edge.

“Well, King of Britain?” the horned knight asked.

“I have the answer to your question. What women desire most is what men desire most: their own way.”

The horned knight’s horse reared, and the man within the ornate armor howled. His companions, standing in a double row on
each side of the ford, wailed and clashed their swords against their shields. The sound increased until Arthur was deafened,
until it seemed to blot out the very sun. A whirlwind rose up, blowing dust and leaves into his eyes. Arthur raised his arm,
as if it could shield him from whatever necromancy was occurring. He could feel the ground shake as his compatriots rode to
join him, but even if they had wished to, there was nothing here for them to fight.

A moment later the wind dropped and Arthur could see again. The ford was empty. The stranger knights were gone. He looked
at Gawain.

“So we cross, then?” Gawain said pragmatically.

Later that night, when they had made camp, Arthur took the time to pen a rare letter to Guinevere. They would be in Rome soon,
if all went well. He could find a messenger there who would take his message to Camelot.

But what was there to say? Honesty warred with the desire to spare his wife distress. There were so many things he wanted
to say to her, and as always, words came hard to him.

“We are no nearer finding the Holy Grail than when we left.”
Arthur wrote with painful honesty.
“We hear rumors that it is housed in the next town… and the next, and the next, and each town takes us further away from
you and Camelot.”
He set down his pen and sighed. No news there. Only the eternal unwavering truth.
I need the Grail and I need you, my love and my Queen.

M
aster Wancallant had been Camelot’s architect from the very beginning. He was a dignified white-haired old gentleman dressed
in the robes of a professional builder, wearing the golden chain of office that King Arthur had bestowed upon him with his
own hands. Together he and Arthur had planned every street and stone to turn Camelot from a dream to a tangible reality.

But sometimes it seemed to Master Wancallant that Sir Lancelot was intent upon undoing all of his and Arthur’s careful work.
Hardly a day had passed since Arthur rode away that did not see some new improvement to his designs suggested by the Queen’s
Champion. Usually these were small changes—and, Wancallant had to admit, generally for the better—but lately the changes to
Camelot that Sir Lancelot had asked for had grown more sweeping and contradictory. His last suggestion had required pulling
down half the curtain wall of the castle in order to fit in the new courtyard!

“The work’s going much too slowly,” Lancelot said now, frowning down at him sternly as they strode through the new building.

“You keep changing your mind, Sir Lancelot,” Wancallant said pleadingly. He had to half-run to keep up with Lancelot’s long
strides as the knight inspected yesterday’s work in the new section of the castle, ducking under timber balks and around piles
of brick. The architect did not remember when he had first started to dread these morning meetings with Lancelot of the Lake,
but he did. His stomach hurt and he had a pounding headache.
Count yourself lucky you aren’t working for Vortigern. Now
there
was a man who was hard on his staff!

“First this, then that… I’m doing my best, Sire,” he protested.

“Well, you’ve got to do better than that,” Lancelot shot back without breaking stride.

“How can I do better than my best?” Wancallant demanded, coming to a stop in confusion. It was a good question, but he was
fated not to receive an answer, for Lancelot had seen the Queen and was hurrying toward her.

Wancallant’s lip lifted in a sneer. They had forgotten his presence, just as they had forgotten that other eyes might be watching
as well, here among the builders and the castle servants. Lancelot flew to the Queen like a bee to a honeycomb—and who knew
what intimacies she permitted him? It wasn’t right, and if the King were here, he’d send the meddling Sir Lancelot packing
and make Queen Guinevere mend her trifling ways. That was as sure as Church on Sunday!

Wancallant sighed, and his shoulders drooped. But Arthur
wasn’t
here, and who knew when he’d return? The King had been gone for a very long time, and things were starting to fall apart
in Camelot.

That, too, was certain.

Lancelot hurried to where Guinevere waited for him in the center of the little courtyard, certain that no one else had remarked
the Queen’s presence. She was dressed in red, her pleated straight gown covered with a golden brocade
pallia
, her dark hair captured in two flowing braids. She watched him advance with a small secret smile meant for him alone. Lancelot’s
heart lifted at the sight of that smile, even though he knew his happiness was sinful. Lancelot was a good Christian, and
he knew that adultery was a sin—and to Lancelot, sin was simply another opponent to be defeated in battle. As Lancelot was
invincible, he had always assumed that temptation could be vanquished just as any terrestrial antagonist could.

But who could have dreamed that this sweet wickedness would be the one opponent he could not defeat? He had not seen the trap
until it was too late, and it had not been Guinevere who had set it, but his own heart. Even now, he did not know what he
could have done differently.