Epilogue: Ascension

The guards—indeed, virtually the entire population of the kingdom—had orders to kill Merlin on sight. Naturally, this meant that the idiot warlock walked right into the citadel (invisibly, but still) and cornered Arthur at his hastily requisitioned desk. "What the hell are y—" The prince froze as he took in his former servant's expression. "Are they all right?"

"Morgana and Gwen are fine," Merlin assured him. He looked terrible: his face gray and grimy, stubble poking out of his cheeks and chin, his eyes underscored by enormous bags. He leaned on Beothaich like it was the only thing keeping him upright. "Shaken, but fine." A hard swallow, audible in the sudden silence. "There was an attack on the Isle last night, Arthur. Poison, then soldiers. We haven't officially tallied up the dead yet, but… the estimate is between two and three hundred."

Arthur stared at him, openmouthed and pale, numb with horror. "Ye gods."

A jerk of a nod, a flash of dark emotion. "We're all in shock now, but soon enough, the anger will come. Then they will come for your father, and I will not be able to talk them out of it, and…" And he didn't want to talk them out of it. Arthur could see it in the darkness of his eyes, the angry set of his jaw. "I won't kill my own kin, Arthur, not for this. The only way that my people will let Uther live is if you strip him of his power and make him watch as you undo his life's work. I can probably convince them that he'd find that fate worse than death. How soon are you planning your coup?"

It took a few moments before Arthur could respond. "By the week's end. The castle is almost habitable again, and the throne itself—it's a symbol of legitimacy. My people will have a, a sort of sham council meeting, and there's no way that they won't depose him. Merlin. Is there anything else I can do to help your kin? Do you have food?"

A faint smile fluttered at the corner of his lips, the first positive expression the warlock had displayed so far. "We have food. We'll survive. We're good at that. Just—take your throne, King Arthur, take it as soon as you can."

"I will."

Merlin stood on the shore of the Lake of Avalon, one hand gripping his father's arm. He listened to the quiet lapping of little waves against dry land, the gentle rustle of leaves, the melodic chirping of birds, and Balinor's ragged gasping. Like Arthur, the dragonlord had difficulty even standing upright this close to the otherworldly tarn. But sick and dizzy and generally miserable or not, he wouldn't even think of leaving. Not today.

Something shifted in the air. Merlin opened his eyes, gazed out across the water. Sure enough, a shape was gliding through the ever-present mists.

Merlin nudged his father. "She's coming," he said.

Balinor opened his watering eyes. His face retained its unpleasant greenish hue, but his smile made up for the lurking sickness. "Hunith," he breathed.

They waded out to meet the boat—not too far, for Balinor could not submerge himself overmuch, but enough that their knees were covered. Hunith had no such aversion to the magical water. She leapt from the little vessel with nary a splash, half-running to meet them in the tightest hug she could manage.

When they pulled apart, their eyes glinted with tears.

"Ganieda," Balinor began. "Is she…?"

"She's alive," Hunith assured them. "She's alive, and she's so beautiful, love, but she's still too small to survive here." Her voice cracked, but she forged on. "I rather terrorized some of Grandmother's healers until they swore unbreakable magical oaths to care for her to the best of their ability. Our baby will be ready in a month, and then we can bring her home to the Isle." A pause as she read their expressions. "What's wrong?"

"We had to leave the Isle," Merlin explained quietly. "You weren't the only person who was poisoned, and then there were soldiers rampaging through the streets. We drove them off eventually, but Uther knows about the Isle, and so does Sarrum of Amata, so we brought the survivors to the Labyrinth of Gedref until I can ready a little patch of Listeneise." The half-healed wound on his stomach twinged. It was better here, with the Lake's powerful magic seeping into him, but the pain would definitely flare up when they left.

Unicorns were remarkable healers, but they weren't inexhaustible. Even creatures of magic could only be pushed so far.

Hunith closed her eyes. "How many dead?"

"Two hundred and seventy-three," Balinor replied.

There had been about eleven hundred people on the Isle of the Blessed.

A full quarter of them were dead.

A shudder ran through Hunith's frame. "Gods." She swallowed hard, opened eyes hard with determination. "Merlin, bring us back to Gedref, where your poor father won't feel so sick. You can tell me about it there, and we can figure something out."

He was tired. Everyone was tired in the Labyrinth, tired and shocked and grieving. He would really rather stay here for a few more minutes, soak up the ambient magic, but their people looked to them for help and guidance.

"Yes, Mother," Merlin said, and carried them all away.

The survivors, few as they were, trickled into the citadel in ones and twos over the course of a couple days. One hundred men from Essetir and one hundred fifty from Amata (and one guardsman and pharmacist from Camelot) had gone up against the Isle of the Blessed.

Only eleven came back alive.

Rience was the first to arrive. He wasn't a combatant, so he'd been uninjured, and he'd snatched the best horse when a dying man who'd tried to escape on a rowboat had told him just how badly the assault was going.

The pharmacist had, to his credit, attempted to deliver the news of their defeat in private, a plan which lasted only until Uther heard that he'd returned. The king summoned the entire court, plus Cenred and Sarrum's parties (the Amatans had arrived just that morning), to hear Rience's report. It was easily the most animated he'd been since Morgana's spectacular departure. But rather than the crushing victory Uther had been counting on, the pharmacist painted a lurid picture of defeat: a dragon, a storm spitting huge tongues of lightning, the mist itself working against them, killers struck down by blade and magic as they went about their bloody work.

"How many spellbinders died?" Arthur demanded the moment Rience paused for breath. More than two hundred, Merlin had thought.

"Not enough," Rience lamented. "Though there is still hope that the battle miraculously turned after I departed to bring you my report." He didn't sound very hopeful. "It is possible, sire, that this great endeavor was more successful than I had thought, and your triumphant forces killed them all."

"Forgive me," butted in Lady Laudine. A grayish pallor tinted her skin. "But while you were on the Isle, did you see any sign of the Lady Morgana?"

Uther gave a quiet cry at that, the color vanishing from his face entirely. He might as well have been a ghost, perched there on his makeshift throne all pale and thin and wasted.

"…I saw no sign of her," Rience answered, baffled. "Had the sorcerers taken her hostage?"

"Father," Arthur said, unable to help himself. He'd never seen Uther so frightened. "Merlin would have sent me word if something had happened to Morgana. I haven't heard a thing from him. Morgana is alive." It wasn't exactly the truth, but he wasn't about to confess to another clandestine meeting.

The king's head jerked, a bit of life returning to his frame. Still, his earlier energy had left him entirely, and it was all he could do to dismiss the court with some vestige of dignity.

After that, he had to be half-carried to bed.

He didn't leave his chambers for two more days, when news reached the manor that their own castle, the ancient seat of the Pendragon dynasty, was once again fit for human habitation. Even then, he needed far too much coaxing and a reassurance that Merlin had finally gotten word to him that Morgana was all right to climb to his feet. Ironic as it was, Uther couldn't help but be grateful for his son's sorcerous connections.

The king insisted on riding a horse rather than a carriage. He wasn't quite… all there, but he had enough presence of mind to realize that he shouldn't show any more weakness than he already had, not with Cenred and Sarrum and his people all watching. He thought that he would be king for a long while yet.

Arthur told the groom to saddle a particularly placid beast for him. No need to tempt fate. The groom obliged with a handsome old gelding with a trio of striking scars on his side. Once a warhorse, the animal had slowed with age, but he still had enough muscle (not to mention the scars) to present the strength Uther was looking for. Arthur made a mental note to poach the groom from Leodegrance's household as soon as humanly possible.

The streets were sullen as their procession wound through them. Uther rode at the head of the party, Arthur not quite at his side but a pace or two behind his left hand. He was glad that his father seemed healthier, but he wasn't about to present a united front. The renewed Purge was still ongoing, and though the opposition's efforts had slowed the killings, they hadn't managed to stop them. Not entirely.

Cenred and Sarrum rode at Uther's right on their own fine warhorses, conversing with him in quiet, amiable voices. With the castle proper restored, they could hardly be denied rooms within its walls. (Thankfully for Arthur's sanity, his snobbish 'fiancée' had chosen to take a carriage. He'd been trying to avoid her as much as humanly possible, and anything which eased that noble goal met with his full, enthusiastic approval.) Lord Leodegrance trailed behind them, not quite at Arthur's level but close enough to speak with him about the logistics of the move.

The other kings would be the biggest problem the coup would face, but surely even they could see that Uther was in no fit state to rule. Besides, they didn't have enough men to force the issue.

One moment, all was… not well, but tolerable. Then a blur cut through the air in front of Arthur and his horse, startling them so that they reared back.

But the archer had not been aiming for the Crown Prince of Camelot. He'd gone for its king, and he was a very good shot.

The arrow pierced Uther's neck from one end to the other, its barbed tip jutting out his right side. Blood gushed from the entry wound, a waterfall of red, and streamed less rapidly from the smaller exit. At least one carotid artery had been severed, possibly both, and his windpipe was pierced through.

Uther Pendragon fell.

Shouting guards rushed towards the sniper's probable position. Men from Essetir and Amata surrounded their kings, forming human shields against another shot. Red-cloaked soldiers of Camelot tried to do the same with Arthur, but he pushed them aside, jumped to the ground where his father lay in a pool of spreading blood.

Uther's eyes met Arthur's, then fluttered shut.

"BANDAGES!" the prince yowled. "Someone get—"

"Sire." Leodegrance was there, his hands atop Arthur's where the prince was desperately trying to stem the flow of blood.

"Don't just stand there, go get—"

"Your Majesty!" Leodegrance cried, and Arthur wanted to scream, because that wasn't his title, not yet, that was his father's title until he sat in the throne.

"Your Majesty," the lord repeated, kneeling before Arthur. "It's too late." He bowed his head, not in sorrow, but in deference, and raised his voice so that all could hear:

"The king is dead!

Long live the king!"

END OF BOOK III. FINITUM EST.

Alternate chapter title: "In Which a Mysterious Archer Does What We've All Wanted to do for the Last Forty or so Chapters"

So, yeah, remember all those times that assorted characters commented on how some random citizen would just snap and murder Uther if he kept pushing? Because I peppered a few throughout the book so that this wouldn't come completely out of left field.

I do not have a title for Book IV yet. It will cover the first part of Arthur's reign, and I have vague plans of finishing with the Battle of Badon (though it wouldn't be against the Anglo-Saxons in this verse) and thereby completing the main series. I will publish the first chapter on July 3 and use the month of June to increase my buffer and make sure that the story is going where I want it to go. Until then, stay safe, try not to go nuts if you're still under lockdown, and keep being wonderful. Ciao!

-Antares