“My means of travel are no business of skinny-shanked princes of moorland and mud, Lance o’Lough. Is the work done, King Arthur? Is the dragon slain?”
Lance stared. His ears tried to pop again, and his sinuses crackled as if he’d surfaced too fast from a dive. If he could only close a grip on the veil of illusion hanging between him and this old man, he was certain he’d see…
“Lance? Are you all right?”
Art, still kneeling, was gazing up at him in concern. “I’m fine,” Lance said, and leaned to help him up. “Come on. No-one commands the king of the Britons this way—not even a Merlin. Isn’t that right, my lord?”
Unreadably the Merlin held his gaze. “The king of the Britons has not yet answered my question.”
Art seemed to pull himself out of a mild trance. “No, I haven’t. Not slain, Merlin, but made harmless, I’m sure. The creature became a snake, and then a little earthworm. Then it vanished into a rock on Spindlestone Heughs.”
“The spire on the top of the crags? The very spindle stone?”
“That’s right. How did you know?”
The old man spread his arms. “How do I know that you must fight the Saxon enemy, not appease him? That your bride will soon arise like the dawn to honour and bless your realm, and until that time, the less you’re seen wandering these halls in the arms of your new general, the better?”
Lance wanted to laugh. Worse, he wanted to reach out and pull the Merlin’s long white beard—as if by so doing he could tug off a mask, and find beneath it… What? A familiar friend, playing an unfathomable practical joke? That was the feeling he had, but Art clearly didn’t share it. His face had darkened with anger. “Come with me,” Lance said, trying to ease him away. “It’s late. Never mind the prophecies for now.”
“I’m not concerned about those. Listen to me, Merlin—I’ll wander in anyone’s arms I choose. And you’ll address my general with respect. He healed me, which was more than you could do with any of your potions and chants.”
No point for Lance in reminding Art that he was nobody’s general yet. And he wasn’t about to discuss his dubious healing powers—or his methods—with this suddenly keen-eyed old man. “Arthur,” he said, not concealing a rasp of authority. “Come away and get some sleep.”
“Why?” Art demanded. “Does it botheryouto be seen in my arms? Wouldyourather hide?”
“I’ll hide it from anyone who has no business with my affairs or yours. But, for the needs of this moment—yours, your Merlin’s, any walls with eyes or ears—I’m asking you to accompany me to my bedchamber, and heaven help anyone who disturbs us there before dawn.”
Art’s eyebrows flew up. He underwent a perfect sunrise of his own, with colours to match. For this moment at least, all thoughts of old men and prophecies were forgotten. Lance seized his opportunity and began to push him up the stairs.
The Merlin stepped aside for them. “Even as much as you love him,” he said as they went past, and his voice had lost its caw and gained a resonant sadness that tugged on layers of Lance’s memory, “even that much, to that very height and depth, you will betray him.”
Art whipped round. Lance stopped him by main force, planting one hand on his chest, taking hold of his jaw and turning him so that they were nose to nose, sealed into a world that held only the two of them and was complete. “Arthur,don’t.”
“You heard him. I’ll have him killed for you.”
Lance risked a flicker of a smile. “We don’t even know which of us he meant.”
“Well, it can’t be you. And it certainly can’t be me, because…”
The scent of ozone rose again, copper and salt and blood. Lance didn’t have to look to know that the old man was gone. He kept his grip on Art’s jaw, leaned down—of the two, Lance was a little the taller now, though he couldn’t have said when that had happened—and kissed him until he was quivering, eyes closed, a frozen river ready to burst into a torrent of springtime melt. “I’ll love you until your throat’s raw with saying my name,” Lance promised. “And then I’ll love you to sleep, because if I don’t, Garbonian will make mincemeat of you in the debating chamber tomorrow. And those are all the prophecies you need.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Your Majesty,” a small voice said, so faint that it was almost lost in the debating hall’s echoes. The speakers and audience had barely finished settling down after their arrival. A page boy approached Arthur with deferential step. “Your Majesty,” he repeated. “I come from Prince Garbonian.”
Lance leaned forward. He could have had a front-row seat today, but preferred the broad perspective of his former perch, from which all kinds of things could be seen. Briefly Arthur met his eyes, in wry acknowledgement that neither of them—nor Coel himself, to judge by his expression—had missed Prince Garb so far.
“Very well,” Arthur said, gesturing the boy forward. “I trust the prince is in good health?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. He…” The boy stopped. Clearly it was one thing to be given a message, and quite another to deliver it. “He begs King Arthur and King Coel to allow him to enter Din Guardi with Oesa, a nobleman from the Anglian settlement near Alauna. Oesa has his wife and children with him to offer as hostages. He wishes to treat for peace.”
Lance had fulfilled his prophecies. Art had slept well. It had only been for a few hours, but he had fallen into smiling dreams as easily as if his head had never borne a crown. He looked refreshed. His world and his beliefs had been turned upside down and shaken until they rattled since last he had stood in this hall.Not Anglian raiders but a dragon, now become a worm again and sent harmlessly back to the earth…He turned to Coel. “Your Highness, will you consider it?”
Coel grunted in astonishment. “No, of course not,” he said reflexively. Then he looked into the face of this young king who was shedding the light of a new age around his gloomy home. “Why? Do you think we should?”
