The King's Wizard (26 page)

“Oh, Morgan.” Merlin crossed to where she stood and cupped her face in his hands. “It’s only an illusion.”

She stared up at him, her eyes mocking and bitter. “Beauty is always an illusion, Merlin. Didn’t you know that?”

Suddenly there was a grinding shattering sound. Merlin whirled in the direction it came from, and as he watched, Mab and Frik
pushed through the door in a shower of splinters.

“We thought we’d come in the traditional way, through the door,” Frik said.

“It’s traditional to open it first,” Merlin said dryly.

“Mordred, look who’s here! Your Auntie Mab and Uncle Frik,” Morgan cried delightedly.

It was obviously not the first time Mab and Frik had visited Tintagel Keep. With a cry of delight, Mordred flung himself upon
Mab, who swung him around and around, cackling with delight. Inside himself, Merlin shuddered. It was like watching a baby
play with a cobra—only it was Mordred’s soul that was in danger, not his life. All the aversion he felt for Mab and the Old
Ways was reborn anew as he watched her with Mordred. The Queen of the Old Ways was a poisonous flower—nothing wholesome could
flourish in her shadow.

And to see her here, flaunting her welcome at Tintagel, so openly a presence in Morgan’s life, and the child’s. …

“It’s been ages, Merlin,” Frik said. He’d changed his gnomish form from that of the pedantic scholar Merlin remembered. Now
Frik was tall and handsome, with flowing blond hair and a sword upon his hip. “Do you ever think of your old school where
I tried to teach you the fundamentals of magic?” Frik crossed to Morgan and kissed her hand. She hung on his arm, staring
triumphantly at Merlin.

“He could have been my star pupil,” Frik confided to Morgan, “but he proved …”

“Disappointing,” Mab hissed. “But
you
won’t, will you, Mordred?” The baby giggled in delight.

“Isn’t he handsome?” Morgan gloated.

“Handsome is as handsome does,” Frik said, with a little of his old schoolroom pendantry showing
through the swaggering gallant. “What does that mean? I’ve never really understood the phrase.”

Morgan laughed and kissed him.

Mab had brought little Mordred a golden crown and scepter, and a brown-and-white pony just his size. “Toys, Mordred,” she
said, placing the crown upon his head and lifting him onto the pony. “Auntie always brings you lots of lovely toys. …”

“You see, Merlin?” Morgan said. “You took my family away from me, and now I have a new one.” Frik kissed her hand, and then
her wrist, playing the courtly lover.

“It won’t last, Morgan,” Merlin warned desperately. He knew Mab’s tricks—she and Frik could be charming when they chose, but
it was all an act, a show put on until the need for it was past.

“Nothing does,” Morgan said simply.

Merlin took one last look around the room—the amorous lovers, Mab doting on her hellborn babe—and turned to go. There was
nothing he could do here. It was too late. Mab had made herself too completely at home. Morgan was selfishly blind to the
consequences of her liaison.

“Don’t you see it—feel it?” Mab said. “I’m winning, Merlin! I have the precious gift of patience; it will be years before
Mordred can claim the throne but I can wait. Time means nothing to me!”

If that were really true, then Mab would not plot so desperately to retain her power. But just as time was running out for
Mab, it was also running out for Arthur’s golden city. While Arthur quested for the Grail, Morgan and her son would be free
to work their
mischief freely in Britain. If Arthur could not be persuaded to forsake his quest—if he were gone when Mordred reached out
for the throne—then there was nothing Merlin could do to save Camelot.

Nothing.

“You’ll be the death of Arthur and the end of all poor Merlin’s dreams, won’t you, my sweetie?” Mab cooed to the baby.

Merlin turned and stalked from the room.

“Oh, look!” Morgan cried. “The big bad wizard can’t do a thing! Run, Wizard!” she cried, and the others took up the chant:
“Run, run, run—”

Merlin slammed the door behind him, cutting off their mocking laughter.

Just as it had been the last time Morgan was involved, Merlin’s business with the king was urgent, but this time he made sure
not to burst into an important council. If Mordred’s existence were to become public knowledge, it would undo all of Arthur’s
good works before they even began.

Merlin found Arthur in the royal mews, among his birds of prey. The Master of Hawks was on an errand elsewhere, and Arthur
was alone. All around him, hawks and falcons huddled on their perches, the bright leather of their hoods like jewels in the
musty dimness.

“Your Majesty?” Merlin said.

“Merlin!” Arthur turned around, his smile welcoming. It faded as he studied Merlin’s face. “You look tired.”

“I have had some … difficult news.” Merlin hesitated. Should he tell Arthur what he had learned? He
must. It was secrecy that had doomed them all in the first place. Arthur, of all men, deserved to know the whole truth. “I
have seen your son. His name is Mordred.”

Arthur flinched at the words. Merlin could see the hopeful need in his eyes, the desire to ask about Mordred. Arthur was by
nature a loving man, and if only things had been different, he could have welcomed Mordred into his life eagerly.

“I … see,” Arthur said at last. “Merlin, what have you come to say to me?”

“I have come to ask you—no, to
beg
you—put off this quest until matters here in Britain are more settled; until you have an heir—”

“I have an heir,” Arthur said bitterly. “Mordred, begotten in sin and treachery, out of the Old Ways. There can be no other
heir to my crown until the Grail is found. When I have achieved it, the Grail will wash me clean of all sin and restore the
land.”

Arthur’s grey eyes stared levelly into Merlin’s, as if to try to convince him by that alone of how certain Arthur was of the
truth of his words. But it was not necessary. If this was what Arthur believed, then it was true. If he would not consummate
his marriage to the queen while the weight of his sin lay so heavily upon him, he would beget no other child than Mordred.

“You told me once,” Merlin said, “that you did not believe you could be condemned for all eternity for one mistake.”

“God will not condemn me,” Arthur said, “but I am not alone in this sin. There is Morgan, and now Mordred. I seek the Grail
for them as well as for
Britain, so that we can all escape the failures of the past into a joyous future of hope. Only when the Grail is returned
to Britain will I know that God has truly cleansed us all.”

Merlin’s shoulders slumped. Arthur was as fixed in his course as Morgan was in hers. There was no hope of turning Arthur from
his quest—and the worst of it was, this journey was inspired by the best of reasons, the purest idealism. How could Merlin
argue against it, when to do so would be to argue against every lesson he had ever taught to Arthur?

“I suppose you are right, Sire. And I suppose I had better go and seek you a perfect champion, someone who will guard the
kingdom while you are far away.”

Once again Merlin stood upon the shore of the Enchanted Lake. He had come here in many seasons, but never before in autumn.
The birches on the shores of the lake were crowned with gold, and the very blueness of the sky seemed to speak of the impermanence
of all things. Autumn was the dying time, when the land prepared itself for the long sleep that was both a death and a rebirth.

Out on the lake some ducks, about to embark upon their migration southward, bobbed upon the surface. A gentle touch of Merlin’s
magic set them diving beneath the chop. A moment later, the Lady of the Lake appeared from beneath the surface of the water.

It was the first time Merlin had seen her since he had come to beg Excalibur from her many years ago, and it seemed to him
that her beauty was more ethereal, less of this world, than it had ever seemed before.

“Merlin?” she whispered, and her silvery voice echoed back from the wind and the water. “You’re troubled again?”

Merlin smiled ruefully. “It’s still the same cry for help, Lady. Your sister, Mab, grows more powerful.”

“And I grow weaker,” the Lady of the Lake sighed. Her hands moved gently at her sides, holding her position in the lake of
air. Her collar of shining fish flitted about her throat like tiny spots of light.

“What can I do?” Merlin asked urgently. “I have to find a man to guard the throne while Arthur goes questing for the Holy
Grail. The temptation will be to seize the crown while he’s gone.”

“You need a man pure in heart,” the Lady of the Lake told him gently.

“I’ve tried to find him before,” Merlin said. “He doesn’t exist.”

The Lady of the Lake blinked slowly as she regarded him from glowing blue eyes. In a voice even fainter than before she told
him, “The answer is at Joyous Gard. My ship will take you. …”

As Merlin watched, the silvery figure shimmered out of sight. And in the distance, Merlin saw a ship sailing toward him across
the lake.

It was like and yet unlike the ship that had carried the young Merlin to the Land of Magic so many years ago. This slender
craft had a hull the same pale blue as the Lake, and a tall mast with a painted sail. From these hints, Merlin knew that Joyous
Gard was far away. But the Lady of the Lake had always stood his friend. Without hesitation, Merlin climbed into the boat
and set sail.

* * *

The ship sailed into the bank of mist that was a gateway between worlds, and when it came out again, there was no land to
be seen in any direction and the air smelled of the open sea. The bright sun of summer, and not the cool light of autumn,
beat down upon Merlin, warming his bones, and Merlin realized that the boat sailed not only through space but through time,
to that enchanted land, the future. It was as if he voyaged through a dream and more than a dream—a dream of a dream.
One day they’ll describe me, Arthur, Guinevere, and Camelot as a dream
, he thought to himself. A shimmering vision danced before his eyes, of Joyous Gard with its golden towers, and Merlin knew
that this dream was alive, as all good dreams are. That no matter what the future held, Arthur’s dream would live as well.

The warm sun and the gentle rocking of the enchanted boat did their work, and soon Merlin, weary from so many long journeys,
could stay awake no longer. His eyes closed, and he slept, stretched out full-length upon the bottom of the boat.

It seemed as if Merlin had slept centuries, until all the world he had known had passed away. When he awoke, the ship was
still, the sail half-furled, and a small boy was standing beside the vessel, staring down at Merlin gravely. The boy’s hair
was the white-blond color that seldom lasts beyond early childhood, and he wore a coronet of gold and royal purple.

“Who are you?” the boy asked.

Merlin groaned a little as he sat up. Magic ship or
not, the stiffness of age was beginning to touch his bones. “I’m Merlin,” he answered. “The wizard.”

But instead of being impressed at that declaration, the boy laughed. “There aren’t any wizards left,” he scoffed.

“I’m the last of them,” Merlin answered, knowing somehow that it was true. He got to his feet. “And who are you?”

“Galahad,” the boy answered. “My mother is the Lady Elaine and my father is Sir Lancelot.” He stared at Merlin a moment longer,
then seemed to remember his manners. “I bid you welcome to Joyous Gard, Merlin the wizard.”

“I thank you, Master Galahad,” Merlin answered absently.

Sir Lancelot must be the good man the Lady of the Lake had sent Merlin here to find. He stepped out of the boat and looked
around.

The Lady’s boat had landed on a crescent-shaped beach of glittering white sand. Beyond it, upon the headland, stood Joyous
Gard, as beautiful as it had been in his vision.

If only Arthur were here to see it! Lancelot’s castle was everything Arthur had dreamed Camelot would be; a castle forged
from the fabric of dreams. Stone carved to seem as light as air and as lacy as sea foam rose up to form towers taller than
the tallest tree. Its steep conical roofs were plated in pure gold, and pennons in a thousand colors flew from every spire.
If this were a dream of the future, then it was a future that Arthur had helped to create.

“It’s … beautiful,” Merlin whispered.

“Joyous Gard is dedicated to honor and chivalry,” Galahad said proudly. “It is a place where the strong defend the weak.”

“Then it is the place I have searched for all my life,” Merlin said. “Pray take me to your father, Master Galahad.”

Galahad took Merlin through the castle courtyard and led him not to an audience chamber, but toward the forge. Everything
Merlin saw in Joyous Gard was bright and clean and airy, and he felt like a revenant, like a dark ghost from a time of blood
and battle who had somehow strayed into an era of civilized good fellowship. No one in Joyous Gard even wore armor. It was
as if this land had been at peace so long it had forgotten all the arts of war. But when they reached their destination, Merlin
saw that one man, at least, was still a warrior.

“There he is,” Galahad said, pointing.

Lancelot was a tall fair man. He was bronze where Arthur was golden, but in Lancelot, Merlin thought he saw a shadow of the
man Arthur would become. Lancelot wore a dark tunic trimmed in silver Celtic knotwork, and wide silver bracers that gleamed
in the sun. As Merlin approached, Lancelot was holding a sword to the grinding stone, honing its edge as the smith turned
the wheel.

He stopped as Merlin and Galahad approached. Striking the sword against an anvil, he held the blade to his ear, gauging its
tone.

“What does it say?” Merlin asked.

“It says, ‘I will prove strong and true in battle’—and
to be wary of strangers,” Lancelot added, regarding Merlin.

Well, I suppose I do look a bit out of place here
, Merlin thought to himself.

“Father,” Galahad said, “this is Merlin.”

At once Lancelot’s manner changed. “Merlin? Ah, well, then. You’re no stranger. I’ve heard of you, and you are certainly welcome
to Joyous Gard. Galahad, run and tell the Lady Elaine that we have a special visitor.”