“I hope,” Merlin had told Arthur dryly, “you will remember where the real courage at Camelot resides-among the scholars and teachers, not the knights.”

“It might do you well to think about the difference between being brave and being foolhardy. You’ll kill yourself in that thing. You’ll fall, or one of the chains will break, or-”

“Then Camelot will enjoy the pageantry of a state funeral.”

“You’re hopeless.” Arthur snorted and stomped away.

And so Merlin made his way to the King’s Tower, the tallest in Camelot.

The halls were, as usual, alive with activity. Servants and knights came and went. Women from the kitchen carried trays of food or packs of fresh provisions. Women carrying fresh linens for the living quarters smiled and greeted him.

At the foot of the King’s Tower he gaped up at the scores of steps and sighed. He wanted to build another lifting machine there but so far Arthur had not been willing to permit it.

The guards at their posts saluted him as he ascended the winding staircase, each of them in turn as Merlin reached their stations on the successive landings, and offered him a helping hand. At the top, quite out of wind, he found Simon of York. Simon grinned at him, plainly enjoying his fatigue. “You made it.”

“Do I not always?”

“Those steps are difficult, Merlin. I tend to come up here first thing every morning and then try and stay the whole day. When I’m lucky, Arthur doesn’t have anything for me to do anywhere else in the castle. You should have that boy of yours come along to help you up.”

“Petronus is in the schoolroom. He has lessons to learn. But I am surprised these stairs give you so much trouble. You are a generation younger than me.”

“My parents are both arthritic. As a result, so am I.” He rubbed his back. “I’m moving them here from Yorkshire, into a little room at the back of Camelot. I’m afraid wolves would get them otherwise. You know how bitter Yorkshire winters can get.”

“Indeed, what could be worse than a wolf from York?” The none-too-subtle barb was lost on Simon, but he narrowed his eyes, plainly suspecting he was the butt of Merlin’s sarcasm.

Merlin was slowly getting his wind back. Before Simon could decide how to react, he gestured at the king’s suite of rooms. “How is he today, Simon?”

“Still worried about which profile to use. It’s been a week, Merlin, and that is all he thinks about. We’ve gotten virtually nothing accomplished. Can’t you prod him to make a decision?”

“Just be happy things are so calm for the moment. And that he is not drinking. Is anyone with him?”

Simon shook his head. “Go in. He’s in the study, with those confounded portraits.”

Arthur’s study was large but simply furnished. There was a table and four wooden chairs, a few low stools, tapestries on the walls to kill drafts and enough torches to light the room but not terribly well. On stands were three large portraits of Arthur, one in left profile, one in right and one full face. The king stood before one of them, looking serious, rubbing his chin, when he noticed his advisor. “Merlin. Good morning. I think I like this one the best.”

“You said that yesterday, Arthur. Then five minutes later you preferred another one.” He smiled. “Good morning.”

“This is an important decision. I want to make the right impression.”

“Most of your subjects have never seen you and never will.”

“Exactly the point. I want them to know me, at least to the extent they can through a portrait.”

“A miniature portrait. On a coin.” Merlin sat down and arranged his robes. “I keep trying to learn how the Romans managed such excellent portraiture on their currency, but there is nothing about it in any of the libraries. But why worry about it? You could issue coins with a hunchbacked dwarf on them and it would hardly matter.”

“Now you know that isn’t true. My image must inspire confidence.”

“Then use a portrait of Emperor Justinian.”

Arthur snorted. “You think I’m being vain and foolish. I know that. But a king has a right to a certain amount of vanity.”

“A king has a right to rule, not to dither. Besides, this business of kings having some sort of inherent rights is an idea left over from ancient Egypt -a culture you always scoff at. I am not at all certain it has a place in the modern world. You are king because you made yourself king, because you fought for it. Excalibur gives you such rights as you have.” He sighed. “Simon is complaining. I know you think he is a fussy old woman, and if it comes down to it, I suppose he is, but he says you are neglecting your other duties. The kingdom is grinding to a halt, it seems.”

“We’ve had this kind of discussion too many times. Villains have swords, too. If we are to have order, there must be something higher we’re answerable to. The Christian Church is promoting the idea that kings rule by divine right.”

“Bosh. If you are going to listen to that fool of a bishop, Gildas, I will not be responsible for what happens.”

“Is this Merlin speaking? The architect of our new England, land of justice and equality? Do you really wish all of that to rest on nothing but my sword?”

“This is Merlin the pragmatist. Julius Caesar married Cleopatra because the Egyptian religion said that divinity rested in her. By marrying her, he acquired that divinity, that so-called divine right to rule. And Europe has been saddled with it ever since.” He looked down at the floor. “You married Guenevere.”

“Perhaps he loved her. They say Cleopatra was quite a beauty, Merlin. A fabulous woman. Legendary.”

“Have you ever seen the coins she minted? Some of them still circulate in Egypt, believe it or not. She was plain, even matronly. But her legend trumps that, it seems.”

Arthur grinned. “Then the image on a monarch’s coins does matter after all. Is that what you’re admitting?” He paused. “I’ve asked some of the knights which one to use. Sir Kay prefers the middle one. So does his squire, Jumonet.”

“So you are letting squires advise you now?” Merlin sighed deeply. “I surrender. You are a handsome man, Arthur. Any of those three would make a striking impression on a penny, if that is what you want. For heaven’s sake choose one.”

Arthur walked from one of the portraits to the next. His tone turned unexpectedly somber. “I find myself,” he said heavily, “thinking about my legacy. Do you know what I found last week?” He pointed to his temple. “A gray hair.”

“Shocking. A silver hair among all those bright golden ones. You must be on your last legs.”

“I’m serious, Merlin. How will I be remembered? Who will succeed me?”

“You are still in your thirties, Arthur.”

“My late thirties.”

“Even so. Talk like this is wildly premature.”

He peered at Merlin. “Shall I make you my heir?”

“Horrors, no!”

“You will outlive me, Merlin. Wizards always live to enormous age.”

“Do not be preposterous. Arthur, you are good for years. Decades, most likely.”

“What if my loving wife breaks out of her prison and starts another war against me?”

“You will defeat her. You always have. She never wins.”

“The old Count of Darrowfield never died-until last week.”

“He was eighty-three. And he was one of the dreariest men I have ever known. He may actually have bored himself to death.”

“Even so. His son is succeeding him. His legacy is intact.”

“His son is two decades older than you.” He lowered his voice slightly. “And rumor has always had it he was a bastard.” Suddenly he seemed to realize where the king’s thought was heading. He frowned deeply. “Arthur, what do you have in mind?”

“I must select an heir. England ’s stability depends on it.”

“What a pity you did not marry more wisely. You would have sons now.”

“I have sons. Probably more than I know. But would anyone recognize them as legitimate heirs?”