The End of Magic (26 page)

“Betraying my principles, I’m afraid,” Frik said, striving for his old ironic tone. It was strange to see his old pupil again
under these circumstances, and warming to know that Merlin remembered him kindly. “Indeed, I’ve always believed it’s better
to be a coward for a second than dead for a lifetime. But here I am—fighting. And fighting on the side of right, which is
worse.” He smiled his old toothy smile.

“And Mab?” Merlin asked.

“As a matter of fact, I gave in my notice. If you’re going after her, you’ll need help.”

Merlin smiled wearily. “All I can get, my friend.” He clasped Frik warmly upon the shoulder, then walked past him to where
Gawain stood.

“Gawain,” Merlin said.

The Iceni prince looked up, his eyes slowly focusing upon Merlin. “So you came back,” he said slowly.

“Arthur is dead,” Merlin said, as gently as he could.

Gawain’s face settled into lines of deeper grief. “I should have killed that little monster the moment he set foot in Camelot,”
he said raggedly. There was a moment of silence. “What of Excalibur?”

“Gone, back into the care of the Lady of the Lake,” Merlin answered.

“Good. This isn’t a world for magic swords—or for heroes.” Gawain gazed at Merlin challengingly. “Arthur told me—if he should
die—he wanted me to take the throne. I suppose I shall, now.”

“I won’t dispute your right. I don’t suppose there is anyone now in all of Britain who has a better claim to the throne. Your
aunt was Uther’s sister, after all. You will make a good king, Gawain.”

“I don’t want the job,” Gawain said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“All the best people don’t,” Merlin told him kindly. “I know you will do your best.”

“I can begin now,” Gawain said. “Show me where Arthur lies.”

Merlin and Gawain brought Arthur’s body back to their camp laid across Sir Rupert’s saddle. The soldiers were straggling back
toward the tents along with the most able of the wounded.

Gawain rallied the surviving troops, found horses, and sent men out with wagons to retrieve those who were so badly injured
that they could not walk. Once that had been set in motion, he had Arthur’s body laid out on a bier draped in scarlet samite,
so that the men who had fought for him could pay their last respects to their beloved commander. Torches on long poles burned
at each of the four corners of the bier, casting their wan illumination into the misty gloom.

“He will be buried at Avalon,” Gawain said, standing beside the bier. “Beneath the floor of the Grail Chapel, so that he can
be as close as possible to the last earthly resting place of the Grail.” He bowed his head in grief.

Merlin gazed down at the still face of the boy he’d loved and raised and relinquished to death. He had sacrificed everything
for Arthur, but he did not feel bereft. What Arthur had striven for had been a worthy gamble, and the good that he had done
would live on.

For a moment Merlin’s mind was far away and long ago. Uther had been about Arthur’s age when Merlin had gone to him to stop
the greedy king’s foolish war over Igraine. Standing in Uther’s tent, Merlin had experienced a vision—of a golden King whose
name would live for a thousand years. Despite all the grief, the pain, the loss, the betrayal that had come after, Merlin
knew that his vision had not lied. Arthur would be remembered for as long as men sought the Light.

He watched beside Arthur’s bier a few moments longer as the last of the day faded, and then went into the tent to rest.

“I’ve brought you a weapon,” Frik said.

Merlin sat up, blinking owlishly.

The candles had burned low as he sat brooding over his wine. He must have dozed, for he had not heard Frik come in.

The gnome was still dressed as a soldier, his long pointed ears poking up from the sides of his plain bronze helmet and his
shirt of scale mail gleaming dully in the dim light. As Merlin watched, he laid an object upon the table between them.

It was about as long as Merlin’s forearm, white and curved like the twisted horn of a bull, but no bull had ever shed this
particular horn. It smooth surface gleamed with the translucent opalescence of mother of pearl, and as Merlin reached for
it, he saw that its surface was covered with thousands of tiny runes, their strokes no thicker than a human hair.

The Horn’s bell was rimmed in gold, and it had a gold band about its middle and a gold mouthpiece. Each of these three bands
of gold was set with rubies and opals, and between and around them, the gold was carved with more faint symbols of magic.
A strap of carved and gilded leather was attached to the Horn at two points, so that it could be slung over its owner’s shoulder.
The magic horn sparkled even in the faint candlelight, and even without touching it, Merlin’s fingers tingled with the magic
it radiated.

“What is this?” Merlin asked.

“I do hope you haven’t forgotten all your lessons, Master Merlin,” Frik said, simpering in his old school-teacherish fashion.
“This is one of the Thirteen Treasures of Britain, of course.”

“The Horn of Idath,” Merlin said, picking it up. The shock of its magic ran down his arm and through his chest as if it were
alive.

He remembered his lessons well. The Horn of Idath had the power to strike terror into those who heard it, to suspend time,
or to summon Lord Idath himself. It could not be used except by a Lord of Fairy or a wizard. Neither Frik nor Mordred, touched
with magic though they both were, could have used its power.

“How did you get this?” Merlin asked.

“From an old friend of yours, as it turns out,” Frik said. “My late employer turned him into a tree, but somehow she forgot
to take this away with her. Careless of her. Perhaps she thought no one would notice it was there.”

Merlin smiled grimly. A weapon, Frik had called this. But how was it to be used? He did not wish to summon Lord Idath, even
if he could be certain the fairy Lord of Winter would help him in his battle against Mab. And its magic would not work against
Mab directly. She had said it herself, when he had met her last near this very place:
“Magic only makes me stronger.”

Suddenly Merlin remembered something that the Lady of the Lake had said to him. It had not seemed important at the time, but
now he thought it might hold the key:
“When we are forgotten, we cease to exist.”

He knew at last how to defeat Mab.

“Come, Frik,” Merlin said, getting to his feet. “We can leave Gawain to deal with matters here. Tonight we must ride for Camelot.”

He tucked the Horn carefully inside his cloak.

The two of them rode through the night and half of the following day to reach Camelot, but fast as they were, word of Arthur’s
death had already preceded them. The citizens of Camelot had fled the castle, the city, and the surrounding village, leaving
not even a chicken behind.

But the city was not uninhabited.

Shadows of creatures that had once been the Bright Folk of Fairy slunk through its streets, hungering for human prey. Mab
had created monsters in Mordred’s honor, monsters enough to haunt the dreams of children for a thousand years.

The golden stone of Camelot had already begun to crumble, and black weeds had grown up through the blocks of stone. Broad
patches of green scum already covered the surface of the shining lake, and the River Astolat had become choked with weeds.
It had spread beyond its banks, turning the land around it to a stinking mire into which Camelot was slowly sinking. The city
that Arthur and Lancelot had labored so long to build was crumbling away, and the wind wailed through its deserted towers
with a sobbing sound that was nearly human. From this place Mab would spread the blackest of her magic, slaying what she could
not subvert, until she had destroyed all of mortalkind on the Isle of Britain.

Unless someone stopped her.

“Here?” Merlin asked, looking down from the crest of the hill to the city of Camelot.

“Yes,” Frik said, looking around. “This will do nicely.”

“You know your part?” Merlin asked, for they had made their plans together on the long ride here.

“Perfectly,” Frik answered. “I’ve always fancied that my skills lay in a literary direction, and I dare say this will be a
perfect time to demonstrate them.”

Merlin smiled bleakly and raised the Horn to his lips.

He blew the first note on the Horn, and it seemed as if he could see its magic, as if ripples moved out through the air at
the sound as they would have from a stone thrown into water. The very fabric of reality rippled.

He blew the second note on the Horn, and the ripples grew more pronounced, turning the world to concentric bands of light
and dark, so that the vista around them seemed to form a dizzying spiral of ebony and gold, swirling like a whirlpool that
pulled all into its depths.

He sounded the Horn for the last time, and now the ripples equalized. Everything became bright and still, glowing with the
bright gold of summer.

As the last note of the Horn faded away, the Horn itself rippled in Merlin’s fingers, crumbling away as if it were made of
sand. He dropped it to the ground, brushing flecks of it from his fingers, and before it struck, the only parts left were
the jewels and the three golden bands. Then the golden bands powdered away as well, and for an instant the jewels winked among
the blades of grass until they melted like frost on an autumn morning.

The Horn had served its purpose.

Without another word, Frik and Merlin strode down the hillside into Camelot, to confront Mab.

T
he two men, gnome and wizard, strode boldly through the crumbling halls of Camelot. Merlin knew exactly where Mab would be,
in the one place in Britain that had been the seat of Arthur’s pride and all his hopes.

As the two of them approached, the iron-bound, red-painted doors to the chamber in which the Round Table stood flew inward.

Mab was seated at Arthur’s place at the table.

Mordred’s death had aged her terribly, as if part of her magic had died with her last hope of victory. Her flowing hair was
now more white than black, and where she had once worn glittering black, iridescent as crows’ feathers, now her tattered raiment
was the soft pale color of ancient dust.

“I knew I’d find you here, Mab,” Merlin said as he walked through the door. Frik strode beside him, his gnomish face pale
but determined.

“So you’ve come to see my final triumph!” Mab whispered.

For the first time, Merlin felt a twinge of fear upon seeing her. The Queen of the Old Ways was truly dangerous now. Her magic
was unraveling, and with it, the ancient bindings that had kept her from killing. The power she expended now she could not
replace through her ancient earth magic, but even with her proud enchantments failing, Mab was still a thousand times more
powerful than a mere half-human wizard who had not mastered the third stage of magic. In this moment, Mab was as deadly as
a venomous serpent, and just as unpredictable.

But Merlin would not allow himself to care. Destroying her was too important.

“I’ve come to see your final defeat,” Merlin answered implacably, standing across the table from her. How long had it been
since he had stood in this very spot to tell Arthur good-bye for the last time?

“You were always a dreamer,” Mab sneered. “Let me see,” she said, ticking her words off on her fingers. “You’ve lost Arthur—the
battle—your one true love—”

“The battle isn’t over,” Merlin said.

“She’s weakened herself,” Frik whispered in Merlin’s ear.

It didn’t really matter what he said. The point was that Mab see them together, both on the same side.

“All you have to do now, Master Merlin, is—”

“Why are you consulting with that traitor?” Mab demanded irrationally, for if Frik was a traitor to the Old Ways, Merlin was
just as much of one. She sprang to the top of the table and stalked across it, glowering down menacingly at the two men.

“Madame!” Frik protested, feigning outrage. “After all my years of faithful service! I mean, that’s rather harsh.”

“Not as harsh as I’m going to be,” Mab growled. She raised her arms, preparing to hurl a lethal spell at her former servant.

“Sorry! Can’t stay,” Frik said briskly.

He turned and scurried from the room, slamming the doors behind him. A moment later, Mab and Merlin heard the sound of bolts
being thrown. The room was sealed.

“Mordred’s dead,” Mab said, looking down at Merlin.

For a moment the inhuman rage in her features was replaced by grief. Merlin almost pitied her. To reach out so hungrily for
love and to be so incapable of feeling it…

But that was no excuse for her crimes.

“So we both have nothing to lose,” Merlin said, taking a step toward her. “The battle is just between you and me, Mab.”

Merlin smiled faintly. He had never been her equal in wizardly power, and after the one attempt when he was a boy and another
at Sarum, Merlin had known that he could never match her strength to strength. But now all the rules were changed.

The Queen of the Old Ways smiled as if to say she had expected nothing less from him. Then, in a heartbeat, she had put the
width of the table between them once more, and with the tiniest of nods ripped it in half. The green-and-white table split
down the center, its pieces flung to the walls, exposing the splintered ruin of its carved pedestal. Blue sparks of magic
and the smoke of burning wood filled the chamber.

Merlin flinched back from the explosion, raising his arm to protect himself, but the destruction of the Round Table—a symbolic
echo of an already-accomplished literal act—was not the real danger. As the dust began to settle, Mab leaned forward, her
mouth stretched in the fearsome wail of the
bean-sidhé.

Her soundless scream whipped itself around Merlin like the winds of a high gale, carrying splinters and small bits of debris
with it. Slowly he was lifted off his feet, rising higher and higher until he was pressed against the timbered ceiling of
the tower, a hundred feet above the flagstoned floor.