No one in the Great Hall moved. People leaned forward to hear more clearly. Lancelot squirmed in his seat. But Merlin kept a careful eye on Mark, who was looking increasingly upset.

On the stage the elder gravedigger shuffled his feet and said, “It was the squire, sir. The king’s late squire.”

“Which one? Could you please tell us which it was?”

“We don’t ever know their names, sir. We just dig the holes and fill them in afterward.”

A few people in the audience laughed nervously. Mark inched forward in his seat.

Merlin went on. “But there were two of them. Both of the king’s squires were killed, one after the other. And- you placed them in the same grave?”

“Yes, sir. One of them was horribly mangled, sir-cut to pieces. That’s the one that’s still at rest in the graveyard. This is the other one.”

“This is the body of poor murdered Ganelin, then?”

“Like I said, sir, we never know their names.”

“I see. No, I suppose there is no reason why you should. And has the frozen earth preserved the body?”

“Yes, sir. He looks the way he did the day we buried him.”

“I see. Thank you very much.”

Looking at each other, puzzled by what was going on and why they’d had to speak before the audience, the two men climbed down from the stage and left.

Merlin took up the Stone of Bran, which was still brightly lit. He held it high above him then slowly lowered it and touched the head of the shrouded body with it. Three times he passed it over the length of the boy then he touched it to the head once again.

Slightly, almost imperceptibly, the body twitched.

In the audience some people gasped; most were transfixed by what they were seeing and fell perfectly silent. At the side of the stage Arthur sat and watched, mesmerized.

They watched as the body moved again, first the arms, then the legs, stretching slowly as if waking from a long, deep sleep. Petronus pointed his lenses at it, and the shroud caught the light and glowed ghostly pale.

An arm, caked with dirt and blood, reached out from beneath the shroud. Merlin stepped forward and took the hand in his, and the corpse sat up, still wrapped in its shroud.

“Please,” Merlin said gravely, “tell us who you are.”

And a voice came clearly through the cloth. “I am Ganelin, squire to King Arthur of Camelot. I am cold.”

“Ganelin, do you understand what has happened to you?”

“Yes.” The word’s final s was long and drawn out, almost a hiss. “I have been foully murdered. I have lain in the earth these many weeks, in the icy, frozen earth.”

Merlin helped the boy to his feet, the winding-sheet still wrapped around him. And Merlin kept a careful eye on the audience, to gauge reactions. Morgan was watching the stage carefully, studying it as a conjurer might study a rival’s tricks. Mordred stood at her side, wide-eyed, not moving. Mark was glowering and trembling in his seat, whether with rage or fear or some combination of the two, Merlin could not tell. Guenevere held Lancelot’s hand tightly.

“Tell us, Ganelin,” Merlin intoned. “Did you see the face of the the one who killed you?”

“Yesss.”

There was not a sound in the Great Hall. Not the least movement, except for Mark, leaning forward in his seat, fingering the hilt of his sword, and Lancelot pulling free of Guenevere’s hand and inching forward in his chair like a man preparing to bolt and run.

“Name him. Tell us, Ganelin, who it was. Who killed you and your brother?”

“Ohhh.” The corpse groaned. “I cannot. It is too painful.”

“I have restored your life. Now I command you, by the Stone of Bran. Name your murderer!”

Suddenly with a loud roar Mark pushed through the audience and leaped onto the stage, brandishing his sword. “No! You are dead. Do not speak my name. Do not profane it with your moldering lips!”

He lunged at the boy, and Merlin pulled him out of harm’s way to the side of the stage. Mark swung his sword at Merlin and he ducked.

Arthur jumped to his feet and drew Excalibur. Instantly, the two men, Arthur and Mark, were locked in a duel. They circled one another, they threatened, they slashed. Mark lunged and his sword hit home in Arthur’s left arm. Blood flowed, but Arthur recovered himself quickly. He rushed at Mark and knocked him to the stage, then stood over him with Excalibur poised directly above his throat.

More knights rushed the stage, surrounded the prostrate Mark and caught him. He struggled, shouting, “No! This is unholy! The dead cannot speak to the living. The dead cannot indict the living. This is blasphemy!”

“Take him away,” Arthur said quietly. “To the dungeon. Lock him away.” With Mark still struggling fiercely against their hold, they did so.

Away from this action, Merlin placed an arm around the boy in the shroud. And slowly the shroud fell away, revealing him to be the young actor Watson.

The audience, still in shock from Mark’s attack and capture, took a moment to react to this. Then, as they gradually realized who the “dead” boy really was, soft, nervous laughter began to spread through the hall. Merlin made a gesture to wave everyone out of the hall, and slowly, by twos, threes and fours, they began to leave.

Nimue, dressed again as Colin, climbed to the stage and put her own arm around the boy. “Go ahead, Merlin. I’ll take care of him.”

Merlin crossed to Arthur. The king was still excited, still breathing heavily and plainly tense in every muscle. “Arthur, it is over. You can relax now.”

“It is not over. I want to know why he did it. Find out for me.”

“Calm yourself. We have him. Everything will come out in time.”

“Merlin, this is not what I wanted. Not what I tried to build.”

“You’ve said that before. Let me look at that wound. Can you make it up the steps to my tower? I have a salve that will help, and bandages.”

“It isn’t bad. A lot of blood but not much pain.” He took a deep breath and looked into Merlin’s eyes. “I’m the king. Why can’t things be as I want them to be?”

“Perhaps because kings are only human beings with circles of metal on their heads.”

Arthur finally let himself relax. All the energy seemed to leave him, and he slumped. “Nothing that glib and cynical could be true.”

“Do you want me to lecture you on the nature of truth?”

“For God’s sake, Merlin, no.”

“Then come with me and let me see to your arm.”

TEN. KING AND COUNSELOR

Merlin had slept late this morning. After Mark was arrested, Arthur had ordered even more feasting than usual for the rest of the Midwinter Court, and Merlin, in a jubilant mood, had quite uncharacteristically drunk two cups of wine-not much by Camelot’s standards, but more than he was used to.

So he woke to find Nimue standing over him, shaking him. “It’s nearly noon. Don’t you think you should get up?”

“My head is going to explode. Go away and leave me to die.”

“No one can find the king.”

“Arthur?”

“He’s the only one we have.”

He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Blast whatever demon first fermented wine.” He looked at her suspiciously. “Why aren’t you hungover?”

“I only had one goblet of hock. I know my limits.” She put on her best sarcastic grin. “I live a life ruled by reason.”

“Be quiet.” Roc and the other ravens were scratching for food on the stone floor. “Go and get them some bread crumbs or something, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

She started to go.

“Wait. You said Arthur is missing.”

“Yes. We’ve looked everywhere. No one can find him at all.”

“I can’t tell you how much I hate court life.”

“Do you have any idea where he might be, Merlin?”

“I think I might. I’ll have to go and see.”

“I’d brace myself if I were you.” She reached for the door.

“Stop. What are you talking about?”