Sword of the Rightful King by Jane Yolen Page B

assassins?”
    The mage shook his head. “The sword and the stone, Arthur.”
    â€œVery well. Let us talk.”
    â€œIn my workroom,” Merlinnus said. “I would not have ears hear that should not. If you will accompany me there.” He tried to stand and found he could not. Unaccountably both his knees were too weak to hold him.
Old
, he thought.
I have suddenly grown old
.
    â€œI will not only accompany you,” the king said, “it looks as if I will have to carry you.” He stood and pulled the old man to his feet, but gently. “Give me a hand with him, boy, and we will see how strong you really are.”
    Gawen was quick to offer the mage his hand.
    â€œI can walk,” Merlinnus said testily. He certainly had not meant the king or the boy—and especially not the guards—to see his weakness. “I can walk myself.”
    â€œThen lead the way,” Arthur said and, winking at Gawen, added, “and we will catch you should you fall.”
    When there was no quick answer, Arthur smiled. Finally he had had the last word.

13
Dungeon
    T HEY WOUND through the castle halls, down three flights of stairs. Often they paused on the steps to let the mage catch his breath. The walls were softened with large tapestries, and the millefleurs on them were made of many-colored threads that seemed to glow against the grey stone. Gawen nodded at the tapestries and several times ran a finger across the stitching as if counting what lay on the cloth.
    When they reached the dungeon, dark shadows danced upon the walls. The entrance to the dungeon was guarded by a large bronze head, its deep eye sockets filled with blue enamel. It was Arthur’s wish that the dungeon stayed empty. Arthur preferred to make friends of his enemies. But the threat was always there.
    At the far end was the darkest cell. They went into it. Merlinnus touched three stones, left, right, center, and then again, then backwards. The stone wall sprang open. Behind it was a wooden door.
    Merlinnus pulled up the keys that were hooked by a golden chain to his belt. It took three keys and a spell spoken in a strange tongue before the door opened.
    â€œNot Celtic,” Gawen whispered. “Nor Gallic. Nor Latin.”
    â€œGreek,” Merlinnus told him.
    Gawen shook his head. “I do not know Greek.”
    â€œI will teach you.” It was a promise, spoken like a threat.
    The king seemed little impressed. “Why so much security, Merlinnus? No one who values his soul would dare come here.” He laughed quietly. “Except me, of course.”
    â€œOf course,” Merlinnus grumbled.
    â€œYou used to let me wander into your rooms whenever I wanted to, back at Sir Ector’s,” Arthur added.
    Merlinnus turned. “Back at Sir Ector’s I was a simple apothecary and you were the foster son. No one cared what we did there.”
    The door creaked open.
    â€œAnd now?”
    Gawen answered for him, piping in brightly. “Now you are the High King and he is the High Kings mage. A spy would be well paid to gain entrance to this place.”
    Arthur reached over and grabbed Gawen up by the collar. “And are you such a spy?”
    â€œIf he were, would he have warned you?” Merlinnus said.
    Â 
    G AWEN GAZED around the room. It was a hodgepodge of tables both large and small on which stood pottery amphorae, glass bottles, and metal burners encrusted with foul matter. Hanging from the beams were bunches of dried herbs, still fragrant from the last spring: moly and mint, yarrow and lambsfoot, tansy and thyme.
    A small pallet lay in the corner. Gawen guessed it was a daybed for naps.
Who would sleep here, surrounded by so much dampness and dark?
Gawen knew the answer. The mage slept here when he was deep into his work.
    Merlinnus beckoned with one crabbed finger and Arthur picked up a torch. Then he and Gawen followed the old man down a long hall that seemed carved out of stone,