The King's Wizard (19 page)

“Even if I were fortunate enough to be able to pull Excalibur from the stone, I do not think I could be a good king.”

“Well,
I
could!” Kay said impulsively. Without waiting for his father’s reply, the young knight ran through the crowd of curious bystanders,
up the hill, and grasped the golden hilt of the sword.

It had been sunk into the stone before he had been born, but Excalibur was still as bright and gleaming as if it had just
come from the swordsmith. When Kay clasped the hilt, he imagined that he heard a faint singing, as if of angel voices. He
quickly made the sign of the cross to protect himself from any Pagan
magic that might still cling to the sword, then took a firm grip on the hilt and pulled.

Nothing happened. Kay strained harder, unable to believe the sword would not move. It was as if he dragged at the rock itself.

“Stand aside! This is a job for a
man
!” Sir Boris said.

Kay staggered back, panting, his palms stinging from the effort he’d made. Sir Boris—red of hair, red of face, and circular
of girth—swaggered up to the sword.

“Is that windbag back again?” Kay heard someone say. Shaking his head and trying to hide his smile, Kay trotted back down
the hill to where his father stood.

“I hear that Sir Boris has come every feast day for the last ten years to try to free Excalibur,” Sir Hector said to his son.

“If he isn’t careful, he’ll do himself an injury,” another of the villagers said.

Kay watched as Sir Boris strained, growing alarmingly purple with the effort, before collapsing, out of breath, at the foot
of the stone. The villagers hooted and jeered, and Kay was glad to have at least escaped their ridicule, if he couldn’t draw
the sword.

“Father,” he whispered. “If no one can pull the sword from the stone, what then? Who will be king?”

Sir Hector looked worried. “Someone must be king, Kay. And if no one can draw Excalibur, I fear that there will be war.”

Arthur had finally fallen silent, even his persistent questioning failing to draw more answers from a distracted
Merlin. The path Merlin had chosen led through another forest, and the boy and the wizard now rode quietly, side by side.
Spring had not yet come to these woods; all the trees were winter-barren, and the crunching of the horses’ hooves on the dead
leaves of the forest floor was the only sound. It was as if they rode through a world outside of Time, a world that contained
no living things but themselves.

There is something terribly familiar about this
, the wizard thought.

Mab had not had a hand in Uther’s destruction. She had not needed to involve herself, as the seeds of Uther’s own madness
had blossomed without additional help. But she had been aware of his death, and known, too, that Merlin would soon make the
next move in their private little war. He would thrust his protégé, Arthur, into the forefront of events … if he could.

How much simpler things would be if the boy died here. The jewel on Mab’s forefinger glowed blood-red as she stroked the hooded
head of her companion. The blind-hood hid its eyes, for gryphons were sight-hunters, and it would attack the first prey it
saw.

There were four of them, all hooded, crouched expectantly in the trees around her as Mab, too, awaited the signal to begin
the hunt. At last she heard the sound of approaching horses.

Mab drew the hood from the first gryphon’s head.

Merlin drew his sword. The uneasiness he felt had no perceptible cause, but he had long ago learned to
trust his instincts. Something terrible was about to happen.

A moment later, it did.

“Gryphons!” Arthur shouted, pointing.

Gryphons were creatures of the Old Magic, once used by the fairy court to hunt their prey. The creatures were about the size
of large dogs, with brown-feathered hawk heads and dun-colored bodies. They had the clawed feet and tufted tails of lions,
and gliding membranes that stretched between their forelimbs and their ribs allowed them to fly for short distances. They
preferred to hunt in packs, and were savage and dangerous adversaries.

“Arthur!” Merlin cried. Merlin caught a glimpse of the boy struggling to keep his seat as two of the gryphons attacked him.
The bay gelding reared and snorted, fighting his rider.

“There’s another one! Look out!” Arthur shouted.

When one of the gryphons jumped onto his neck, Boukephalos bucked frantically, tossing Arthur to the ground. Two of the gryphons,
snarling and slashing, circled the boy where he lay helpless on the forest floor.

Merlin struck out with his sword as Sir Rupert backed and sidled, trying to keep the creatures from getting behind him. Sir
Rupert did not react as Boukephalos had, but Sir Rupert had been foaled upon the plains of Annwn, and lived his life among
creatures of magic and wonder. The gryphons were dangerous, but they did not terrify him as they did Arthur’s mortal horse.

But Sir Rupert’s cool head was not enough to save
them. Without help, all four of them were doomed. Merlin cast about for something that could aid them, and saw a wasp’s nest
clinging to the branch of the tree above him.

“Arthur! Keep still!” Merlin shouted. Fending off his attackers as best he could, he gestured toward the mud nest, asking
with his magic for their help.

Wasps came boiling out of their home, heading for the gryphons. They buzzed around the animals’ heads, stinging and tormenting
them. Though their stings were small, their numbers were great, and it seemed only a few seconds before the gryphons had enough
of an enemy they could not fight. The pack took flight, screeching its dismay as the gryphons loped off into the forest.

“Thank you,” Merlin said to two of the small stinging insects. They hovered before his face for a moment longer before retreating
back into their mudnest home.

“I did nothing,” Arthur said aggrievedly, staggering to his feet. His left arm was red with blood, the tunic sleeve torn by
the gryphons’ pecking beaks.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Merlin said absently. He dismounted to see to Arthur’s injury; one of the salves he’d made up this
morning would do to make sure the scratches healed cleanly.

“What was that?” Arthur asked, holding out his arm so that Merlin could tend to it. His blue eyes watched his old tutor warily,
and Merlin knew Arthur was adding together all the strange events that had taken place since this morning and beginning to
wonder
if Merlin was really who he had seemed to be through all the years of Arthur’s childhood.

“That,” Merlin said in answer, “that was a message from an old friend.”
And you’re right. I am both more and less than you have thought me, my young friend. As are you
.

In her sanctum deep under the hill, Mab gazed into a deep amber crystal, a repository of the Old Magic. As she watched, its
dark honey color paled, until it was white and crumbling—useless. She tossed the crystal into a pile of similarly drained
ones.

My power is fading
.

Mab hated to admit that truth even to herself. She hated the fact that it
was
the truth. But the long interregnum while Uther reigned and Arthur grew into his destiny had been years that had seen Mab’s
power slowly dwindle. The great feats of her past could not be repeated. The last dragon was dead. And Merlin—who was to have
been her greatest champion, her greatest achievement—worked tirelessly to bring a final end to the Old Ways.

But I have magic enough to prevent that, my Merlin. If I cannot bend you to my will, I can at least destroy all that you love.
Beginning with the boy. …

Through all the rest of the day Merlin had felt Arthur’s eyes upon his back, wondering, questioning, assessing. It took them
several hours to catch and calm Boukephalos after his fright with the gryphons, and afterward—though he was a splendid animal—Arthur’s
bay gelding could not match Sir Rupert’s magical
speed. A journey that would have taken Merlin and Sir Rupert only a few hours at best found the travelers still on the road
to their destination when darkness fell and Merlin called a halt for the night. As Arthur unsaddled the horses, Merlin gathered
together some stones and heaped them in a small pile. It would only take a simple spell to turn the bare stones into a fire
that would burn all night without needing to be replenished, but Merlin hesitated.

Fire was the easiest magic, the first magic, but in Merlin’s mind it would always be associated with his earliest doubts about
Mab, the first painful moments when he had begun to suspect the motives of the Queen of the Old Ways whose magic had given
him birth. More than a quarter of a century separated Merlin now from the innocent boy he had once been. He had become more
like his great enemy than he would ever have dreamed possible, but he still battled on, hoping that his heritage—half-fairy,
half-mortal—did not doom him to become as evil as Mab.

“Shall I go gather some wood for the fire now?” Arthur asked. He looked doubtfully at the pile of stones.

“It isn’t necessary,” Merlin answered. He drew a deep breath, and passed his hand slowly above the stones.
Only a Hand-Wizard
. It was surprising that after so many years, his failure to achieve all that Mab had asked of him still hurt.

The stones began to glow, and a wave of heat swept out from them. Another moment passed, and they burst into flame.

Arthur sprang back from the flames with a yelp of surprise, staring at Merlin in shock.

“You’re a
wizard
,” the boy said. His voice held accusation, and he reached out to touch the fire, as if unsure of its reality. “Ow!” He sucked
on his scorched fingers.

“Fire always burns, young Arthur,” Merlin said severely. “No matter its source.”

“Now will you tell me everything?” Arthur asked, shaking off his wonder at Merlin’s magic and sitting down on a large stone
beside the fire.

“Yes, it’s—it’s time,” Merlin said reluctantly.
The boy is young—too young to know that explaining everything settles nothing. I can only hope he’ll understand my part in
it, and be as merciful as a king must be
.

“Arthur, you should know that Sir Hector isn’t your real father.”

For a moment Merlin became a child again, hearing Ambrosia explain the truth about his mother—and his parentage—to him for
the first time. He knew how important his next words would be, and chose them carefully.

“Your father was King Uther, and you are the true heir to the throne.”

He seated himself next to Arthur, savoring the last moments of the time when the two of them could be merely tutor and pupil.
When Arthur drew the sword from the stone, that time would end. Arthur would be king. Merlin’s king.

“King Uther,” Arthur said, marveling. “But who was my mother?”

“She was the Lady Igraine,” Merlin said reluctantly.

“The Duke of Cornwall’s wife?” Arthur asked. Merlin nodded reluctantly. “Then I’m illegitimate.”

Arthur had been raised in the New Religion. Such things mattered to them.

“It will not matter to Britain,” Merlin said. “You are Uther’s only son. You are the true king, now that Uther is dead.” He
watched Arthur’s face, as it settled into new lines of knowledge and regret. He had gained his real parents and lost them
in the same moment, and as Merlin knew, that was a bitter thing.

“Then you aren’t my tutor at all. You’re the wizard Merlin, the one who killed Vortigern and put Uther on the throne.”

“Yes,” Merlin said quietly. “I am that Merlin. But I was also your tutor.”

“Why didn’t you teach me magic?” Arthur demanded.

“A king does not need magic to rule—a king needs a good heart and a clear head. They are more important than magic. But rest
assured, there is also magic involved, and tomorrow you will see it.”

Arthur studied Merlin’s face for a long moment, trying to understand all he had been told.

“Did my father—did Sir Hector—know?”

“That you were Uther’s son? He may have suspected it, but I never told him. Though I brought you to him to foster, he loved
you as if you were his own.”

“Didn’t Uther want me?” The anguished question was like a knife in Merlin’s own heart. He reached out to pat the boy awkwardly
upon the shoulder.

“That wasn’t how it was. Listen now, and you shall have the whole story. Many years ago, when your grandfather Constant was
king, a wicked queen named Mab plotted against him. Mab was no ordinary woman, but a Fay, the Queen of the Old Ways. …”

It turned out better than Merlin had hoped. Arthur heard the whole story and did not give way to anger or temper as his father
and grandfather might have. Instead, he was thoughtful, saying little as he rolled himself into his cloak for sleep that night.
The following morning he was quieter than usual, but did his share of the chores willingly before he and Merlin rode on.

Finally, in the late afternoon, as they stopped to rest on a ridge overlooking a lake valley, Arthur spoke about what Merlin
had told him the night before.

“If I am Uther’s only son,” he said, “I want what is mine. I want to be king.” He turned his horse down the trail, taking
the lead for the first time.

“And if you are king, what then?” Merlin asked neutrally, though inwardly he was rejoicing as he followed Arthur. Until that
moment, it had been possible that Arthur would reject the crown, been unable to see himself as king. But he had accepted his
royal destiny.

“Well, I—” Arthur began.

“Whoa, whoa,” Merlin interrupted, taking Boukephalos’s bridle.

“What! What is it now?” Arthur half-drew his sword, expecting another attack like the one the day before.

Merlin pointed at a snail crossing the road before them. “He has the right of way.”

Arthur looked bewildered, but accepted the rebuke meekly enough. Carefully, he rode around the snail.

“You were saying—if you were king,” Merlin prompted him as they waited.

“I’d do all the things you taught me,” Arthur said dreamily. “I’d build a golden city devoted to peace and charity.”