The Camelot Spell - Laura Anne Gilman [1]
And this newest idea of the king’s, this Quest for the Holy Grail…pffagh again. The last thing King Arthur needed was to send his men haring about on some foolishness when he should be keeping them close at hand. But one might as well talk to a horse as Arthur once the boy had an idea stuck in his head.
Perhaps it was not entirely madness. The Grail, beyond its significance as a holy relic, was an object of true power with the weight of a thousand years of history behind it. Although it pained Merlin to admit it, there were things his magic could not accomplish for King Arthur; places where neither magic nor warriors swayed minds or hearts. But this Grail—the Christians’ Holy Grail—might indeed be the answer to that.
And if Arthur wanted the Grail for more than simply political reasons; a matter of religion perhaps—well, each man must choose his own God, as he sees fit. So long as he keeps his feet firmly on this earth, while he lives on it.
Despite the dust on the floor, the Table itself gleamed, the entire surface made from a single great oak Arthur himself had chosen. He came up with some astonishingly stupid ideas, yes, but even Merlin had to admit that the Table was a good one. A round table, where none might feel greater or lesser than any other? A table where any man might sit next to his king and lean over to give him counsel? Yes, a good idea. An excellent idea, cementing the petty war-leaders and chieftains to the warrior-king who united them. Though at times such conviviality led men into thinking that they were all equal, and they were not. Some were greater fools than the others.
Speaking of which…
“You, Gerard,” the enchanter snapped. “Tell someone to clean in here! I don’t care if it is winter and they’re bored out of their small skulls. Arthur cannot call his knights to order when they can’t speak for coughing.”
He grinned at the startled young creature who appeared in front of him. The boy had been hiding behind one of the tapestries that lined the chamber—the one that showed Arthur taking his sword Excalibur from the stone in order to prove his lineage. The boy had been snooping where he shouldn’t have been, obviously, and hid when he heard Merlin come in. Now he stared at the enchanter, his eyes open wide.
“There’s no magic to knowing your name, boy.” Well, all right, some magic. How else could he tell the little beasts that passed for pages and squires apart? “As for finding you…you left a trail in the dust. And you’re the only one of your pack who would be in here, touching and nosing where you’ve no right to be. No, no apologies. I admire that sort of behavior. When you’ve got power, then you can play by the rules. Until then, make do with whatever you can find or ferret out.”
“That’s not—” Gerard started, suddenly realizing who he was arguing with.
“Not right? Not knightly behavior? Maybe. Maybe not.” Merlin bent forward and looked at the boy closely. The squire’s blond hair had been cut short, the better to fit under a helm, and his big blue eyes held something familiar in them….
“Right. Kay’s nephew, the one who’s been fostered to Rheynold?” Fostering was the current popular practice of sending your boy-children, when they reached a certain age, to be raised in the household of another knight who could train them without letting ties of blood or affection interfere. Rheynold didn’t take many squires, but when the king’s own foster brother asks…
Without waiting for the squire to respond, the enchanter nodded his head, his own eyes dark and sharp above an eagle’s beak of a nose. “You’ve impressed me, boy, although cursed if I can remember how, since it hasn’t happened yet. Keep up with it, keep up with it! And mind you