The End of Magic (20 page)

“Merlin,” Arthur groaned. “It’s too late.”

Her fear, her struggles, were like a knife twisted in Arthur’s heart. Guinevere kept looking toward him, willing him to share
in her fate. The flames were higher now, and hotter, and billows of smoke from the pyre rolled up, filling the courtyard and
obscuring Guinevere’s struggling body. In a few moments more the pain would be too great for her to remain silent. She would
scream, and then her body would begin to burn.

“Merlin—!” Arthur begged, not even sure what he cried out for.

In his voice Merlin heard the cries of the child he had loved and raised:
“Master Merlin, make it stop, make it go away!”

I cannot stand by and allow this to happen, no matter the cost.
Merlin stepped forward into the window, saw gratefully that clouds still filled the sky, and
reached
for them with his magic.

What is there shall be here—even heaven sheds a tear!

There was a rumble of thunder, and the rain began.

The first droplets of rain struck the flames like thrown stones, dissolving in tiny puffs of steam. Mordred turned

away from the pyre. It no longer interested him. He had seen people burn to death before. What interested him now was his
father—he wanted to watch Arthur’s face as his beloved Queen turned to ashes. The rain cascaded down torrentially as if the
sky itself wept in anger at the Queen’s plight. The sudden storm was so loud that until the doors into the courtyard at last
gave way, no one inside quite realized that Lancelot had been battering at them.

In the window above Mordred could see Merlin. For a moment their eyes met. Merlin thought they were simply enemies, but Mordred
knew better. They were rivals—rivals for Mab’s love.

Her love was the only thing Mordred had ever really wanted.

Behind Mordred, Black Bayard surged through the guards as Lancelot hewed about himself with his shining sword. Its name was
Joyeuse, but there was little cause for joy in Camelot today. Before the sun set, wives and mothers would mourn the unjust
deaths of men slain to prevent an unjust death.

All around the courtyard people shouted and ran, both toward the battle and away from it. The scene was pure chaos, and the
fierce downpour only made things worse. Only one dark-clad figure stood immobile, staring up toward the throne-room windows
as the people around him shouted—half in praise of Guinevere’s rescue, half demanding that Lancelot be burned as well.

Mordred.

He watched the window where Arthur—weak, broad-minded, accommodating Arthur—came hesitantly forward to peer down at the Queen’s
magic-born salvation. Mordred stared fixedly toward the King. He did not turn to see the source of the sounds of battle, murder,
and sudden death that came from behind him.

Lancelot was the best knight in all the world, and he was fighting for his heart. He flung back a dozen men as he fought his
way to the pyre and severed the Queen’s bonds with one stroke of his gleaming blade.

None of that mattered to Mordred. All that mattered was Arthur, and Merlin, and the fact that Arthur had
cheated
.

Mordred always enjoyed watching someone abandon all his principles.

She stood on a bed of half-burned wood, her bare feet blistered, as pillars of steam rose about her. Her scarlet linen tunic
was sodden with rain, her hair seal-slick against her skull. But Guinevere laughed, pulling herself free, and looked no longer
to the window where the King watched.

“Come on!” Lancelot shouted. He held out his hand and pulled her up before him. Bayard danced and fretted, alarmed by the
soldiers all about him. Then Lancelot turned, and, spurring his stallion, galloped away from Camelot with the Queen in his
arms.

Merlin stepped away from the window and sat down on the nearby bench. He was weary to the bone. He had passed a long and sleepless
night, and if Lancelot had not arrived, they would be watching the Queen burn even now, despite his spell.
Lancelot has all of knighthood’s virtues, and every one of its failings, but there are two things about Lancelot that will
never be a part of any bard’s tale: he always leaves everything till the last minute, and he always makes the wrong choice.

But what was the wrong choice, under these circumstances? The one Arthur had made—or Lancelot’s?

“Thank God,” Arthur whispered fervently, staring after the lovers as if he wished he could join them.

“And you, of course, Merlin,” he said, recollecting himself. Arthur turned away from the window and looked down at Merlin,
concerned.

“It had to be done,” Merlin said simply.

“It’s strange,” Arthur said, almost to himself. “When I married Guinevere, I didn’t love her. It was truly a marriage of state.
But when I returned from my quest—when I realized I had already lost her—my feelings changed. I found that I really did love
her then. If I had loved her at the beginning, would I have needed to go on my quest?”

“Some say that the Grail is love, Arthur,” Merlin said gently. “If you have found love, perhaps you have truly found your
Grail at last.”

“But it’s too late,” Arthur said sadly. “Too late for all of us.”

He walked to the doors and flung them open to address the waiting guards. “Summon my council, and the Knights of the Round
Table. It is time to decide what to do about Mordred.”

“Thank you for Jenny’s life,” Gawain said.

Arthur’s companions—Gawain, Sir Bors, and the others—had gathered around the throne, waiting for Arthur to say the words that
would make the world seem sensible once more. But before they could begin to think about the problems that faced them, Gawain
had stepped forward to offer his simple thanks.

Arthur’s first follower, his lifelong companion, was haggard with sleeplessness and worry. But his eyes shone with loving
trust as he clasped Arthur’s arm and murmured his words of gratitude.

Perhaps we can make it work after all,
Merlin thought, watching the two of them embrace. Arthur’s dream had been a worthy one, and he had managed to pass his vision
on to others. Perhaps men of good will, all working together, could manage to prevail, just this once.

“Thank you, Gawain,” Arthur answered, sitting down on his throne. “I—”

But Arthur would never complete his sentence.

The doors of the throne room flew open again. A band of nobles pushed in to the chamber, and Mordred was at their head.

“What is the meaning of this?” Arthur demanded, coming down from his throne. Beside him, Gawain drew his sword, his face clouded
with anger.

“You
tricked
us, Father!” Mordred cried. They were words of moral indignation, but the tone was the cheated surprise of the spoiled child.
“You pretended to condemn the Queen to the stake, then you had her rescued by your damned wizard!”

There was a murmur of angry surprise and agreement from Mordred’s band—joined, unfortunately, by some of the Knights of the
Round Table.

“You hadn’t even the courage to set her free yourself!” Mordred stood his ground as Arthur advanced upon him, until the two
men were standing only inches apart: Arthur, tall and strong and fair, his full beard making him look older, and Mordred,
small and feline and dark, with the mark of Fairy on his every feature.

“That’s true,” Arthur answered steadily. “I should have done.”

But Mordred did not give the King’s bold honesty a chance to win supporters for his side.

“One law for you and another for the rest of us?” he accused, throwing his arms wide as if to invite all his onlookers to
judge the fairness of that.

“We can’t live like that!” cried one of Mordred’s men, as if on cue.

“Do you hear?” Mordred demanded, a faint cool smile on his face. “They can’t live like that.” The words were heartfelt, but
Mordred’s voice was lightly ironic, as if he did not believe in the very things he urged his followers to accept so passionately.

“I call upon all trueborn Britons to rally to freedom’s flag!” Mordred raised his voice and swept the room with a rallying
glance, his fist upraised. The room rang with shouting and cheers. “Depose this—”

But Arthur could be mocked no longer. His face twisted with contempt, the King struck Mordred a powerful backhand blow, stopping
his lying silver tongue at last.

There was a hiss of steel as knights—on both sides—drew their swords and the room fell silent. Only Mordred’s supernatural
strength kept him from falling to the ground. As it was, he staggered back, and there was a thin thread of blood at the side
of his mouth.

“You caught me by surprise, Father,” he said, moving back to stand before Arthur again. For once there was honesty in Mordred’s
voice, and a kind of twisted joy, as though Arthur’s virtues made him even more worthy of destruction.

“I know how that is,” Arthur answered. He smiled without humor.

There was a long moment of silence in the throne room, then Mordred spoke in a low, even, and horribly compelling voice, his
eyes never leaving Arthur’s face.

“Nobles, the time for talking is over. Those who value right and justice, follow me.”

Mordred turned away and left without another word. And, terribly, many of Arthur’s own sworn knights followed him, until less
than half the men Arthur had originally gathered in the throne room remained. Slowly Gawain sheathed his sword, the last of
the knights to do so.

Arthur walked through his men to the doors Mordred had left hanging open, and violently slammed them closed. The crash echoed
through a room gone unnaturally still.

“So it is war,” Arthur said into the silence.

“Can’t we just… give him what he wants?” Sir Bors asked. The old knight glanced at Merlin as he spoke, but he could not meet
Arthur’s eyes.

“You mean the kingdom?” Gawain demanded. “He already nearly got Guinevere’s life.”

“But he didn’t!” Sir Bors shot back. “She didn’t burn. Arthur’s… wizard… saved her.”

Sir Bors looked pleadingly at Arthur, his eyes begging the King to understand. Sir Bors was a knight of the old school, a
believer in royal privilege. He would not have cared if Arthur had pardoned Guinevere a thousand times. Arthur was King. It
was his right to do as he chose… but for Arthur to cheat his way out of a promise using the power of the Old Ways was something
Sir Bors’s honest Christian soul found hard to forgive.

“That is true,” Arthur said. “Merlin is my oldest friend, Sir Bors. He saved me from myself when I had lost my way. But I
won’t need anyone to save me from myself any longer. Mordred has come to Camelot as a usurper, but I will not surrender my
throne to him. When the time comes I will face him on the battlefield, and as God is my witness, I will do what is right.
Are you with me, men?”

“Yes!”

“For Arthur!”

“For Camelot!”

But to Merlin’s ear the shouts of victory were hollow. War had come to Arthur’s golden city, and Merlin was not wanted here.
He slipped from the tumult of shouting, cheering men and disappeared.

The rain had ended. The smell of smoke, though lingering, was faint, and Gort’s men had already cleared away most of the pyre.
Only a smear of wet ashes on the cobblestones remained to remind onlookers that here a Queen had nearly died by fire. The
clouds, robbed of their moisture, had vanished, and the sky above was the robin’s-egg blue of spring. A year ago, on a day
very much like today, Merlin had looked out over the country surrounding Camelot and wondered what he should do about Lancelot
and the Queen. Now, at last, that matter was settled, though he would never know what happened to the two of them.
They will become legends, just as I dreamed, but I will never know the end of their tale.

Merlin walked through the city, toward his little hut on the outskirts of the town. There were few people on the street for
the time of day, and those that Merlin saw looked furtive and ashamed. A great sense of guilt hung over Camelot, as though
everyone in it was conscious of having helped to commit a great wrong and now was filled with shame.

Mordred’s doing, just as the coming war was. But this war would not be fought for lands or crowns. This war would be fought
for the hearts and minds of Arthur’s people.

And all I can do is hope—from afar—that Arthur wins it,
Merlin thought bleakly.
Especially as my help seems to do more harm than good.

In his heart, Merlin knew that his time—the time of all creatures of the Old Ways—was passing, as swiftly and inexorably as
the sands that fell through an hourglass. Soon all of them would be gone, their brief season over.

Assuming, of course, that Arthur wins.

Merlin’s ruminations were cut short when he rounded a corner and came within sight of his little house.

It had been burned to the ground.

S
ifting through the wreckage and cleaning up what he could took Merlin most of the rest of the afternoon, and it seemed to
him that every time he looked up into the sky, the baleful red eye in the western sky glowed brighter, as if it were gloating
over the tragedy to come.

The burning of his home was only a harbinger of what would happen if he stayed at the King’s side. He was no longer welcome
here. Whether for good or ill, the day Merlin had worked toward from the moment of his foster mother’s death had come: Britain
belonged to the New Religion now, not the Old Ways.

But what of Mab, and her creature, Mordred?

Merlin sighed, shaking his head as he brushed his hands clean and turned back toward the castle. Mab’s cruelties had grown
more extreme as the years had passed, and Mordred was a monster. But if Merlin had learned one lesson from Arthur in all the
years of loving him and raising him and—at the last—letting him go, it was that you could not fight another’s battles.

Defeating Mab was not something Merlin could do for the people of Britain. He could oppose her influence over his own life
and try to protect those whom he loved. He could arm the King and his people with the spiritual and moral tools to take up
the fight themselves. But he could not do it for them.