Dalley rushed in and saw what was happening. “By all the gods! Is he all right?”

“I think so.” Merlin looked up at him. “Do we know what happened? Who did this?”

“Both of the sentries at the gate have been killed. Run through.”

“No!” Brit got down beside Merlin and stroked the boy’s hair. Softly, she asked him, “Did you see who did this?”

“No. I was asleep. I felt a stabbing pain in my side and then… I don’t know.”

“I heard a scream,” Dalley explained. “I came running. A man in a dark cloak was over him, sword raised, about to hack him. When he saw me he turned and ran.”

“You didn’t see his face?” Merlin worked to maintain his composure.

“No. It was too dark. Shadows from the fire-”

“It’s all right. I think the boy will be fine.”

“That’s more than can be said for my sentries. I can see, perhaps, one of them being taken by surprise. But both? It makes no sense.”

Everyone fell silent except Petronus, who groaned softly.

Then with a start Brit exclaimed, “He was wearing my cloak! This was meant for me!”

Petronus’s wounds turned out not to be too serious; they were more bloody than dangerous. But he was badly shaken, too much so to ride a horse. Captain Dalley arranged for a carriage to transport the four of them back to Camelot, and an armed escort to ensure their safety.

Merlin was grateful. “At my age, riding a horse is not fun. My back is still aching from the journey down here.”

Brit oversaw preparations for the trip; Merlin spent time alone, thinking over the events they’d witnessed. Nimue suspected he knew who the killer was, or had a strong suspicion; but when she asked, he put her off. “It’s too early. There is still no proof.”

They traveled swiftly and were careful to avoid London and Caesar’s Bones. Thankfully, there was no more rain or snow, and they made good time. The party arrived at Camelot two nights later; it was nearly midnight and most of the residents were already asleep. They installed Petronus in an unused room in Merlin’s tower, and Nimue offered to check on him periodically. There were candles to light the room. “No smoke. No awful smell. It’s good to be home,” she said.

Arthur was not happy. It was the next morning; he paced his study, trying a new sword. “This is no good. It doesn’t have the right heft or the right balance. I want Excalibur back.” Arthur glared at Merlin then struck at the stone windowsill with his sword. The blade broke neatly in half. “I’ve tried three of these. None is as good as Excalibur. I want you to find it for me.”

“That means finding the killer. You know we’re doing what we can. But we have to be realistic. Excalibur may well have been melted down by now. Or shipped to the mainland and sold on the international market. The same for the stone and the shrine.”

Arthur listened to Merlin’s account of the events at Corfe and frowned ever more deeply. Merlin laid it all out, coolly, dispassionately. Ganelin’s chart was on the table in front of him.

“Our villain would have killed again, Arthur, and the victim would have been Britomart this time.”

“And this boy, this-what is his name?”

“Petronus.”

“Petronus. How is he?

A slight smile crossed Merlin’s lips. “His wounds weren’t terribly deep, despite all the blood. Nothing vital was pierced. But it was quite traumatic for him. He can’t understand why someone would attack him so viciously.”

Arthur slashed the air with the broken sword. “He doesn’t know about the murders, then?”

“No. It was… awkward. I suppose that would be the word. He thinks Camelot is a peaceful, harmonious court. He’ll be over it in a few weeks, possibly less.”

“Splendid. The boy is lucky you were there to tend him.”

“As I said, it looked worse than it actually was. I’m planning to have Colin take care of him while Brit and I are off in the lake country.”

“Well, we have that to be thankful for, at least. There’s been enough death.” For once, Arthur was not drinking. Merlin wondered whether it was a good sign or a bad one. “Colin isn’t going with you?”

Merlin shook his head.

It puzzled Arthur, but he let it pass. “There’s no possibility Petronus was really the intended victim? He was defecting from Guenevere’s court and Lancelot’s service, after all.”

“It’s always a possibility, of course. But he was wrapped in Brit’s cloak.”

The king paced some more. Then abruptly, he stopped and declared, “Lancelot. It must have been Lancelot.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“The boy was his squire. He’d have seen his defection as a personal affront. And you said he had left the Great Hall the night Borolet was killed.”

“That is perfectly possible, of course. And do you think the queen put him up to it?”

“Damn.” It was perfectly obvious to Merlin the king did not really want to think about any of this. “There’s no way of knowing, is there?”

Calmly, Merlin told him, “We’ll know in time. Patience and reason are our allies.”

Arthur tossed what was left of the sword into a corner and walked to the window. “You know what I want.”

“Yes.”

“Then do it.”

“Do we have your permission to investigate Mark?”

Arthur sighed; Merlin had never heard him sound quite so weary. “Do what you have to.”

“You didn’t send him to Corfe, then.” It was a statement, not a question.

“No. Of course not. Go to Cornwall and see what you can find out.”

“Arthur, you’re going to have to do something about him. Until and unless we can demonstrate clearly that his presence at Corfe was innocent-that he was there looking to gain access to the harbor for his tin shipments or some such-it would be a mistake to keep him in charge of the army.”

Arthur paused. “Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think it isn’t the first thing that occurred to me?”

“Then do it. Come up with some pretext and start easing him out of power.”

He eyed a wineskin on a corner table then seemed to think better of it. “But how? If he is a traitor, I hardly want to put him on his guard before we act. And if he isn’t, I don’t want him to suspect we think he might be.”

“Oh, the problems of being king.” Merlin smiled at him. “You wanted this, remember?”

“It wasn’t supposed to be so complicated.”

“Everything human is. Especially when subtlety is required.”

“Don’t be so smug.” He seemed to be groping for something less highly charged to talk about. “You’ve been training Colin in medical treatment?”

“Some. Happily, not much real knowledge is required here. It’s mostly a matter of bandaging the boy’s wounds and keeping him off his feet till they heal. Of course, keeping a boy that age in bed for several weeks will be an interesting challenge, but I think Colin will be up to it.”

“Several weeks? For minor wounds?”

“I’m not completely sure we can trust him. He is from Guenevere’s court, after all. His defection could be a convenient fiction to cover spying.”

Arthur moved next to him and looked at the chart. “And this thing. Have you made any progress deciphering it?”

"Well…” Merlin was suddenly in his element; he put on his best teacher manner. “These crosses seem to be heading roughly in the direction of the refectory. If we can establish that Lancelot was there with one of the girls, then we’ve eliminated the first set of symbols and the first suspect. And I’m more and more certain the triangles represent Pellenore. They ramble all over the castle.”

“But if Lancelot didn’t kill Borolet and Ganelin, it doesn’t make sense that he’d attack Brit.”

“You said it yourself. The attack may have been unrelated to the earlier killings. It may have been about Petronus. Or maybe Lancelot realized Brit had gotten him drunk and talkative in a way he didn’t like. He confessed to constant infidelity to Guenevere. And of course Guenevere herself may have been behind the attack, if she suspected Britomart was seducing her man.”