The shrine was evidently too large to fit into the shelved cabinet that held the crown jewels. It rested on a small wooden table in one corner of the room. And it was a fine piece of work, much more so than Merlin expected and more so than anything else he’d seen in England. It was cubical, more than two feet on a side. The walls were made of burnished silver; silver filigree covered most of it, and carefully placed rubies provided bright accents. With no special lighting at all, it gleamed.

Merlin and Nimue were duly impressed and said so.

“But, Your Majesty, shouldn’t it be locked securely away?”

“Of course not, Colin. There’s a guard here and another at the foot of the stairs. Besides, no one would ever dare come in here without permission. No one ever has.”

“My grandfather never died,” Merlin said dryly, “until last year.”

Arthur scowled. “This is a big day for me, Merlin. For all of us. Try not to dampen it too badly, will you?”

Merlin ignored this and bent down to inspect the shrine more closely. “This really is excellent workmanship. As good as some of the things I saw at the court of the emperor Justinian.” He had also seen much better ones there, and in Rome, in Jerusalem and elsewhere, but he decided not to mention the fact. “How did Mark ever lure a craftsman this skilled to Cornwall?”

“There is money in Cornwall,” Arthur said, pleased by the thought. “All Europe buys our tin for their bronze. They need it.”

Merlin ran a finger along one edge of the shrine. And he found he couldn’t hold his tongue after all. “And Pastorini is probably a second-rank metalsmith or he wouldn’t have come here. Imagine what a really first-rate one could do, a Roman or a Byzantine.”

“Nothing better than this.” Arthur beamed.

Merlin decided not to press the point. There was no politic way to do so without pricking Arthur’s sense of importance. But he wanted to learn what he could about the art of metalworking. “Where is Pastorini? I’d like to congratulate him.”

“Back in Cornwall.”

“You’re not letting him attend the ceremony?”

“Tonight is for the stone, Merlin, not the shrine.”

“Still, it seems unfair to deny him recognition for this.”

Arthur shrugged. “He’s been paid. That’s the kind of recognition artists like best. I’m going down to the courtyard to exercise now. To burn off some of this energy. Would you like to do some fencing, Colin?”

“No thank you, sir.”

“Oh.” He seemed puzzled by the refusal. “I’ll never get used to the two of you. Well, I’ll see you both tonight in the Great Hall. The ceremony starts promptly at eight.”

Something occurred to Merlin. “I haven’t seen Percival anywhere lately. He will be there, won’t he? In a place of honor?”

“His influenza has turned to pneumonia. He’s infected half a dozen people already. I don’t wanting him spreading his sickness any further.”

“Maybe you should have him share quarters with Guenevere. ”

“Don’t give me any ideas.”

“I can’t help it. Guenevere inspires them. Well, we will see you tonight, then.”

“Till then.” Arthur beamed, pleased they were duly impressed, and reached for a fencing saber.

“Aren’t you going to show us the stone?” Nimue couldn’t hide her disappointment.

Merlin could never resist needling him. “You know-the really important object?”

Arthur ignored him and addressed Colin. “Oh, that’s right. You haven’t seen it yet, have you?”

“No, sir.”

Voice lowered, he said, “Here it is.” He scowled briefly at Merlin, as if warning him not to make any impertinent comments, then turned his attention to the shrine. Slowly, carefully, almost reverently, he slid the door open on its hinges.

And there it was. The stone had been polished since Merlin last saw it. It was perfectly smooth, perfectly brilliant: a sleek glass skull, four inches high. It caught the light; dark as it was, it seemed almost to glow.

Colin’s eyes widened with wonder, and even Merlin seemed impressed.

“It’s beautiful, Your Majesty.” Colin reached out a fingertip to touch it but Arthur caught his hand and moved it away.

“No! I don’t want that finish ruined. Pastorini spent hours polishing it.”

Merlin looked around the room to see if there was a light trained on it; there was none. Then he moved close and inspected it carefully. “It is beautiful, Arthur. But is it magical? ”

“We’ll know soon enough, won’t we?”

“What miracles has it worked so far?”

“Stop it, Merlin.” Carefully he closed the shrine. “The rite begins promptly at eight o’clock.” He smiled and made a little salute to each of them. “Till then.”

The Great Hall was crowded, even more than it had been on the day when Arthur announced the finding of the stone. People had come from all over the country; entire noble families with their retainers wanted to see the Stone of Bran. There were nowhere near enough chairs; many people were standing. Tapestries depicting the exploits of Bran had been hung all along the wall. The court musicians played festive music. Servants circulated with cakes and ale. This was a holiday, it seemed, even if it wasn’t official.

Mordred and his servants had done a fine job of creating the proper mood. The hall was mostly dark, lit only by occasional candles, except for the dais, which was ablaze with torchlight. There were two thrones set up, a large one for Arthur and a smaller one for Morgan, who was of course not merely the high priestess but Arthur’s sister, a member of the royal family. Between them stood a table elaborately carved from blackthorn on which the shrine would rest.

Merlin and Nimue had a good dinner together then headed to the hall. Nimue decided to stay at the rear near one of the entrances just in case either Morgan or Mordred seemed suspicious of her. Merlin, too late to get a seat, circulated among the crowd, much more interested in seeing the people and their reactions than in the relic.

People stood talking in small groups, wondering loudly just what they were going to see. Arthur had shown the stone and its shrine to only a handful of people, and there were all sorts of rumors about its precise nature. It was a skull made of solid gold, or silver, or the alloy of both called electrum. Or it was made from wood from an ancient prophetic oak. Or it was an actual skull, encrusted with jewels and somehow endowed with miraculous powers by the god. There were skeptics, though not many, who argued that it was all hokum. Wagers were being made.

Pellenore was there, warning people, more or less at random, not about his usual dragon but about a malevolent water sprite. Merlin avoided him quite carefully and ambled about the hall, eavesdropping, pleased that not everyone had been taken in.

When he found Nimue, he told her so. “All this flummery… I can’t tell you how it disgusts me.”

“Yes, you can.” Nimue was wry. “And you have, several dozen times.”

“You have an annoying habit of being contrary, Colin.”

She smiled sweetly. “I can’t imagine who I got it from.”

Just at that moment Mordred walked by and nodded at the two of them. For an instant he seemed to recognize Nimue; then he seemed to think better of it, shrugged and kept moving.

“He’s going to realize who I am sooner or later. He has to.”

“Do you think so? I don’t have the impression he’s any brighter than he needs to be.”

“All he’d have to do is drop a suggestion to his mother, and…”

“I’d worry about her, not him.” Merlin looked to the entrance where Morgan and Arthur would be coming in. There was no sign of them. “Morgan and her boy don’t come here often. After this nonsense is over, I’m sure they’ll be going back to their own castle.”

She glanced around nervously. “I hope you’re right.”

Mark of Cornwall joined them, in a festive mood. “Have you tried the honey cakes? They’re wonderful.”