Caerleon's Mage
By Constance Cochran
eilonwy1@ix.netcom.com

All gargoyles and gargoyles characters are the property of Buena
Vista/Disney.  Any resemblance to the works of Susan Cooper, T.H. White
and others of that ilk are in no way coincidental and should not be
taken as such.  Two points if you can catch the paraphrase I lifted from
Cooper's ~Silver On the Tree.~  

Caerleon, BTW, for those who are not Arthurian buffs, is the name of
Arthur's castle.  It's the same as Camelot, but there are a few
Arthurian scholars who have said that Camelot was not the name of the
castle, but the name of a state of mind.

Various other acknowledgments and thanks (and there are many for this
one) are at the end.

Chronology: This could fall almost anywhere after "Hunter's Moon," but I
think I've almost pegged it between "The Journey" and "Ransom."




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               I have been in many shapes,
               Before I attained a congenial form.
               I have been a narrow blade of a sword.
               (I will believe when it appears.)
               I have been a drop in the air.
               I have been a shining star.
               I have been a word in a book.
                         --from "The Book of Taliesin"
                          

               ...Out where the truth lies
               I will follow
               And here in this barren surround
               I cry without a sound
               Out where the truth lies
               I will follow my eyes into the sun
                         --from the opening theme of "The Legend
                         Of Prince Valiant," lyrics by Marc Jordan
---------------------------------------------------------------------

Camlaan, Britain
Sixth Century A.D.

     He was dying.  Something beyond the sticky feel of blood on his
forehead told him that.  Bedevere's face hovered over him, filled with
anguish.  Turning his head, he could dimly see the smoky battlefield,
where mist curled around the huddled figures.  Some still alive,
groaning softly, some in the stillness of death, they looked like
ghosts.  Somewhere nearby he heard the rush of water from the swift
flowing, boulder strewn river nearby.  Dusk was falling; it was the end
of the day, and it was the end of the world.  Of his world.
     He inhaled painfully, then coughed, gasping for breath, and
Bedevere reached for him in quick concern.  But he shook his head.  It
didn't matter now.  The betrayal had been avenged...but the cost was
unbearable.  Excalibur was back where it belonged.  And everyone he had
ever loved or cared about, save Bedevere, was dead or gone.
     "Merlin..."  He said, in a voice so soft Bedevere had to lean in
close to hear it.  Where was Merlin now, in the time of his greatest
need?
     Suddenly Arthur saw Bedevere's head turn sharply, as the knight
spotted something coming through the mist.  Arthur managed, painfully,
to also turn his head, following Bedevere's gaze...and then three
lovely, female faces hovered over him.  One with hair the color of wheat
when the sun strikes it in summer, one with hair dark as a raven's wing,
one with hair the color of a white swan's feather.  They somehow
reminded him of three of Guinevere's ladies-in-waiting.  
     ~Guinevere.~ 
     The thought was too painful, and he forced himself to block out
the memory of her face.
     The raven haired maiden waved a hand, and Bedevere, crouched on
the sandy ground, moved away, eyes startled.  Then she turned her
attention to the fallen warrior.
     "The battle, for now, is over for you, first dragon."  Her voice
was lilting and soft, with an eerie note as if it were not quite of this
world.
     "You are tired," the white-haired maiden said, in an almost
identical voice.  Her head tilted to one side as if in pity.  "It is
time to rest."
     "But fear not, Arthur Pendragon, for your fight has not ended. 
Merlin has foreseen this."  The golden-haired lady knelt beside him, her
eyes oddly detached, absent of sadness or anguish.  She rose, and turned
to Bedevere, who crouched tensely on the ground nearby.  Reaching out a
slender arm from under her cloak, she held her palm flat at Bedevere. 
"Sleep, mortal.  What will come to pass here at the world's end is not
for your eyes to see, or remember."
     Bedevere's head nodded, and then he slumped to the ground, his
eyes closed, his breathing steady.  He was just one more body lying near
the field, but he was the only one who looked at peace.
     "Is he..." Arthur managed to ask.
     The raven-haired one put her fingers to her lips, then waved her
hand in a graceful gesture over the fallen king's face.  "He is only
sleeping.  But not as you will sleep."
     "Yet one day, you will awaken," said the golden-haired maiden.
     "One day, you will be needed again," the white-haired maiden said.
     A feeling of peace swept over him, and the pain in his heart and
his body began to ease.  Voices, memories, places slipped away from him
as he mentally tried to grab them back, as if he were trying to hold the
tide in his fingers.
     And then, darkness.


Avalon
November 1995

     Elisa took a deep breath, turning away from the delicate bridge
that had somehow reappeared after her leap.  The Magus still stood
quietly closer to the entrance, over the slack heaps of armor, the
remains of the pair of hollow knights.  Somehow she had the feeling he
was silently urging her onward -- that she must do something vital that
he could not.
     The sight of the bier took her breath away.  Hazy light from a gap
in the ceiling streamed down over the sleeping figure.  Around the curve
of the cave wall were niches holding statues of knights, all with
different styles of armor or weapons; and above them, a corresponding
relief carving of a shield.  The symbols of Arthur's knights.
     As she hesitated, wondering what to do next, there was a rumbling,
scraping noise, and the slab of smooth stone that made up the bier began
to slid downward.  Elisa took an involuntary step back.
     At last, she found herself staring down at the sleeping king.  He
seemed uncannily still, as if suspended out of this world, as if not
even the wind could stir his vibrant blue cloak or dark brown hair.  On
the chest of his armor was a stylized dragon within a circle, and
circling his forehead was a band of gold, inset with a single blood-red
stone.
     ~What now?~ She wanted to ask the Magus again.
     But as she hesitated, groping for words, they suddenly came to
her, and she spoke, feeling as if something else were speaking through
her:
     "Arthur Pendragon, King of all Britain, you are needed."
     And the king stirred, his lids opened, revealing eyes as blue as
his cloak.  They stared blankly up at the light coming in through the
ceiling, as if their owner were trying to remember where and who he was. 
Then they focused on Elisa, and Arthur slowly sat up.
     "You awakened me," he said, his voice deep and clear.  Funny, she
had expected that it would be hoarse and rasping, after sleeping for so
long.
     Unsteadily he got to his feet.  Elisa reached out a hand as if to
help him, but didn't touch him.
     Arthur caught his balance, then looked at her, his eyes traveling
up from her black rubber soled boots to her jeans to her red jacket.  He
tilted his head to one side.
     "You are oddly dressed for a lady.  Are you some sort of a
knight?"
     "Well, no, not really," she answered.  An impulse swept over her,
and awkwardly in her blue jeans, she dropped to one knee in an
approximation of a medieval bow.
     And then the Magus said, "And yet, my lord, you could say she is. 
This lady is a protector, a warrior in one sense."
     Still kneeling, Elisa turned her head as the Magus spoke behind
her; she had almost forgotten about him.  He still didn't move, his eyes
fixed on Arthur as if he were afraid that if he looked away, the king
would vanish.
     "Indeed."  Arthur's glance went to Elisa approvingly as he held
out a hand to help her up.  Then he turned curiously to the Magus.  "And
who might you be?  I see by your attire that you are one like Merlin...a
mage?"
     The Magus shook his head.  "I was, once...and of a very poor sort,
I'm afraid."
     Something in the Magus' voice caught at Elisa's throat.
     Arthur confidently strode past her, crossing the delicate stone
bridge without even glancing down.  More slowly, Elisa followed.
     As they approached the Magus, Arthur looked down at the heaps of
armor at his feet, and his eyebrows went up in some surprise.
     "Not such a poor mage, after all, it seems."
     "I borrowed Avalon's magic..."
     "To do that, you must be quite extraordinary." Arthur's hand went
to the sword sheath at his side, reaching for a pommel...and closed over
nothing.  The king glanced down, his brow furrowing, and he sighed as if
remembering something.  But he didn't linger over his missing sword
long, and raised his head to regard Elisa and the Magus.  "You awakened
me -- before the time.  You must be in great need, then."
     "Yes, your -- your majesty."  The Magus bowed his head, his
straight white hair falling forward.  "We are -- in great need."
     


Manhattan
November 1995

     Yanked out of sleep, he awoke abruptly, his eyes snapping open in
the darkness.
     A faint glow, part starlight and part city lights, drifted in
through the window, open a crack to cold fall night.  As the heavy
burgundy curtains, tied back, stirred faintly in the wind, he groped at
his bedside table with his good hand for his glasses.  His fingers
closed over the wire frames, and he put them on.
     "Arthur?"  He said softly, into the darkness.  
     Then, louder, "He's awake?"
     He could hear his own voice sounding uncommonly startled and
sharp; but there was no one there to see if he broke character.  Owen
slowly got out of bed and stepped over to the window, looking out at the
sleeping city that spread below, his stone arm hanging limply at his
side, his other hand touching the ancient stones that formed the bedroom
wall.
     Then his hand left the stones, and he reached up to remove the
glasses, folding them and tucking them into the vest pocket of his
crisply ironed flannel pajamas.  The stone arm melted away, shimmering
for a split second like the rest of his body as Owen Burnett, with no
fanfare and a fluid haste, shed his role and became Puck.
     The fey rested his hands on the broad window sill, the wind
tugging at his brilliant red tunic and long pale hair, a look of
incredible alarm on his pointed, almost delicate face.
     "But he can't be awake!"  Puck protested, his voice escalating in
volume.  "It isn't The Time!  Why now?"
     He paused, as if hoping for an answer but knowing it was absurd to
expect one.
     All his manipulations, his planning...how could this have
happened?
     A rising cry, almost a wail, burst out of the fey in the quiet of
Owen Burnett's bedroom:  
     "Not yet...not yet...it's too soon!"
     


Manhattan
February 1996

     "Owen, have you heard a word I just said?"
     Owen Burnett twitched like a dozer suddenly awakened, flicking his
eyes away from the computer screen to his employer.  With his flesh
hand, he reached up and adjusted his glasses.
     "I'm sorry sir.  I don't know what's the matter with me."  He
poised his fingers over the keyboard.  "About the Gen-U-Tech shares, you
were saying?"
     Owen noted that Xanatos shot him a sharp look, one eyebrow raised,
and he paused just a beat before continuing.
     He would have to be more careful.  If he kept acting this jumpy,
Xanatos would be certain to know something was up.  And the last thing
Owen Burnett wanted was for David Xanatos to get curious about what was
bothering him.  For the first time, Owen found it a strain keeping in
character, to remember always that Owen Burnett was never shocked, never
upset, never nervous.  The smooth, efficient assistant.
     Bad enough Arthur had awakened four hundred years too soon.
     Now he was actually in Manhattan.
     "Any new progress reports on the latest robotics project, Owen?"
     Lightning flashed outside the tall windows of the great hall, and
a rumble of thunder passed overhead.  The storm had been building all
evening, and with it, Owen's awareness.  Then the storm had broken.  He
had felt the hole in space and time open, with the sensitivity his kind
had to any magic in the area, but did not know -- then -- what it meant.
     Owen gave himself a mental shake, turning back to the task at
hand.  He hit a few keys, and entered a password when prompted.  After a
moment text began to scroll down the screen.  
     "The technicians have the skeletal frame completed and are close
having the co-processor up and running."  His stone arm seemed to lie
conspicuously next to the keyboard, as if to punctuate the meaning of
the report on-screen.
     He knew exactly what Xanatos wanted when he had ordered the
Cauldron of Life melted down.  Although he wouldn't actively try to
impede Xanatos' goals, Owen did not like to contemplate how much more
difficult things could get if Xanatos actually succeeded in obtaining
immortality.  Complications were fun; but Puck had his limits.
     Things were complicated enough as it was.
     Leaning over his assistant's shoulder, Xanatos read the computer
screen, expressionless.  But Owen could see he was pleased with the
project's progress.
     Xanatos straightened.  "Very well, Owen.  That will be all."
     "Yes, sir."
     Owen stood up from the computer console, watching Xanatos walk
across the vast expanse of the Great Hall.  Against the darkness of the
stormy night beyond the high, arched windows, the chandelier lights
seemed too bright, blinding.  Owen's brow furrowed, the only outward
sign of the turmoil inside.
     "But what is he doing here?"  He said aloud, his voice echoing. 
Over the last few months, he had thought he would be safe, at least for
a while.  Arthur Pendragon should have been occupied in Britain, looking
for the sword. There was nothing to lead Arthur to Manhattan, or even to
any continent but England.  Merlin had seen to that.  Unless...
     Owen sat back down at the computer and logged on to the Internet. 
Moments later he was scanning an art database.  For forty-five minutes
he performed various searches, scrolling through images, dates and text
until he found what he wanted.
     On the computer screen was a GIF image, a color photograph of a
stone dragon statue, about fifteen feet high, its head arched back as if
to strike, its claws crossed in front of its chest, clutching the hilt
of a sword.  It stood framed by high hedges.  He read the accompanying
text:

     "The statue, referred to as 'The Logres Dragon,' possibly dates
     from around the fifth or sixth century A.D.  Unique for its era 
     in its large scale and in its depiction of a single, highly
     detailed creature, breaking with the Celtic tradition of
     interlocking, stylized animals, the granite statue was unearthed
     in Cornwall by the early archaeologist Lord H-- in the seventeenth
     century.  It stood on the grounds of his estate in
     Buckinghamshire, England until 1889, when the parks commissioner
     of the city of New York spotted the statue during a trip abroad.
     He persuaded Lord H-- to allow the city to purchase the statue,
     and in June of 1890, it was installed near Belvedere Castle in
     Central Park.  It remained there until 1910, when it was moved to
     the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens upon their founding."

     Owen Burnett, the computer screen reflecting off his glasses,
stared at the paragraph.  How could that have gotten past him?  The
dragon was supposed to remain in Buckinghamshire until The Time, when
Arthur could come and claim Excalibur.  Owen clicked his tongue against
his teeth in a gesture of self-annoyance.  He should have been watching
more closely, he should have prepared for such a contingency.
     ~The best laid schemes o' fey an' men gang aft a'gley~ said an
internal voice that sounded a lot like Puck.
     


Avalon
Sixth Century A.D.

     "Puck, we have warned you time and again about interfering in
human affairs."  Oberon leaned his elbow on the left arm rest of his
throne and made a clicking sound with his tongue.  His pointed, regal,
pale blue face looked stern.  "You have made quite a mess of things this
time."
     Finally free of the confining human form, Puck hovered a few
inches off the floor, arms folded.  "Oh, I don't know about that.  You
want to see a mess, you should have seen Britain before I helped Arthur
to power.  All those stupid humans bickering and warring.  I did them a
favor.  But did any of them save Arthur ever thank me?"  Puck cocked an
eyebrow, and sighed in an exaggerated fashion.  "Humans are ~so~
ungrateful."
     "Puck," Oberon said, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice. 
"This is the second time I have had to speak with you about treading
carefully among the ways of humans."
     "If you will recall, my lord, last time I was acting under ~your~
orders."
     Titania laughed softly, sitting on the throne next to Oberon's
with one slender finger to her chin.  "Come, Puck.  We all know you have
a way of twisting the orders you hear into what you would like to hear. 
However," she addressed Oberon, "To do justice to Puck, it was ~not~
entirely his fault things turned out as they did."  She fixed her eyes
on the willowy, ephemeral-looking female form standing next to Puck. 
"Nimue, have you anything to say for yourself?"
     Nimue looked up at the queen, her hands folded in front of her. 
Taller than Puck, slender in a flowing white gown that covered her
shoulders but left her upper arms exposed, she looked guileless.  Her
white hair fell over her shoulders, framing her delicate, pointed,
child-like face.  Wide, lovely, soft blue eyes stared out from that
sweet face.  Then the blue eyes narrowed.
      "Puck should have known not to meddle with ~me~."  An edge crept
into Nimue's soft voice.
     On his throne, Oberon stiffened.  His lowered his hands, and his
slender fingers gripped the end of the arm rests.  "Nimue," he said
harshly, "you have overstepped your bounds this time.  Were it not for
your interference, Arthur Pendragon would have survived -- and with him,
the kingdom the humans called Camelot."
     "They are fools," Nimue said, the youthful lines of her face
hardening suddenly, the change startling.  "Arthur and his peace," she
added contemptuously.  "They may have stopped fighting each other for a
few decades...and then," she waved one slender arm, "back to their petty
squabbling, their waste of life." 
     Oberon seemed about to reply, but there was a shimmer in the air
behind him, and the three sisters appeared, hands folded demurely as
they presented themselves to Oberon.
     "It is done, my lord."
     "Arthur sleeps on his bier on Avalon."
     "Is there anything else you wish of us, my lord?"
     Oberon waved one hand in dismissal.  "No, you may go."
     Phoebe, Luna, and Selene obeyed, vanishing with a shimmer -- but
not before casting sharp, arch glances at Nimue, like schoolgirls
reveling in the fact that a hated classmate was in trouble.
     Oberon rose from his seat, his cloak swirling about his legs. 
"Nimue, somehow you ~will~ learn humility.  I henceforth confine you to
Avalon; perhaps that will prevent you from acting malevolently towards
the humans."
     Nimue let out a small gasp.  One hand crept up to her mouth, and
her eyes widened. "M-my lord Oberon..."
     "Enough," Oberon thundered.  "You think to work your wiles on me? 
You are dismissed."
     The look of innocent shock melted from her face, and Nimue turned
furiously to Puck.  "This is all your fault," she hissed.
     Rather than departing as the sisters had, she instead turned on
her heel and stalked towards the exit to the throne room, the folds of
her gown fluttering behind her.  Just before the heavy wooden doors, she
turned back, her voice ripe with triumphant sweetness.  "I did defeat
you, Puck.  If it weren't for Oberon, you would still be trapped in that
cave -- for eternity!"
     A door slammed, and she was gone before Oberon could reprimand her
further.
     Oberon sat back down on his throne, staring unnervingly at Puck,
who stood with his hands at his sides, looking up at Oberon.  One foot,
however, retained a jaunty angle.
     "Hope that I do not have to warn you again, Puck," said Oberon.  
"I trust you have put the spells in place?"
     "Yes, my lord Oberon."
     "Very well, you are dismissed."
     Puck vanished instantly.
     When they were alone, Titania turned to Oberon.  "Puck seemed
unusually subdued, did you notice, my lord?"
     "Indeed, my queen.  As he should be.  The events he put into
motion have left their mark deep on the human world -- deeper than Puck
realizes."
     Titania reached out, lifted her husband's hand, and kissed it. 
"No matter.  You certainly seemed to have reached Nimue this time, and
Puck seems quite contrite.  It is over."
     "Yes.  It is over.  For now."
     
     Crouched on the branch of a spreading tree, Puck peered up through
the lush foliage.  Many yards away rose the hill that held within its
hollow depths the resting place of Arthur Pendragon.  The waterfall
thundered down in a shimmering cascade as it always had, as it always
would, next to the oddly symmetrical entrance to the cave.  
     It ~had~ been something of a lark, all the machinations to bring
that gawky, unlikely teenaged human to the throne...and later, the
battles, the court scandals, the skullduggery...and he of course knew
everything that went on, and could confound the most careful, secretive
plotters by warning Arthur, until they wondered if the walls of Caerleon
were bewitched.  And then...
     Puck frowned.  He wondered if in fact he had somehow...failed his
pupil.  He had not been in time to turn the tide of battle.  He should
have been able to defeat Nimue.  Puck twitched his shoulders.  Thinking
about what should have been was a waste.  The game had played out
exactly as it was meant to be played.  The other side had won, that was
all.
     The trickster fay Puck dug his slender fingers into the bark of
the tree, his eyes on the hill.
     He had been too late.  Too late to stop the battle, too
short-sighted to save Arthur or the idea people called Camelot. 
     "I'm sorry," he whispered, the sound lost in the rustling of the
wind through the leaves.


     


     Expressionlessly, Owen shut down the computer and left the Great
Hall, heading up through the narrow stone stairways of the castle until
he emerged on a terrace with a limestone railing.
     The storm, muffled earlier by the thickness of the castle walls,
was abating.  As the bespectacled assistant stood with his hands on the
railing, the rain ceased.  Thunder rumbled half-heartedly in the
distance, a cool, light wing sprang up, and from far below came the wail
of a distant siren in the quiet.
     Owen turned his head, looking at the towers to the right and left,
then turned his whole body, looking up at the top of the sheer stone
wall behind him.  No gargoyles about.  Good.  They wouldn't be around to
interfere, for once.  With the soft wind curling around him, Owen again
removed his glasses and became Puck.
     He could face the situation more easily in his fey form.  Owen
Burnett was bound to Xanatos; and Owen Burnett could not help King
Arthur.
     Arthur was no doubt here for Excalibur.
     "And once he has Excalibur, he will leave," Puck said aloud,
seated cross-legged on the railing.  The wind tugged at his long, pale
hair as he looked out over the human world spreading below, thousands of
lights gleaming from the towers, masses of people on foot or in vehicles
inching along the broad avenues.  Surrounding the city, the rivers were
shining ribbons reflecting the light, the bridges glittering arcs,
ephemeral with their girders hidden in darkness -- like things that had
no place in the mortal world.
     "He will leave, looking for me," he added ironically -- but he did
not sound completely amused by the thought.  "Well," Puck sighed.  "I
can't just let him wander all over New York City hunting for an antique
sword.  He's going to need help."
     The last faint murmur of thunder sounded then died away above
Manhattan, and the stone terrace was empty.

     But Arthur evidently had plenty of help already.
     Using an invisibility spell, Puck crouched on a rock on the other
side of the lake in Central Park, watching.
     "Hudson, Broadway, Brooklyn, Lexington..."  Puck counted.  "Hail,
hail, the clan's all here," he said sourly.  Well, all there except for
Goliath, their dog, and the lovely Detective Maza.  "And...one moment,
who is ~that~?"  Puck stared hard across the lake.  There was a fifth
gargoyle with them, a big, griffin-like creature.  He had a beak like an
eagle's, a tail like a lion's, and his great wings looked feathery,
unlike the Wyvern clan's leathery ones.  Puck watched him carefully. 
The new one looked almost as formidable as Goliath -- although he seemed
less of a stiff.
     As Arthur waded out, Puck's spell responded to him, and The Lady
of the Lake rose from the water, luminous in her white gown and long
white hair.  Puck smirked to himself, then chuckled as Lexington's jaw
dropped.  Still invisible, Puck's laughter drifted on the wind, and a
couple taking a romantic stroll through Central Park stopped, looked
around for its source, then walked on hurriedly.
     It was the perfect touch, Puck congratulated himself, creating The
Lady of the Lake in imitation of Nimue's form -- the ultimate irony that
her image should help King Arthur.
     "I had not expected to see you for some time, Arthur Pendragon,"
said The Lady of the Lake.
     "Hear, hear," Puck muttered.
     The spell proceeded as he had planned.  Arthur told her of his
need for the sword Excalibur.  Puck waited for the next step; now she
would show him the vision of where the sword lay -- originally, a
secluded part of an estate in Buckinghamshire and now --somewhere -- in
New York City.
     But then things took an unexpected twist.
     The Lady raised her hands.  "But, you must prove your worth," she
told Arthur.
     The air around her began to spin as she melted away and a water
demon rose from the lake.
     "This wasn't part of the spell!"  Still invisible, Puck scrambled
to his feet.  He liked surprises -- except when they happened to him.
     Arthur surged forward to do battle with it, mace raised.
     "Arthur, for your own good, I wish you weren't quite so eager to
be the hero..."  Puck raised his fingers, opening his mouth to perform a
spell, as the demon trapped Arthur within its watery form.
     But then Arthur yelled an order to the new gargoyle, who pulled
out a laser weapon and fired at the base of the demon.  The demon's
shape collapsed, dumping Arthur into the water.  The others waded out to
help him as Arthur stood up, his armor and hair dripping.
     Puck was surprise to find his own body slumping with relief.  The
Lady returned, and showed Arthur the vision of the sword's location. 
Cryptically, of course. 
     "In the heart of these gardens across the river lies the sword in
the stone, to be reclaimed by the timeless king who can find it," The
Lady told Arthur, and Puck relaxed.  Except for that bit about the
gardens, this sounded more like it.
     Puck could see the image reversed, as if it were a picture on
stained glass looked at from the wrong side.  He saw the dragon,
standing in the heart of a hedge maze, and recognized the place.
     "To be reclaimed by me!"  Arthur said with bravado.
     "That remains to be seen," The Lady answered.  She vanished, even
as Puck gave a start at her final words.
     On his rock, Puck shook his head.  "That was ~not~ part of her
lines.  Who else could possibly claim it?"
     His attention returned to the group across the lake.  They were
discussing the situation, puzzling out The Lady's words.
     Suddenly the small gargoyle's eyes grew very wide.  "Brooklyn!" 
He exclaimed.
     The clan's new second in command turned to him sharply.  "What?"
     "No," Lexington said impatiently.  "The Brooklyn Botanical
Gardens."
     Puck had both hands clamped over his mouth as he bent over, his
shoulders shaking with laughter.  Oh, it was priceless.  It had to
happen sooner or later, with those absurd names.
     And then he felt it.  Puck's laughter died, and he straightened,
all his fay senses straining.  It had been nagging at him, but he had
been too preoccupied with the events transpiring across the lake to
notice.
     There was sorcery nearby.
     Turning, Puck spotted the circle of yellow light, a will o' the
wisp, hovering among the branches of a tree.  It flickered and bobbed,
like the illumination of a fictional fairy in a children's book. 
Someone was watching.
     The light bobbed out of the tree, then sped off in a swift spiral,
too quickly for any mortal eye to follow.  He had no idea of the source
of the will o' the wisp, but whatever -- or whoever -- the source was,
it meant that another, unknown, player had joined the game.
     Puck grinned to himself suddenly. ~This could get interesting...~
     That still didn't explain what had gone wrong with all of his
complex spells.  It couldn't have been Nimue, he would have recognized
the mark of another fay on his own work.  Certainly not Oberon...Puck
grew very still, as the answer came to him.  The grin faded, wiped away
by a thought.  He let out a small groan and clapped one slender hand to
his forehead.
     "Why me?"  He lowered his hand, and looked up at the sky,
addressing no mortal god.  "You play with the mortals all the time,
controlling their destinies...why are you trying to direct ~mine~?" he
added sourly.
     But Avalon had its own plans, and did not answer.
     

     The storm began to build again.  
     Maintaining the invisibility spell, Puck followed Arthur and Griff
as they blasted their way through the hedges, pushing their way towards
the heart of the maze.  The gargoyles were outside dealing with the two
humans on small hovercraft.  Puck could hear distant thuds and scorch of
laser fire, but his concern was with Arthur.  The gargoyles had proved
remarkably hardy in the past; let them take care of themselves.
     Ahead of him, Arthur and Griff came to a stop.  Puck levitated his
invisible self off the ground to see over the hedge.  He remained there,
hovering, fascinated.
     There was someone already there.
     Puck recognized him -- the immortal Scottish king MacBeth, one of
Selene, Luna, and Phoebe's little projects.  He was dressed all in
black, black cloak, close-fitting black pants, and a black frame over
his torso that seemed to serve as armor. 
     ~The eternal king...~ Puck realized.  Trust Avalon to find a
loophole like that.  Puck crossed his legs, settling in for the
evening's entertainment.
     Arthur and Griff took a few steps forward as the wind began to
rise, but it was too late.  MacBeth leapt onto the statue, closed his
gloved hand over the hilt of the sword clutched in the dragon's claws,
and drew it.  Then MacBeth turned to Arthur.
     "No," Arthur said, soft, despairing.
     "Your time is past, Arthur Pendragon," MacBeth declared
triumphantly.  As he raised the sword, the clouds overhead gathered, the
wind swirled violently, and lightning sliced across the sky.  Large,
cold drops of rain began to fall, and the storm was let loose like the
Gabriel Hounds.  "MacBeth son of Finlay is the one true king."
     ~So confident,~ thought Puck with a smirk. ~He thinks he's got the
real Excalibur.~ Puck felt the wind tug at him, and struggled to keep
his place atop the hedge.  If any of the three below had been paying
attention, they would have noticed an odd spot above the hedge where the
rain seemed to deflect, leaving the rough outline of a slender figure,
seated cross-legged.
     "No, this is wrong!"  Griff launched himself at MacBeth, finger on
the trigger of his laser weapon.
     Moving like lightning, Arthur shot the weapon out of Griff's hand
with a weapon of his own.  As Griff halted, stunned, Arthur raised his
mace and ran forward.
     Puck sighed, the sound lost in the howl of the storm.  The rain
began pelting down harder.  ~This is so unnecessary -- it's not
Excalibur..,~ Of course, Arthur had not yet found the true Excalibur. 
Puck frowned.  Perhaps Arthur was not as smart as he had thought?
     The two eternal kings clashed.
     "You will kneel to me," MacBeth challenged.
     "Never!"
     "I freed the sword from the stone," MacBeth said, as the two men
faced each other, breathing hard.  "An ~honest~ man would kneel to the
true king."
     The words seemed to strike Arthur like a physical blow.  Slowly he
lowered the mace, his damp hair bedraggled over his shoulders.  "You are
right," he said, with the rain blowing around him.  "It is a hard thing,
but I yield."
     Arthur knelt before MacBeth, his head bowed.  There was only one
other time when Puck had seen Arthur look so tired, so defeated. 
     Puck untangled his legs and drifted forward until he hovered just
in front of the dragon.  "Looks like my one time pupil needs a nudge,"
he muttered.  Throwing up a muting spell so the three figures behind him
could not hear, Puck raised his hands, the storm buffeting about him,
his hair blowing across his face, and spoke:

     "Dragon of stone, form'd from spell,
     You who guard the secret well
     Sleep no longer, still and cold 
     Come to life, and break your mold."

     Griff, appalled, moved forward.  "Arthur, no!  Fight for it!  You
are the Once and Future King!"
     A flash of lightning lit the center of the maze.  The ground
heaved, shaking MacBeth from his feet.  The scholars who had written
studies of the work of art known as The Logres Dragon would have been
quite surprised to see its eyes suddenly burn a fierce red against the
rain and the night, as its head reared back and its claws broke free
with the sound of breaking stone.
     The dragon thrust its snout forward, blasting fire at the ground
near MacBeth's feet.  The Scottish king rushed forward to attack with
the fake Excalibur, followed by Griff, whom the dragon promptly knocked
off his feet with one blow.
     ~Time to hurry things along,~ Puck thought, and the dragon struck
MacBeth's arm, wrenching the fake Excalibur from his grasp.  Arthur took
up the sword, still holding his mace in his other hand, and swung it at
the dragon's stone hide, breaking the blade.
     "NO!"  MacBeth yelled in protest.  "It's mine!"
     "You can have it," Arthur said contemptuously.  "It's ~not~
Excalibur."
     ~Atta boy,~ Puck thought.  Now if he could only figure the rest of
it out...
     Griff called out a warning as the dragon reached out its huge
claws and grabbed up Arthur and MacBeth.  And then, magnificently, the
dragon rose into the air, beating its great wings.
     Puck followed, retaining the invisibility spell.  He saw the
gargoyles glide in to help -- as they always did.  Puck hovered in the
air near the battle, watching, and waiting.
     The griffin-like gargoyle launched himself at the dragon's back,
digging his talons into the stone.
     Arthur was so close...so close...and then Puck saw the realization
on his face as his eyes fell on the large red stone now not a few feet
away.  The once and future king summoned Griff to him, and the gargoyle
pounced on the dragon's arm, releasing Arthur.  Arthur swung the mace at
the red stone, just avoiding the outward explosion of light as Griff
grabbed him in mid-flight and pulled him away.  The dragon shattered,
and MacBeth fell to the ground.
     ~Oh, well done, well done,~ Puck thought, as Arthur took up the
true sword and MacBeth fell to his knees before Arthur.
     The first step had been taken.  Arthur had Excalibur.  For a
moment Puck felt actually jubilant -- until he remembered what Arthur's
next move would probably be.  His only comfort was that Arthur didn't
have the first clue where to start looking.  Yet.





London
Autumn, 1996

     "The Dragon's Tail" was an incongruous name for the unpretentious,
weathered little pub.  It stood on a narrow, cobbled side street in a
pleasant section of London; the painted sign swinging over the door had
a stylized dragon under the Gothic-style lettering.  The sky was the
color of sterling silver, overcast, looming, and the sign creaked in the
wind.
     Even during the lunch hour, the pub wasn't too crowded.  A few
businessmen in suits and ties sat at the bar.  A young couple had the
table in the bay window and seemed oblivious to everyone but each other.
     At the table in the shadowy corner at the back of the room sat two
men, each with a pint of ale in front of them.  The glass of one was
full, the glass of the other almost empty.  Both wore oddly archaic
clothing, close-fitting, with long, loose dark coats and black boots. 
Both seemed strangely ill at east, sitting stiffly in their attire as if
they were used to some other mode of dress.  The long coats may have
been to conceal the sword each had hanging at his belt.
     The man with long brown hair the color of chestnuts lifted his
glass, took a sip, and grimaced.
     "Not the same, is it, Arthur," said the other man in a thick
Scottish accent.  Although his hair and beard were completely white, his
weathered face did not seem old and his broad shoulders suggested power
and strength.
     Arthur Pendragon set down the beer glass.  "So much has changed,
MacBeth, down to the smallest of details.  When I look at this land, my
country, I see traces of what once was -- only traces."
     The other man, who if asked by a stranger would give the name
Lennox Macduff, let out a low chuckle.  "Must 'ave been quite a shock to
you, lad.  I've had nine hundred years t'get used ta it.  But ta wake up
of a sudden like that -- to find it all changed..."  He took several
more gulps of ale.
     Arthur smiled.  "That's one way to view it."  He sighed.  "I wish
you would join me on my quest.  Griff is the most loyal knight a man
could hope for," he added hastily, "but he cannot be with me during the
day, and we would both welcome new members to the Round Table."
     Lennox Macduff shook his head.  "Sorry, lad.  I must follow a
different path."
     "What brings you to England, anyway?"
     Something behind Macduff's eyes flickered -- something sad.  "I am
on my way north.  I haven't been back for nine centuries.  I wanted one
last look, before I return to New York."
     Arthur caught the longing note in Macduff's voice.  "Ah," he said
softly.  "You wish to go home."
     "I wish for a lot of things," Macduff added darkly.
     There was an uneasy silence.  The businessmen at the bar left,
sending the bell over the door tinkling and letting in a blast of wind. 
Then the door shut and peace descended over the paneled room again.
     "And what might you be doin' home, Pen Dragon?"  Macduff cocked a
white eyebrow, one fist resting on the table next to the tankard.  "I
thought you were seeking Merlin."
     Arthur didn't answer right away.  He stared out of the bay window
at the front of the pub, at the Victorian-era houses across the narrow
street.  "I had hoped...that old places, familiar countryside, would
yield some clue."  His blue eyes opened wider at a memory as he turned
back to Macduff.  "We saw it, Griff and I.  Caerleon.  Camelot."  His
brief chuckle had a bitter note.  "They have it wrong you know.  They
think it stood on a hill in Cadbury, and they think it was what is now a
mound in Gwent, and they think it was several other places
besides...they're all wrong."
     Macduff let out a loud bark of a laugh; the bartender and several
other patrons turned to stare.
     But then Arthur continued.  "It is all in a ruin, the real
Caerleon.  Nothing left but ragged moss covered stone almost devoured by
the sea.  No sound save the wind and the surf and the crying of the
gulls...it was magnificent once, MacBeth."
     Macduff winced, as if in recognition of the raw note of loss.  He
cleared his throat.  "I would 'ave thought Merlin's writings could 'ave
been a help t'ya."
     Arthur looked across at him sharply, startled.  "Merlin's
writings?"
     "Yes, the scrolls."  As Arthur continued to look blank, Macduff
sat up straighter in his chair.  "Good God, man, d'you mean ta say you
don't know of the Scrolls of Merlin?"
     "I..."  Arthur reached up and touched his fingers to his forehead. 
"I had no idea he had kept any records...he was a scholar, but I never
saw him writing."
     "Ay, he did write.  Beautiful stuff.  I'm ashamed to tell you that
at first I wanted 'em only for the magic spells.  But there weren't
any."
     "Then what...?"
     "They were all about you, lad!  And his time in your service. 
Right from the beginning, when he first set eyes on you...a gangly,
unlikely lad he says ye were, too...to the very end.  He blamed himself,
you know."
     "Blamed himself?  For what?"
     "For the betrayal.  For not seein' it comin'.  He wasna there with
you at the end, was he?"
     "No.  He was not."  Frowning, Arthur stared down into the amber
colored ale in the glass as if it were a scrying bowl.  "I must see the
scrolls for myself," he said softly, almost as if he had forgotten about
the other man.  Then his eyes snapped up to Macduff's face.  "Do you
have them?  I must read them."
     "That might be a bit difficult.  I donna have them.  At the
moment, they are at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, under
glass an' heavily guarded.  The museum is wired with alarms."
     "I have no choice, though.  I must see the scrolls."
     Macduff sighed.  "Maybe, lad.  Although I've read 'em myself and
couldna see anythin' to hint what Merlin's fate might 'ave been.  He
gives no account of it, no explanation for why he left ya.  Then again,
you might see things another would not --" he broke off as Arthur
abruptly stood up, pushing back his wooden chair with a scraping noise.
     "Thank you, my friend," Arthur said, holding out his hand.  The
two men grasped each other's lower arms in a warrior's handshake. 
"Perhaps our paths will cross again one day soon."  Arthur reached into
the deep pocket of his coat and put two small brassy pieces on the
varnished wooden table.
     But Macduff waved it away.  "What is a pint between two auld
warriors such as ourselves?"
     As Arthur left the pub, exiting into the cold, leaden spring day,
Macduff sat with his elbows on the table, a solitary figure over his
tankard.
     "Stranger in a strange land," he said softly after Arthur's
retreating form -- "may the Fates be kind to ya."

     Sunset over London.
     Arthur found Griff where he had left him, on a mansion roof amid a
landscape of chimneys, cupolas, and sharply pointed roofs.  Griff's
statue crouched unobtrusively in stone on a flat ledge outside a disused
attic window.  Separating the ledge from the drop into a stone courtyard
below was an elaborate wrought iron fence, a stylized, flattened unicorn
face at the top of each post. 
     As the sun sank lower over the chimneys and spires of London, a
stark shadow began to creep over Griff's stone form and the waiting man
who knelt expectantly nearby, his long dark coat spilling behind him
across the surface of the roof.
     The sun was gone, except for a faint pink glow beyond the stately,
imposing shape of Big Ben, and the air grew perceptibly chillier.  The
wind whistled over the rooftops, chasing the clouds across the sky to
reveal a few stars.
     Then a low cracking noise broke the lonely quiet.  Tiny cracks
appeared across Griff' stone skin.  With a roar, Griff threw his head
back, beak open, as pieces of stone skin flew from him to land on the
roof.  Arthur stood up, moving back.
     "Oh, good evening, milord," Griff said heartily, flaring his great
feathery wings.  His lion's tale twitched, then curled over one massive,
taloned foot.
     After greeting Griff, Arthur went to the railing and looked out
over the city while the wind tugged at his coat.
     "Arthur, has there been some trouble?"
     "We are going on a journey," the king said.  "A long one, I'm
afraid, and there will be no magic to help us this time."
     Griff squared his broad shoulders, his eyes sharp in the darkness. 
"Right with you, of course," Griff said hesitantly.  "Er...I would like
to say good bye to Una and Leo first.  They were expecting me for
breakfast."
     Arthur nodded.  "Go to them.  Meet me on the steps of the British
Museum just before dawn.  I will have -- a transportation method --
arranged for you by then."
     "Where are we going, then, Arthur?"
     "New York City."



Manhattan
Three Weeks Later

     The grand white structure of the Metropolitan Museum of Art
sprawled imposingly at the edge of the green canopy of Central Park. 
Floodlights illuminated the exhibition banners hanging from the pillared
front porta.  Except for the security lights, the museum was otherwise
dark, its steps vacant, the two fountains turned off, still reflective
pools that caught part of the museum's roof and the night spring sky
above.
     On the roof enclosing the medieval wing crouched two figures, only
shadows in the darkness, dwarfed by the endless expanse of the remainder
of the roof.  The larger of the two forms, stilled in concentration for
a moment as he watched his companion, looked for that moment like a
misplaced statue.  Until he moved, and the statue revealed itself to be
living flesh and blood.
     "Sir," Griff said doubtfully as he crouched on the slanting roof. 
"Perhaps we should ask Goliath and his clan for help?"
     "No," Arthur said sharply.  "What we are doing is dangerous -- and
it is most certainly against the laws of this city.  I cannot ask
Goliath to involve himself.  In fact..."  Arthur turned to look
searchingly at Griff.  The gargoyle's beaked, mohawked head was just an
outline in the shadows.  "I will not think any less of you if you stay
behind, Griff.  This is asking far and above the call of duty."
     The corner of one beak twitched, and something like hurt came into
the gargoyle's eyes before it was replaced by indignation.  "I'll do
nothing of the sort," he protested furiously.  "We're in this together,
you and I"
     Arthur hesitated, then let out a sigh of relief.  "You are an
extraordinary knight, Griff.  I don't know what I would do without you."

     Seven of the inhabitants of Castle Wyvern were wide awake that
night; but then, they were always wide awake at night.  Of the four
human inhabitants -- well, one human and three reasonable facsimiles
thereof -- only one was wakeful.
     Wearing his karate uniform, tied with a black belt, Owen Burnett
concentrated, focused, and split the block of wood with his flesh hand. 
Split it with uncanny silence -- Owen never used the traditional grunt
and yell of martial arts.  Only the sharp crack of the splintered wood
sounded in the otherwise empty gym.
     He hadn't been able sleep, which wasn't surprising.  He had known
Arthur Pendragon was back in New York since that morning.  Short of
packing his bags, tendering his resignation, and fleeing to some remote
region of Europe, there seemed to be no escape; and Xanatos was sure to
want to know why his assistant of unusual loyalty had suddenly decided
to decamp.
     Avalon was closed to him; using Alex as an excuse to turn into
Puck was only a temporary solution.  And lately, Puck had not been as
effective as usual in manipulating events, in playing the game.  His
spells had turned out all wrong last winter.  Arthur Pendragon had
awakened five hundred years too soon.  
     He kept coming back to that last point, and with circular thinking
more like Puck's than Owen's, he realized that Arthur woke up too soon
because he died too early.  So really, if you looked at it from the
right angle, it was all ~her~ fault.  
     


Caerleon
Sixth century A.D.

     Merlin rode hard into the castle courtyard, his horse's sides
heaving and coated in sweat.  He'd reached the distant castle that was
under Caerleon's protection, only to find that there was no trouble
requiring the aid of a mage, that no one had sent a message of distress.
     Pulling up the horse, Merlin slid from its back and looked about
for a stable lad.  The courtyard was quiet and deserted.  Then a small
boy, no more than eight, emerged from the shadow of the stable roof.  He
was so small he looked as if a horse could carry him cradled in the
reins.
     "Where is Denys?"  Merlin asked, as the boy took the horse's
reins.
     Overhead, the sky was a pale, leaden color, and mist curled over
the distant green hills.  Beyond the southern castle wall came the
distant crash of the sea on the rocks below; the air of Caerleon, as
always, smelled faintly of wind and salt. 
     "Gone sir," said the lad.  He shoved his hair, which was badly in
need of cutting, out of his eyes.
     "Gone?"  Merlin wiped the sweat from his forehead with one
brown-covered sleeve; for the journey he had worn a leather jerkin, a
homespun
shirt of thick, warm material, and sturdy leggings.
     "Yes, my lord.  With the other older boys, to see to the company's
horses."
     "The company's..."  Merlin jerked around, looking about the
courtyard at the quiet windows, listening to the stillness of Caerleon. 
"No," he whispered, clutching at the horse's mane to steady himself. 
"When?"  He took the boy roughly by the shoulders, and the lad let out a
squeak of surprise and fear.  "When did they leave?"
     "Th-they marched out yesterday, my lord."
     Merlin looked down into the boy's pinched face, where the freckles
stood out starkly, and let him go. ~I can still stop it,~ he thought.
~It's not too late, I can stop them...~ He yanked the reins out of the
boy's hands and had just raised his foot to put it in the stirrup when
another voice spoke behind him.
     "It is too late, you know."
     Merlin lowered his foot and turned.  
     Morgan stood a few yards away, regarding him steadily with a tiny
smile of satisfaction on her face.  Rippled blond hair, the color of
dark honey, fell down her back; and where some women might have been
tempted to braid such hair with finery like flowers or ribbons, Morgan
wore it pulled back with a single clasp.  Her hair was her trademark,
and, like her face and body, had half the men of court lovesick.  As
Morgan had twice the brainpower of most of them, she liked to amuse
herself by letting them court her, then snickering about it later.
     "There is nothing you can do, Merlin.  Arthur rides at the head of
his army to meet Mordred's.  The battle is beginning already," she added
softly.
     A light, misting rain began to fall.  Merlin watched her for a
moment, then deliberately lifted his foot again and mounted, urging the
horse forward with hands and feet.
     Halfway across the courtyard, the large bay animal slowed, moving
with an inexplicable sluggishness.  Merlin heard a cracking noise from
beneath him, like ice on a lake breaking up in spring.  The horse's coat
turned from dark brown to a stiff gray.  Tentatively, he rapped his
knuckles on the side of the horse's neck, and was rewarded with a thick,
muffled knocking sound.  His mount had turned to stone, caught in
mid-stride with one hoof raised.
     He dismounted, then turned back to look at Morgan.  The small
stable lad was standing just behind her, his mouth gaping open, eyes
wide.  Then he snapped his mouth shut, turned, and ran into the stable
as if pursued by demons.
     "It's such a shame I could not turn you to stone along with the
beast," Morgan said, a hint of delight in her matter-of-fact tone.  She
folded her arms and tilted her head to one side, regarding him.  "You
would make such a handsome equestrian statue.  A monument to Merlin, the
mage of Caerleon."
     "Why, Morgan, I had no idea you thought me that important."  A
small, wicked grin deepened the lines around Merlin's eyes.  His teeth
flashed briefly beyond the white beard.  "You would make a much better
statue, my dear.  So pretty to look at -- so unpleasant to listen to."
     The triumph on her face faded somewhat.  Merlin raised a hand,
palm flat and parallel to the damp ground.
     A wind began to blow across the courtyard, sending up wet
particles of dust like mist, making the rain swirl into patterns.  It
crossed the nine yards separating him and Morgan and swept about her,
billowing her cloak and the skirt of her burgundy colored dress.  The
golden strands of her hair blew forward about her smooth, classically
featured face.
     Morgan flicked out her hand in an almost casual gesture.  Almost
immediately, the wind died, leaving only a haze of golden dust hanging
in the air.  
     "Oh-ho, Merlin.  So that is how you want to play it.  It seems we
are at an impasse.  You wish to reach the battle.  I do not wish you to
reach the battle."  She shrugged her fine shoulders.  "You might as well
drop the pretense, Merlin, since it is coming down to a fight."
     Merlin thought desperately, ~there isn't time!~ but made his face
hold its smirk of ironic amusement.  He had no choice.  Morgan had made
it evident that the only way he was going to leave that courtyard was
through her.  Cautiously, he glanced around at the empty archways and
windows.  The silence was eerie; Caerleon already seemed abandoned,
except for the watch soldiers left behind up on the battlements.
     "Oh, don't mind them," Morgan said dismissively.  "You know the
type.  They will run for cover at the first sign of anything uncanny. 
Dolts like that are fine for running someone through with a pike, but
present them with a situation that actually requires imagination..."
Morgan sighed.
     "You first."  Merlin folded his arms in imitation of her, staring
at her steadily.
     "Gladly."  Morgan unclasped her hair, letting it fall wild and
free over her shoulders.  Unhooking her dark blue cloak, she tossed it
to one side, where it landed in a heap.  With another movement of her
hands, a cloud of particles and rain rose around her.
     When it had subsided, Nimue stood in the courtyard, her long white
hair cascading down her back.  Morgan's pronounced features were gone,
leaving Nimue's innocent, round sweetness.  Her slender, silken,
white-clad form looked too fine and ethereal for the dusty brown, damp
medieval world.
     Merlin clapped sarcastically.
     "Now you," said Nimue with gracious sweetness.
     With his forefinger, Merlin made a circular motion at the ground. 
There was a distant rumbling, then a bright yellow light sliced up from
the ground at his feet, in a cylinder that surrounded him.  Wind from an
unseen force blasted upward, blowing Merlin's short white hair.  The
light caught the fine rain, silvering the air and Merlin's hair, and was
vivid enough to cast the shadows of tiny pebbles resting on the
courtyard ground.  In a blur, Merlin spun around.  The wind died, the
light vanished back into the ground.  Puck hovered over the spot where
it had disappeared, a grin forming a sharp V in his youthful, beardless
face, the brown tones of Merlin's clothes replaced with scarlet and blue
and gold, brilliant against the dreary world.
     "Yours wasn't too bad," he told Nimue, cocking his head to one
side and resting his pointed chin on one finger, "but you could use some
practice.  I'd be more than happy to give you lessons."
     "So cocky, aren't you?"  Nimue regarded him steadily.  "At this
very moment your precious Arthur and all his knights are fighting a
losing battle.  Every moment brings them closer to death."
     Puck sighed and made a tsk-tsk sound with his tongue.  "Poor
Nimue."
     She rose to the bait just as he had hoped.  Her face seemed to
narrow with petulant anger.  "Just what do you mean by that?"
     "Just that I don't think you will much enjoy being a toad."  He
wriggled a finger, not because he needed to, only for emphasis.
     Nimue shimmered for a moment, vanished, and then a small, brown
and ugly amphibian, a tiny spot on the vastness of the floor of the
courtyard, squatted in her place.
     The toad seemed to quiver with anger for a moment.  The air around
it rippled, and then Nimue blossomed out of it, restored.
     "Traitor!" She shrieked suddenly, stamping her foot.  "You would
actually -- attack -- ME -- in defense of that ~human?~ You should be
cast off, banished from Avalon eternally."  She paused, panting with
fury.  Then she tossed her long white hair over one shoulder and
composed herself.  "Why do you care so much about them?"
     "Sorry," Puck said, popping up suddenly on the roof of the stable. 
"Haven't got time to chat with you now."
     "Puuuuuuck!"  Nimue transported herself after him, but he was
already gone.  "Puck, Puck you come back here..."
     The only reply was an elfin chuckle that seemed to come from
nowhere and everywhere among the silent, empty towers of Caerleon.
     The remaining inhabitants of the castle (and there were very few,
as every male over the age of sixteen who could still lift a sword had
marched with Arthur) decided it was a haunting, and took it as a bad
omen...

     Bathed in sweat, Owen silently split another board with the edge
of his hand.  Pausing for breath, he stared down at the splintered wood,
his bare feet sinking into the blue exercise mat.
     He should have been able to beat her; Puck always knew he was
smarter than Nimue.  She had tricked him, and she had only won because
she had done something that no fey was supposed to do to another.  He
could still smell the dankness of that cave, still hear the roar and
boom of the surf outside.  Could still remember the horrible, sickening
moment of shock when he had put his hands to the boulder, about to
perform a removal spell -- and had jerked them away from the sudden
burning pain against his palm and fingers when he touched the rock.  And
then the darkness of the cave spinning around him, that sudden weakness
and nausea...
     By spell, she had laced the very granite with iron.  If he stayed
away from the walls, it was bearable.  But he was virtually trapped,
unable to free himself by either moving the rock or by transporting
himself.
     To have to be rescued by The Three was the height of humiliation. 
Then the recriminations -- yes, Nimue had been punished, he had not. 
But she had used iron on one of her own.  On Avalon, that was one of the
direst of crimes.  Maybe that was when it started, his rift with Oberon,
when Nimue had suffered no compensating pain.
     Owen tossed aside the splintered wood, where it clattered into the
pile with the others, and reached for another whole piece.  He set it
across the blocks.  Anyone who happened by the gym at that late -- or
early -- hour would see only that David Xanatos' assistant was having an
impromptu work out.  But Owen could do little to shut out Puck's
thoughts, Puck's memories.
     Thinking of the quiet, slow days on Avalon in the wake of the
final battle, he decided that he had lost much more than just a game.    
     Breaking into the museum proved easy enough with the help of
gargoyle.  Avoiding the alarms systems was another story, and Arthur
Pendragon, once and future king, and Griff, honest gargoyle and knight,
lacked the underworld contacts that could provide a schematic of the
museum's security systems.
     But they had thought of a way around that.  It was a dangerous
plan, and Arthur could vividly imagine Merlin's sardonic debunking of
it.  But some things were worth the risk.
     They positioned themselves on another section of roof, and then
Griff hurled his entire three hundred pounds at a window leading into
the American Wing.  The sound of glass falling to the floor accompanied
the groaning wrench of broken metal and the peal of an alarm.
     Griff landed among the debris with a thud that rocked a white
marble statue of a cherub standing nearby.  He paused for a split second
to look at his handiwork.
     "Sorry about the mess, chaps," he said, with some regret, to no
one in particular.
     Behind him, Arthur climbed in through the window, careful of the
jagged edges.  He wore his full armor, the blue cloak, and no dark coat
to conceal the dragon crest.  "I hate having to do it this way," he said
heavily, also eyeing the splintered mess on the floor.
     "I know.  Go --" Griff said, gesturing Arthur towards a stairway
door.  "I'll keep them occupied, you get the scrolls."
     The sound of a guard's running footsteps were coming closer. 
Arthur put his hand on Griff's shoulder.  "Go carefully, my friend." 
The he slipped into the stairwell and was gone.
     
     Before the guard could arrive, Griff bounded through an entryway
into another gallery.  Gargoyles could move with incredible silence and
stealth when they so chose; Griff deliberately pounded along with as
much noise as he could manage, tripping infrared sensors as his large
lion-like feet vibrated the floors.  Paintings, furniture, delicate
china behind glass -- Griff felt like the proverbial bull.  Skidding
around a corner, his talons scratching at the varnished wood floors,
Griff caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror from the 18th century. 
The glass was speckled at the edges and warped with age, but caught the
beaked mouth, a flash of feathery, scarlet-lined wings, and the urgent
yet vividly alive look in his eyes.  Part of him relished the chase, the
element of danger.  A clever gargoyle knew how to be cautious when it
was called for, but he was a born fighter.  He had never been able to
admit it to himself, hated the thought of Una and Leo thinking it of
him, but part of what had driven him into the skies every time the air
raid sirens screamed over London was the excitement.
     Pushing through a set of double glass doors, into a quiet, dark
gallery, Griff's mind suddenly flashed on the image of the burning plane
hurtling towards him, growing larger.  Knowing his death was coming --
and then Goliath chanting in Latin, fire surrounding him -- and the
plane was gone as if it had never been, the roar of its engines, the
sirens, the crash of crumbling mortar, gone.
     Griff decided that he was one amazingly lucky gargoyle.  He only
hoped the luck would hold.

     Arthur stepped softly into the main hall of the medieval wing. 
Far off and remote, he could hear the cabal Griff was causing.  The
footsteps of the king echoed on the flagstone floor as he emerged from
one of the two arcades that ran the length of the room, which was
high-ceilinged, shaped like a Byzantine church.  Dim light felt hazily
though the windows nestled under the ceiling and from small spotlights
positioned among the artwork.  In the middle of the room towered the
elaborate wrought iron curtain of a medieval choir screen.  Other
artifacts, wooden statues eaten by age or worms, reliquaries, gold work,
rested silent on velvet in glass cases as if in awe of their own age. 
Along the wall of the arcades hung tapestries, their hunting or garden
scenes still vivid and intact, though worn.  But nothing there reminded
him of home.  These items were of a later time that his.  Most were not
even of his country.
     There was a stone arch set into the wall opposite the screen. 
Arthur went under it and emerged in a second, lower-ceilinged gallery. 
More tapestries hung on either side of the arch, but he ignored them. 
His footsteps echoed on the marble floor, then stilled as he spotted the
chapel room beyond the twin rectangular pillars.
     Inside, rows of spartan wooden chairs faced the front of the small
room.  Brilliantly colored stained glass, dimmed without their full
lighting, was set into two of the walls.  At the front, like an altar,
was a rectangular stone relief set into a pedestal of modern
construction.  On the pedestal, inside a glass case, were the scrolls,
illuminated by a single spotlight.
     Arthur knelt before the scrolls; then noticed the stone relief and
for a moment rested the palm of his hand against the ridges and bumps of
the cool stone. The relief showed two gryphons drinking from a cup.
     "Always guarding, aren't you?"  He said thoughtfully, wryly.  Then
he stood, looking down at the scrolls.
     They were displayed partially unrolled, revealing the lines of
cramped, Celtic characters.  Arthur had never seen Merlin's handwriting,
so he had no way of knowing if the words were authentic.  Resting his
hands lightly on the glass case, Arthur translated in the halo of the
single spotlight, reading aloud softly to himself.
     "'He was a scrawny, bony boy when first I saw this once and future
king. Had I not known what his destiny held I would have laughed
aloud.'" Here Arthur chuckled.  "'Though young and not yet formed his
mind was open and eager to learn.  As I spent more time with him, I
found him to be a wonderful set of contradictions.  He was so innocent
it never even crossed his mind that anyone would ever lie.  And yet he
possessed an uncanny knowledge of human nature that gave him all
unknowingly the ability to manipulate those who tried to manipulate him. 
He knew little of swordplay, nothing of politics, less still of the
Great Arts, but for one who looked close enough, as I did, the man he
could become was already there in his eyes, a gleam beneath the
dust...'" 
     Arthur's voice trailed into silence.  For a moment he turned away
from the scrolls, lowering his head, his hands still leaning on the
glass.  Then his shoulders twitched and he straightened.  There was no
more time for such self-indulgence.  Arthur drew Excalibur, lifting the
sword to strike the glass with the heavy pommel.
     There was the crunch of thick glass breaking as the sword pommel
struck the case.  The glass didn't give at first; it sagged inward with
tiny cracks running through it.  A second blow sent the shards tinkling
to the floor.  The scrolls were his.
     An alarm jangled loudly, and Arthur quickly pulled out the special
tubes MacBeth had told him about, to protect the scrolls from handling
and air.  He swiftly rolled the scrolls, slid them inside, screwed on
the lids, and tucked the tubes into a pouch at his belt.  Sheathing
Excalibur, he turned and rapidly left the chapel room.  At any moment,
the museum guards would be on the spot.  He would not be caught; he must
reach the meeting place he had arranged with Griff.
     Halfway across the outer gallery, Arthur halted in mid stride,
hearing the gun shot that ricochetted through the empty, half lit
galleries.

     Griff careened down a hallway, and found himself in a Spanish-style
court yard with a floor of pink marble.  An arcade ran along one
end of the large, echoing room, sheltering a wall of eighteenth century
paintings.  In one corner of the room stood a stone fountain, its water
flow switched off for the night.  He headed for the arcade, his big feet
thudding on the cold marble floor.
     He grinned a bit to himself as he heard the footsteps of the
guards pattering far off, growing closer.  He'd led them on a merry
chase, and by keeping his wings tucked had managed not to break
anything.  Well, except for that one vase, but it had been rather small,
maybe no one would miss it.
     There was an opening at the end of the gallery that led to the
museum's main hall; from there, he could easily access the street, then
cut around to the meeting place he had arranged with Arthur.
     But as Griff neared the arcade, a slight figure dressed in the
dark blue museum guard's uniform ran out, blocking his path.  Something
dark and metallic glinted in his hand, a gun.  Griff skidded to a halt.
     "O-okay, stop th-there."  The kid held the gun trained on the
gargoyle.
     Griff heard footsteps enter the courtyard behind him, two more
guards.  Flaring his wings so as to intimidate, Griff slowly advanced
towards the young guard.
     "Step aside, chap.  I'm not going to harm anything.  And I don't
want to hurt you."
     When Griff spoke, the kid's eyes grew wide, startled.
     "Freeze!"  The other guards had pulled their guns and were
standing in the middle of the courtyard.
     "Sorry boys," Griff said over his shoulder.  "Haven't got time
right now."  With a leap, he darted well clear of the young guard and
circled around him.  He made for the exit, confident that a gargoyle was
nimble enough to dodge any gunfire, confident that they wouldn't shoot
at him anyway in order to avoid damaging the priceless art.
     He reached the outer hallway.  Home free.
     There was a loud bang, and Griff felt a sudden burning sting
pierce his upper arm.  He'd forgotten that the kid was close enough to
get a shot the second he cleared the gallery.  Griff faltered, grabbed
at his arm with his other hand, and kept going.  It didn't hurt too
badly -- yet -- but he could feel the sticky warmth of blood over his
talons as he reached the main hall.
     Arthur was already there, sword drawn, a lone figure standing by
the information desk under the shadowy expanse of the rotunda.
     "Arthur, go, move, now!"  Griff roared.  "Did you get the
scrolls?"  He panted, as they ran under another entrance archway, deeper
into the museum.  In the dim lighting, Arthur didn't seem to notice
Griff's injury, and Griff didn't mention it.  It would only worry Arthur
and slow him down.
     "Yes," Arthur said.  "I heard a shot.  Griff, are you --"
     "Just fine," Griff answered quickly.  "One of the guards did fire
upon me, I believe."  He stopped to kick open a fire exit door.  Yet
another alarm began to jangle raucously.
     Then they were out of the museum, emerging onto the cool grass
with the chilly Central Park night surrounding them.  It seemed very
dark with only pools of light from the lamp posts.  The ring of alarms
faded into silence behind them, and Griff and Arthur were soon lost in
the shadows.

     On west thirty-fourth street, Elisa Maza, NYPD Detective Second
Class, waited in her classic '57 Chevy.  One elbow leaned against the
window frame, her cheek leaning on her hand.  Through the windshield,
she watched the street and sidewalk.  Elisa frowned, her thin, dark
eyebrows drawing together.  These cross streets in midtown really needed
more streetlights.  The storefront of the all night deli was the
brightest source of light on the street.  In the dashboard, the police
scanner crackled and talked to itself as it picked up all police
activity in the area.
     Her stomach growled, and she began drumming her fingers on the
steering wheel.  Elisa hoped Matt would hurry up.  Without consciously
deciding to do so, she let her gaze leave the street and slid up to the
rooftops.  A small, wry smile, the smile of one with a secret, tugged at
her lips.  In addition to all the detectives and beat cops, there were
others patrolling the city tonight.
     The passenger door opened and Detective Matt Bluestone slid into
his seat clutching a brown paper bag that dripped hot liquid.
     "Not on the upholstery," Elisa said automatically.
     Muttering, with a knowing sigh, Matt held the bag outside the car,
letting the coffee drip onto the sidewalk, then pulled out two
sandwiches, still dry, and two slightly spilled cups of coffee.  One
black with sugar, one light no sugar.  Matt handed Elisa a sandwich and
the black coffee.
     "Thanks," she said, as her partner slammed the car door. 
"Everything okay inside?"
     "Yeah.  Al says it's been quiet tonight.  Not even so much as a
shop lifter."
     The scanner spat static, and the dispatcher began summoning patrol
officers to an incident in another precinct.  Elisa took another bite of
her pastrami on rye.  On the scanner, the dispatcher's voice gave the
code for a grand larceny in progress and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. 
"Perp is described as...~this can's be right~...a -- a ~gryphon~ and a
guy with a sword..." -- the dispatcher broke off for a second of stunned
silence.  "That does it," she muttered.  "Hadley, Yung, I know you can
hear me, you're probably laughing your idiot heads off, I'm gonna get
you for this!"  There was a click, and the transmission ended.
     Elisa's jaw froze.  The tang of mustard was sharp on her tongue. 
Next to her, Matt had leaned forward, his eyebrows rising.  Then the two
detectives slowly turned and looked at each other.
     "Jalapena," Elisa said softly.  She swallowed.  "We'd better get
over there."
     "We'll be the only ones," Matt said, as Elisa tossed her sandwich
in the back seat, switched on the ignition, and pulled away from the
curb.  "The rest of the department now thinks it's a practical joke."
     "All the better," Elisa said with dark humor in her voice.  "Then
there won't be cops crawling all over the place, asking questions we
don't want them to ask."
     "So who do you suppose...I mean, beak, wings, ~lion's
tail~...can't be Demona.  Unless she's got some other transformative
power you forgot to fill me in on?"
     "It's not Demona."  Elisa gripped the steering wheel, and bit her
lower lip.  "It sounds like Griff."
     "One of the London gargoyles?"  Matt's voice rose incredulously. 
"What would he be doing here?"
     "I told you, he left London.  He's King Arthur's knight now."
     "Rrrrright."  Matt glanced out the side window , at the dark
storefronts and the streetlights sliding by.  "Apparently he's not as
upstanding as you thought."
     Elisa turned to him, then snapped her attention back to the road. 
"That isn't it!  Whatever he's doing, he has a good reason."
     "Like Demona also had a good reason."  As soon as he said it, Matt
shut his mouth.  An uncomfortable silence settled, broken only by the
hum of the car's engine.  "Sorry.  I didn't mean that."
     Elisa sighed.  "I know.  But...there must be something at the
museum he and Arthur need very badly...oh."
     "Oh what?"  Matt rested his hand on the dashboard and turned to
stare at her.
     "That's where they keep the Scrolls of Merlin."
     Matt made a small, surprised sound.  And it took quite a lot to
surprise Matt Bluestone, hunter of the Illuminati.  "I guess it makes
sense King Arthur would want them.  But -- why?"
     They were heading up Madison Avenue now, making good speed in the
absence of other traffic.  Elisa turned onto a side street, then onto
Fifth Avenue, and pulled up in front of the museum.
     A guard met them, running down the front steps to meet them.  He
looked barely out of high school, wound up tight, and a bit scared. 
"Thank goodness you're here," he said, as Elisa and Matt flashed their
badges.  "We were afraid the cops would never show."
     Elisa and Matt followed him inside, into the echoing vastness of
the main hall, eerily empty, dark and silent under the rotunda.
     "Did you -- did you catch the perpetrators?"  Matt asked, as if
he'd rather not know.
     The kid in the blue Metropolitan Museum of Art guard's uniform
shook his head.  "They escaped out the back.  They're gone.  But I
think...I...one of them, it was a monster.  Maybe I shouldn't have,
but...I fired at him.  I think I shot him."
     The rubber soles of Elisa Maza's boots made a squeaking sound on
the marble floor as she abruptly stopped in her tracks.

     "It's nothing, I assure you.  Just a scratch," Griff said, as they
went on foot along the path behind the museum.
     The pointed tip of a stone monument rose above a cluster of thick
trees.  Central Park was still and quiet, a faint wind rustling through
a row of pine trees.  The ivy crawling up the back wall of the museum
stirred.
     As they passed out of the shadows into the pool of light cast by a
lamp post, Griff stumbled.  Arthur leapt forward to take the gargoyle's
arm, supporting him; and in the light, he saw that Griff's right paw was
clamped hard over his left arm just below the shoulder.  Blood seeped
out between Griff's talons, the red stark against his greenish,
light-brown skin.
     Straining to support the gargoyle's weight, Arthur kept them
moving towards the shelter of the trees.  "You should have said
something!"  He said furiously.  "A wise soldier would never conceal a
serious wound, Griff."
     "I..."  Griff glanced at Arthur, the lines at the corner of his
beak slowly turning downward.  "I didn't want to disappoint you...but it
seems I have anyway."
     Arthur was silent.  The shadow of a cluster of trees arose ahead,
their branches just starting to bud.  But the trunks were close
together, and the looming shape of a boulder provided some protection. 
He helped Griff to settled against the rock, feeling his boots sinking
into the muddy earth.  Then he, too, leaned against the stone, reaching
into a pouch at his belt for a cloth to stop the bleeding in Griff's
arm.
     The anger had drained away, replaced by a sudden stab of anxiety
and concern.  It was a familiar sensation, but one he thought he had
grown immune to.  Arthur shook the coins out of a soft piece of cloth,
catching them in his other hand and tucking them in with the scrolls.
     Griff removed his paw from his arm, looking down at the blood on
his talons as if he wasn't quite sure it was his.  Arthur pressed the
cloth to the wound, then bound it tightly. 
     "We have to get you to help," Arthur said to Griff.  "Goliath...he
will know what to do."
     "Right, then," Griff said cheerily, but his voice lacked its usual
strength.  "Problem is...I can't fly, with this arm."  The gargoyle
sounded ashamed to admit such weakness.  "We can't very well go walking
down Fifth Avenue, can we?"
     "No, not you, but I can.  We know where the clan roosts," said
Arthur.  "I'll bring help back here."
     "If you will recall, Arthur, we are now both wanted criminals.  If
anyone spots you, you'll be locked up instantly."  Suddenly Griff raised
his head, eyes alert.  "Someone is coming," he whispered.
     They both crouched behind the boulder, and Arthur drew Excalibur. 
Soft footsteps sounded along the concrete path, and stopped.  A voice,
female, spoke, her words muffled by distance and the faint wind.  Then
the steps continued, and two figures approached their hiding place.
     "That will be far enough," Arthur said, stepping out with
Excalibur held out in front of him, its point lethal.

     ~You guys are tough, but you're not bullet proof.~ Elisa could
hear her own voice echoing in memory as she and Matt walked rapidly
along the path behind the museum.
     "Elisa, I don't think they'll still be hanging around."  Matt
easily kept pace with her with long strides.
     She slowed for a few paces, then started walking faster again.  "I
know.  But we have to try.  If that guard did shoot Griff, he'll need
help."
     Cleopatra's needle rose above the sparse trees, a dark, pointed
outline against the night sky.  The park smelled of mud, with a
lingering hint of winter chill.
     Suddenly Matt halted, reaching out a hand to stop Elisa.  "Did you
hear something?"
     Elisa lowered her head slightly, listening.  The wind tugged
strands of her dark hair across her cheek and she brushed them back
impatiently.  She couldn't hear anything but the rustle of the wind in
the trees and the distant wail of a siren elsewhere in the city.  But
then, under the darker shadow of a grove of trees, a movement caught her
eye.
     Pulling out his gun, Matt was already stepping towards the trees.
Elisa hurried after him, reaching for her own weapon.
     As the two detectives stepped off the path onto the muddy grass
and the tree branches closed over them, something moved behind the rise
of a boulder.  An imposing figure in a long black coat stepped out,
holding a lethal-looking sword.
     For a split second Elisa thought it was MacBeth, until he spoke.
     "That will be far enough."
     Elisa immediately recognized Arthur's quiet yet deep British
accented voice, and lowered her gun.  But Matt kept moving forward, face
hardened in the expression he reserved to intimidate crooks, his gun
held in both hands out in front of him.
     "Okay, buddy, nice and easy, put down the sword."
     "Drop your weapon first, sirrah."
     "Matt, don't it's..."  Elisa saw Arthur start in surprise as she
spoke and then recognized her.  At the same time a second movement
flickered beyond Matt.  "No, wait!"  She reached out her hand towards
Matt in warning.
     There was a sharp flash of hawk-like silhouette, and the shadow of
great wings.  Matt let out a startled shout as a set of talons pried the
gun from his hand and the other grabbed him by the scruff of his trench
coat, lifting him off the ground.
     "Griff, Arthur, it's okay, it's me, Elisa!"
     Arthur slowly lowered his sword.  Griff, holding Matt Bluestone
three feet off the ground with one hand, turned to look at her.
     "Elisa Maza?  My word, it is you."  The gargoyle's face
brightened.  He loosened his grip, and Matt slumped to the muddy ground.
     "Greetings to you, lady," Arthur said, sheathing his sword.  He
seemed about to bow; to Elisa's relief, he did not.  "I have not seen
you since Avalon -- the one who awakened me."
     Griff's face registered impressed surprise -- if he'd had
eyebrows, they would have gone up.  "Arthur didn't tell me about that."
     "Yeah, guess it was me," Elisa said lightly.  She knelt beside
Matt and pulled on his arm, helping him to his feet.
     "Odd friends you picked up on that trip of yours," he muttered,
brushing the mud off his pants.
     "Most of my friends are odd in one way or another," she said,
giving him a wry, pointed glance.  She turned back to the king and the
gargoyle.  "Arthur Pendragon, Griff, I'd like you to meet my partner,
Matt Bluestone."
     In the dim light, she saw Matt's eyes narrow slightly as he held
out a hand for Arthur to shake.  "Arthur Pendragon, huh?  You mean ~the~
Arthur Pendragon?"
     "Just Arthur, if you don't mind."
     Elisa refrained from pointing out once again that she had already
explained the whole story to him. Matt bent over and picked up his gun. 
The barrel was crushed, the hand grip bent at an angle.
     Seeing the expression on his face, Elisa said, laughter rich in
her voice, "Don't' worry about it.  Do you have any idea how many pieces
I've gone through in the past three years?"
     Abruptly Griff staggered back and step and leaned against the
boulder.  Elisa moved towards him in concern, for the first time
noticing the blood-stained cloth tied around his upper arm.
     The gargoyle winced as Elisa carefully unwrapped the cloth.
     "It's nothing.  Really.  Just a flesh wound," Griff told her with
strained heartiness.
     Elisa hissed out a breath between her teeth, part sympathetic
shock and part annoyance at his unnecessary bravado.  "Just a flesh
wound, huh?  The bullet's still in you."  She turned to Matt, one hand
still holding the cloth.  "He'll need medical attention."
     "Where?  We can't just take him to the ER."
     "No.  We'll have to bring them to Castle Wyvern."  She re-tied the
cloth while Griff visibly tried to stifle any show of pain.  "My car's
parked in front of the museum -- you'd better let me bring it around."
     Matt started to follow her as she moved towards the path.
     "No, stay here with them.  In case there's any trouble."  She
reached under her jacket and handed him her gun.
     Matt took it, then glanced back at the two dark figures under the
trees.  "You sure the Aerie Building is a good idea?"
     Elisa didn't answer right away.  "Do we have a choice?"      

     Elisa Maza turned the car off the busy avenue, surrounded by steel
and glass and stone towers on both sides, onto a side street.  Arthur
opened the door and climbed out, followed by Griff, and they found
themselves standing beneath the somehow ominous presence of a tall
office building.  Feeling like that scrawny boy again, he craned his
head back, looking up -- and up. The top of the structure was lost in a
bank of cloud, filmy and grey against the darkness of the sky.
     "Well, this is it," Detective Maza said.
     "I thought --" Arthur began hesitantly, turning to Detective Maza. 
"I thought Goliath's clan lived in a clock tower above your police
station."
     "The clock tower--" Detective Maza paused, just a fraction "-- is
gone."  He saw her eyes travel up the soaring wall of dark glass and
steel.  "But they have their rightful home back now," she added softly.
     Detective Bluestone pulled open a heavy metal door leading into
the depths of the building.  "This way, gentlemen -- and lady."  He held
the door open for them in an ironic, courtly manner, and his partner
shot him a warning look.

     Harvey was bored.  He tossed the folded newspaper aside in
disgust, and reached over to adjust the tinny-sounding clock radio on
his metal desk.  Life at Xanatos Enterprises was usually much more
exciting, if only because of the stories he heard from the guys
upstairs.  But it had been quiet for weeks.
     Yawning, he adjusted his security guard's cap.
     Then footsteps sounded in the windowless corridor -- many
footsteps.  Startled, Harvey got to his feet, his chair scraping the
floor -- then just stood there, jaw hanging, as he saw two cops, a
bearded man in a long black coat with a sword at his belt, and a seven
foot, winged something-or-other bleeding from a wound in his arm come
down the corridor towards him.
     ~Man, Peterman's never gonna believe...~
     "Not a word, Harvey, not a word," said the female cop, flashing
her badge.
     Harvey slowly sank back into his chair.  His supervisor had
received instructions from the boss man's assistant himself about
Detective Maza and her visitors.  Shaking his head, telling himself he
was better off not knowing the story behind this one, he pressed the
buzzer under the desk and let them through the inner security door.

     Owen Burnett bent over and picked up the stuffed toy -- yellow
creature, with wings -- that Alex had levitated out of the crib just for
the fun of watching Owen Burnett pick it up again.
     Sitting up and wide awake and three a.m., Alexander Fox Xanatos
gave a baby chuckle, his alert blue eyes fixed on his nanny through the
slats of the crib.
     "I am glad to see that you have mastered object levitation, Master
Alex," Owen said drily, "but you can stop showing off now."
     Alex had been restless all evening and into the night, unable to
settle, as if picking up on Owen's inward thoughts.  Relieved to have an
immediate and much more explicable reason to stay up all night, Owen had
insisted that Mr. and Mrs. Xanatos go to bed, that he would take care
of Alex, and that of course he would wake them if there was anything
seriously wrong.
     ~Perhaps Alexander would like a lesson in invisibility,~ a snide,
mischief-filled voice deep within Owen suggested.
     But turning into Puck would just draw more attention.  Owen
Burnett was the safest place of all to hide right now, quiet, efficient,
ordinary, with no tricks or magic about him.  Maybe if he appeared
ordinary enough, Arthur would just pass him over.  And that was exactly
what he wanted, of course.  Of course.
     Arthur.  Bad enough he had returned to New York a second time;
he'd never thought he'd have ~that~ to cope with again.  But now he was
there.  In the building. 
     The inner voice began to roundly curse whatever twist of fate had
brought Arthur Pendragon straight to Castle Wyvern.  Avalon again?  Or
maybe just the sheer perverseness of fate.
     The blue, red and yellow plastic rings of one of Alex's toys began
to rise from the floor, one by one.  They swirled around Owen like a
flock of playful, mute birds.  He made no move to swat the plastic rings
away.
     "Very well, Alex," he said calmly.  "Put the nice toys down."
     Slowly, in small jerks, the rings pattered to the nursery floor. 
Alex's smooth baby forehead puckered, not as if in disappointment, but
in an almost thoughtful way.  He was keeping his thoughts to himself,
for the moment.  But when he wanted to, Alex could communicate
telepathically with his mother and his nanny.  Not so much in words, but
in conveyed meaning.
     Babies, even babies with inherent magical powers, were so much 
less complicated than kings.




Caerleon
6th century A.D.

     Arthur was sitting alone at the round table when Merlin found him. 
The king had his hands spread flat on the wood, as if he were trying to
absorb something from it.  The large, vaulted, empty room echoed with
the sound of the mage's footsteps.
     "My lord, I have news of the coming delegation, if you care to
hear it."  A note of mocking amusement crept into Merlin's voice, and a
small grin flickered behind his close-cut, white beard.  "The things you
overhear while posing as a stable lad..."  He trailed off, caught by the
seriousness of his king's expression.
     "Merlin," Arthur said suddenly, and Merlin became aware, for the
first time, of the graying in Arthur's dark brown beard.  "Do you
think...that I am a good king?"
     Merlin sat down in the chair to Arthur's left.  Today he was in a
wizardly mood; folds of white cloth trailed from his sleeves, and there
were tiny moons and stars embroidered in gold on the hem and collar of
his white tunic.  Merlin's face, framed by short white hair, was
weathered rather than old, lined from the sun and wind and experience.
     "Of course, my lord."  He paused, feeling something else was
needed, and reached up to scratch his short-cropped white beard.  He had
never seen Arthur look so...tired.   An inspiration came to him, and he
grinned.
     With a gesture of his hand, a crowd of miniature transparent
people appeared on the surface of the table, cheering in tiny voices,
"The people adore you, Arthur."  He saw Arthur's gaze flicker to the
illusion, and the small wan smile that tugged at his king's mouth.
Another flourish, and the crowd vanished, replaced by a row of men in
armor, kneeling willingly, easily, in unison -- "Your knights respect
you..."
     "Not all of them," Arthur said flatly.
     Merlin knew he referred to the assassination plot they had
uncovered last week, engineered by a man Arthur had considered to be one
of his nearest friends and allies.
     "Sometimes I have the strangest feeling, Merlin."  Light fell
through one of the windows, striking the roughened, dark wood of the
table.  "As if all this,"  he waved his hand over the table and up at
the stone walls, "is slipping away from me."
     "You are merely tired," Merlin said hastily.  "You spend too much
time at the negotiating table.  Take a vacation.  Perhaps Guinevere..."
     At the mention of his queen, Arthur's eyes brightened momentarily,
and Merlin silently congratulated himself on knowing Arthur so well. 
But the moment passed.
     "Are you sure that's all it is?"  Arthur turned and looked into
Merlin's eyes.  "You know much more than you should, old friend.  Are
you certain I am just imagining things?  Or is this a foreboding of
things to come?"
     "The future is not written yet, my king," Merlin said calmly.  He
found himself unable to keep his eyes locked with Arthur's, and stood
up.  "Now, about the delegation..."
     And Arthur roughly twitched his shoulders, as if shrugging of a
cloak, then turned to the task at hand.



     "Well, Alex," said Owen, picking the infant up and cuddling him in
his flesh arm.  "Let this be a lesson to you -- no fay should have two
masters."

     Elisa had left Griff in the great hall with Arthur and Matt.  The
clan was out on patrol, but she knew Hudson and Bronx would probably be
settled in the den, watching the late-late movie with ears cocked for
trouble.  But Elisa deliberately avoided the den.  It would be too
tempting to ask Hudson to go wake up Owen Burnett for her; she felt like
a coward for even thinking it.
     Gritting her teeth, she went up a narrow stone stairwell and
reached the hallway where the bedrooms and the nursery were located. 
Elisa stopped.  The door to the nursery was open and a light burned
inside, spilling into the corridor.  Perhaps pounding on Owen Burnett's
door in the middle of the night would prove unnecessary after all.  She
stepped into the light and cleared her throat.
     Owen Burnett was just reaching down with his flesh hand for
several plastic colored rings on the floor, parts of a toy.  There were
several stuffed animals tucked under his stone arm.  When he saw her, he
straightened.
     "Detective Maza," he said formally, with just a hint of polite
surprise.  Even with several stuffed animals in his arms, David Xanatos'
personal assistant managed to look completely unruffled.
     It irritated her.  She trusted him even less now that she knew
about the trickster lurking inside.
     Over in the crib, Alex was sitting up, staring at her with wide
blue eyes.  He formed a nonsense word that might have been "hello," 
and she smiled at the child in spite of herself.  But it was typical 
of Xanatos to have even a baby who wasn't all that he seemed.
     Elisa took a deep breath; she had to do what needed to be done. 
"A friend of the clan needs medical attention," she said, and thought
she saw a flicker, a sudden tenseness, in Owen Burnett's face.  "A
gargoyle," she added, and the impression was gone.  "He's been shot, and
we can't take him to the hospital."
     One thin eyebrow lifted slightly behind the glasses.  "Indeed,"
Owen Burnett said, putting the stuffed animals into an open toy chest. 
"That would certainly be unwise.  Your friend is..."
     "Downstairs.  In the great hall."
     He pushed up his glasses.  "Are you alone?"
     "Am I...oh.  No, my partner and...someone else are down there with
Griff, the gargoyle."
     "And do we know this 'someone else'?"  Owen Burnett asked blandly.
     "The gargoyles do."
     He hesitated.  Firmly, but with the perfect hint of regret, he
answered, "Then it might be best if your partner stays downstairs with
this someone else.  You understand, we cannot allow just anyone to
wander about the castle.  A gargoyle, or you and Mr. Bluestone are one
thing --"
     "But you don't understand!"  Elisa cut him off.  "He's completely
trustworthy.  I mean, if I told you who --"
     "Trustworthy for your clan, perhaps," Owen Burnett said almost
abruptly, then continued in his usual smooth fashion.  "I'm afraid I
will have to insist."
     Elisa let out a puff of aggravated breath.  Then she nodded. 
Griff needed help, she wouldn't press the point.  "Fine.  Where should I
bring Griff?"
     "My office.  In ten minutes."  Owen Burnett stepped smoothly past
her into the corridor, holding the baby intercom.
     "But I'm coming with him," Elisa added coldly.  "If you think I
would leave you alone with a gargoyle for five seconds..."
     He turned back, the light from the nursery glinting off his
glasses, bathing him in a yellow glow against the darkness behind him. 
"No, I shouldn't think that you would."

     "That should do it," said Owen Burnett, snipping off the last
excess piece of gauze from Griff's bandage.  He began putting the
medical supplies away -- the gleaming sterilized scissors, the tray of
surgical instruments, the IV bag -- all as good, or better, as anything
found in a hospital, the latest.
     Elisa stood to one side, watching while Griff gingerly touched his
clean white bandage with one talon.
     "Nice job, that," said Griff.
     Owen Burnett did not answer right away.  He took the first aid bag
in his right hand.  "If you will excuse me," he said, and moved to the
door and out of the office on uncannily silent feet.
     Elisa supposed she should have thanked him.  Well, another time.
     She led Griff back along the corridors of the castle to the Great
Hall.  As they came under the arched entranceway, Elisa halted, Griff
just behind her.  The Great Hall appeared to be empty, the chandelier
still burning brightly, catching a gleam on the big varnished table
before the massive fireplace.
     Then she heard two voice, both male, echoing up to the rafters. 
Elisa snapped her head around and saw Matt and Arthur over by a small
wooden door at the far end of the room.  From Matt's stance -- feet
planted wide apart -- and the set of Arthur's shoulders, it looked as if
they were in the middle of an argument.
     "Look, I know how you feel, but we're going to have to wait here
until --" Matt broke off and spotted Elisa and Griff.  "Elisa!"  Matt
called.  "Thank goodness you're here."
     Elisa and Griff came towards Matt and Arthur.  Matt took Elisa by
the arm and pulled her off to on side.  "Arthur is insisting that he has
to search the castle," Matt muttered.  "I wouldn't mind letting him --
but I don't need a lawsuit slapped on me by Xanatos."
     "Search the castle?  Why would Arthur want to search the castle?"
     "It got very weird after you took Griff upstairs, partner."
     "Weird?"  Elisa did not like the sound of that.  "Weird how?"
     Matt shoved his hands into the pockets of his trench coat.  "Weird
like all of a sudden Arthur cocked his head like he'd heard something --
but nothing I could make out.  And then he said, 'He's here,' as if he
couldn't believe it himself.
     "What did he mean?  Who's here?"
     Matt nodded over at Arthur.  "He -- Arthur -- said it was Merlin."
     A prickling ran up Elisa's back and along her arms beneath the
sleeves of her red jacket.
     Griff cleared his throat.  He was standing awkwardly midway
between Arthur on one side and Matt and Elisa on the other.  "If you
don't mind -- er -- is there something wrong?"
     Elisa slowly turned and walked with deliberate steps up to Arthur. 
He faced her, his blue eyes meeting hers, kind, sharply intelligent
eyes, but too deep, too full of agelessness and pain.
     "Arthur Pendragon," Elisa said clearly, "Do you mean to tell me
that Merlin is here, at Castle Wyvern, right now?"
     "Indeed.  I was never gifted like Merlin, but sometimes...I
can...sense things.  I did in England when I found the stone.  And I can
feel it now."  He raised his head a bit, emanating a certain respect and
regal authority even in his ordinary black coat and without the blood
red stone at his forehead.  "You are now part of the pattern, Detective
Elisa Maza, you who awakened me before The Time.  I must have the chance
to find Merlin -- and I do not think that you want to prevent me."

     Matt, Griff, and Elisa trailed after Arthur, Matt glowering and a
bit stormy, Griff looking worried and somewhat awed, Elisa stepping
carefully, feeling not quite real.
     It was unnerving how steadily Arthur led the way.  He had never
set foot in Castle Wyvern before; yet he never hesitated at a single
corner, or seemed confused by a choice of doors.  He was leading them,
Elisa realized, right back to where she had been perhaps an hour earlier
-- to the wing holding the private sleeping quarters and the nursery.
     Elisa's hand closed convulsively around the polished wooden
bannister of the stairwell. ~No,~ she thought fiercely at the idea that
seized her. ~No, he couldn't be.~
     They had reached the corridor, where a triangle of light streamed
out from the half-open nursery door onto the carpeted hall way floor. 
Arthur stepped over to the door and gave it a light push.  It opened,
widening the glow that fell into the corridor.
     Inside the nursery, the infant Alexander Fox Xanatos was having
his diaper changed.  Owen Burnett stood over his charge with a canister
of baby powder in his flesh hand, and a clean diaper draped over the
stone one.  He had white powder dusted on his shirtfront, his hair, and
on his glasses.
     Owen Burnett looked up at the group crowded in the doorway.  He
frowned slightly, then said, bland, efficient, calm, "May I help you?"

     *You imp,* the inner voice in Owen's mind telepathed to Alex. *You
weren't fussy at all.  You just wanted to stay up late for the fun of
seeing me in this mess.*
     *Owenpuck in trouble?* Alex sent back, with great mirth.
     *We will see, little one.  We will see.*
     "I beg your pardon," Arthur said, his fingers still resting on the
door.  "I...we were looking for someone else."
     "You shouldn't be up here," Owen said, setting down the baby
powder.  He tucked the fresh diaper around Alexander and fastened it.
     He didn't like the way Maza was staring at him -- shocked
yet...suspicious.  As if she suspected...~That one's too clever for her
own good,~ he thought sourly.
     "I am sorry," Arthur said softly to his companions, in a voice
that -- just for a moment -- wrenched at something deep within Owen.  "I
must have made a mistake."
     "Detectives," Owen said calmly, "I trust you will show them out? 
Or shall I call security?"
     ~That's it, voice controlled, a touch affronted...~ He saw the odd
look pass out of Elisa Maza's face, replaced by a kind of self-mockery,
as if she had decided that, after all, the very idea was ridiculous.
     Which was exactly what he wanted them to think.
     But as he was turning to go, Arthur stopped, turning back.
     "And yet I cannot...the sense is so strong."  Arthur's eyes seemed
to burn into Owen.
     "But Arthur, there is just no way," the griffin-like gargoyle said
indignantly.  "I mean, look at this man."  He gestured.  "There is just
no way that this man could be ~Merlin,~ Arthur."
     "Well..." Bluestone began.
     "Actually..." Maza said, with new understanding in her face.
     Owen had a sudden desire to morph into Puck so he could turn the
two detectives into a pair of laboratory mice.
     *Owenpuck caught!* Alex said gleefully into his mind.
     "What do you mean?"  Arthur turned to Maza and Bluestone.
     "There's something we need to tell you about Owen Burnett," Maza
said.
     "I don't believe this."  Bluestone was shaking his head.  "I just
don't believe this."
     The gargoyle's voice rose.  "Arthur, Merlin was a great and
powerful magician.  How can you entertain the notion for one second..."
     Maza said something back, Bluestone voiced a protest, Arthur began
talking at the same time, arguing with the gargoyle.
     Owen picked up Alexander, holding him upright, resting in the
crook of his flesh arm. *We'll just slip out now, while they're busy,*
he told Alex through the din.
     And then a shrill whistle pierced the air.  Silence fell as if
with a thud.  Owen froze in his tracks.
     In the doorway, dressed in a robe over his pajamas, Fox at his
side and a laser gun in one hand, was David Xanatos.  He was just
lowering the fingers of his left hand from his mouth.
     "Just what the hell is going on around here?"  He demanded.

     There was no hiding, now, no escape.  If he fled now, they would
certainly guess the truth; if he stayed, Arthur would soon know.
     Owen listened as Maza explained to Xanatos that this was THE King
Arthur.
     Fox sat in the wooden rocking chair, protectively holding
Alexander, whose mind was still listening intently but growing sleepy in
his mother's arms.
     "So what is King Arthur doing in my son's nursery?"  Xanatos asked
ominously.  He had pocketed the gun in his robe -- but within easy
reach.
     The flicker of a grin crossed Detective Maza's face, which
impressed Owen momentarily -- he knew she possessed a quiet but sharp
sense of humor.
     "He thinks that Owen Burnett is Merlin," she said.
     For a moment little reaction showed on David Xanatos' face.  A
muscle in his bearded cheek twitched, and Owen found himself holding his
breath.
     Finally, his employer turned slowly, his face inscrutable but with
a twinkle of amusement buried in his voice as his eyebrows arched in the
familiar way.  "Owen," he said.  "You didn't?  Not ~again?~"
     "Do you mean..." Arthur said incredulously, "that this man really
is Merlin?"
     "Your highness," Xanatos said politely, "You will find out shortly
that my assistant is much more than he appears to be.  Owen is but one
of his forms, and he possesses astonishing talents.  I would say it is
startling but not impossible that at some point during his career, he
may have created the role of your Merlin for himself."
     Arthur turned to look at Owen, face stark with shock.  "Is this
the truth?"
     Owen sighed.  He could lie.  Arthur might believe it with his
intellect, but not with his instincts; Xanatos and the others would
never let him get away with it.  Fox was already watching him in a
dangerous, calculating way -- he could never put one over on ~her~.
     He turned to Fox and Alex.  "I do believe it is time for Alexander
to have a lesson in early British history.  In that case..."  Owen
removed his glasses, carefully folded them, and tucked them into his
breast pocket.
     The stone arm, and the rest of Owen Burnett, began to shimmer,
then melted away, into...Puck.
     "I'mmmmm baaaaaaaaaack!"  Puck granted his audience a wicked grin
as he hovered a few inches off the floor.  "Ah, Detective Bluestone.  I
don't believe we've met."  Puck flew in at the tall, red-haired
detective.  "The name's Puck.  You might have heard of me."
     Bluestone drew back, eyeing the hovering fay warily.
     ~Hmm,~ Puck thought. ~It could be interesting to play about with
this one.~ He tried to envision Matt Bluestone as a gargoyle and failed
utterly.
     "And the lovely Detective Maza."  Puck whipped around towards her. 
"So it was you who woke up Arthur -- and brought him and that wounded
gryphon thing here."
     "I am a ~gargoyle,~" Griff protested.
     Puck ignored him.  "I always knew you would be trouble," Puck told
Maza as she scowled at him.  "You're just a weirdness magnet, aren't
you?"
     From the rocking chair, Fox cleared her throat with a dangerous
note.  "Puck?  We're waiting."
     "Oh, sure, spoil all my fun."  Puck slowly settled to the floor
and rolled his eyes.  "This is going to be another long story.  It goes
way back."  He cocked his head to one side, and a grin formed twin
creases in his slender cheeks.  "I created Merlin as a kind of
experiment."
     Arthur had been silent, his face troubled and slightly quizzical. 
But as the fay drifted back down to the floor, a sudden recognition
flickered in his eyes, and he turned to stare intently at Puck.
     "I remember you!"  He said.  "It was in the forest -- I'd gotten
lost looking for Kay's goshawk.  I never told anyone, later on.  I'd
almost made myself forget.  People looked askance at anyone who said
they had seen a member of the third race.  Not because they didn't
believe.  Everyone believed.  But because they were afraid."



Southern England
6th Century A.D.

     The boy pushed aside a low-hanging branch, glancing apprehensively
around.  Massive tree trunks stood as far as he could see in any
direction, their tangled foliage blocking almost all sunlight.  Some
light shafted down hazily in spots, bright beams against the twilight. 
The ground was a treacherous surface of underbrush and roots, or mossy
banks that dropped suddenly away beneath his feet.  The air smelled like
damp wood.  He heard a strange, trilling cry and a rustling.  The boy
froze like an alarmed rabbit.
     Dressed in a tunic one size too big, patched leggings, and soft
leather boots, he seemed dwarfed by the massive trees.  When nothing
moved, he continued, his eyes lifted to the tree tops, searching.
     "Cully!  Cully!" He called.  His voice was growing hoarse.
     "You'll never catch him that way," a laconic, amused voice said
behind him.
     The boy spun around.  He hadn't heard footsteps, or the tell-tale
sound of crackling twigs.
     About two yards away there was a slender figure with white hair
falling over his shoulders.  He had a narrow, delicate face.  Clad in a
brilliant red tunic that seemed to blaze against the somber colors of
the forest, he seemed hardly larger than a teenaged boy.  But his eyes
were canny -- old -- in his youthful, unlined face.  He had pointed ears
and was hovering a few feet above the forest floor, arms folded.
     The boy made the sign of the Evil Eye and stumbled back.
     The creature sighed.  "Oh, come now.  You humans don't really
think that works, do you?"
     Watching the being carefully, the boy stilled.  "Who -- who are
you?"
     Grinning, the small man fixed him with a stare.  "That's not
important.  The real issue is, who ~you~ are."  He paused.  "But first,
I think I can help with that hawk of yours."
     "He's not mine, really.  He's Kay's."
     The fay shrugged.  "A technicality."  He stopped, looked
speculatively up at the glimmers of light cutting through the leaves,
then raised a slender hand above his head, forefinger extended.  "Here,
birdie birdie birdie," he called.
     When a small dark, winged shape fluttered down out of nowhere --
out of thin air, it seemed to the boy -- the fay showed no surprise
whatsoever.  He handed the hawk to the boy, his eyebrows rising in
response to the awed expression on his face.
     Cully ruffled his wing feathers, then settled onto the boy's
finger, looking around with sharp eyes.  "Thank you," the boy said
breathlessly, fitting a small hood over the goshawk's head.
     But when he looked up again, the strange little man had vanished. 
The woods were eerily silent and empty.  He was just starting to feel
panicky when he noticed the sign.
     It was a board, painted white, nailed to a nearby tree.  In bold
red lettering it said "THIS WAY TO THE CASTLE."  Underneath the
lettering was a pointing hand with a crisp white shirt cuff over the
wrist.
     As he obediently followed the pointing finger, the boy thought he
heard a faint chuckle, far off...

     


     "I already knew who he really was," Puck said.  "After that, it
was just a matter of finding the right way to bring about what I wanted
to bring about.  I had mingled among mortals in the past," he added,
with a private smile. "But I had never taken on a role before.  It was
quite fun.  And since this was long before Daddy Oberon's Edict, I could
look like a human, and live with the humans, but I could use my powers
any time I wanted to."
     "But...why?"  Maza asked.  "And don't tell me you wanted to make
England a better place."
     Puck snorted.  "Not too bright, are you?  The answer should be
obvious.  I did it because I was BORED, that's why."
     "Boredom seems to be a big problem with you," said Fox.  
     "Immortality'll do that to you," Puck said slyly.  He saw Xanatos
and Fox glance at each other.
     "But how could this be?"  Arthur shook his head.  "Merlin was a
man I trusted, who taught me and practically raised me.  And all that
was just a ~role~?"
     "Your highness," Puck said -- politely, for Puck -- "I am about to
restore Merlin to you briefly.  Perhaps if you speak directly to him,
you will understand."
     As he spoke, a white glow began to surround the fay, pinpoints of
light that danced like fireflies.  The image of Puck seemed to blur.
     And then the glow went away.  Standing before the five staring
humans, the gargoyle (whose beak was hanging open), and the baby (who
seemed to take it all as a matter of course), was Merlin.
He was broad-shouldered and wiry, with a close-cropped white beard, a
thick thatch of white hair, and dark eyes that watched the world
with hawk-like sharpness.  He was dressed in brown, a
worn jerkin, homespun shirt, and riding breeches.  Stepping over to
Arthur, he knelt.
     Arthur seemed speechless for a moment.  "For heaven's sake,
Merlin," he said at last.  "Get up.  You've never knelt to me in the
past, why start now?"
     Merlin got to his feet with a faint, amused grin.  Then the grin
faded.  "It is good to see you again Arthur."
     "Really," Arthur said, in uncharacteristically bitter tones.  "I
must have been quite an amusement for you.  The most unlikely future
king anyone had ever seen.  I have to concede that you were quite a
thespian, ~old friend,~" he added.  "Tell me, did you really mean
anything you ever told me?  And the scrolls -- it appears you have some
craft as a writer as well."
     "I meant what I wrote there, Arthur," Merlin said quietly.  "I
meant everything I said."
     "And why should I believe you?  Your whole existence was a lie.  A
role."
     "Sometimes..." Merlin hesitated.  "Sometimes the part becomes as
real as the player."
     Xanatos watched Merlin with a curious expression on his bearded
features.  Griff stood with arms folded, regarding the scene grimly. 
Fox and the two detectives just watched, like spectators at a play,
riveted.
     "Who wrote the scrolls?"  Arthur said at last.  "Merlin, or Puck?"
     "Merlin.  After.  For a time, Puck did go home. But the part of
him that was Merlin knew there needed to be a record of the story of
King Arthur.  That the world needed something to remember, and believe
in.  So I returned to the mortal world, for a brief time, to write them,
then hide them in a cave."  He snorted.  "It took them long enough to
find it.  But even without my help, the legend of King Arthur grew far
beyond anything I could have imagined."
     "When I was a hatchling, we used to hear the stories all the
time," Griff said suddenly.  "Arthur was -- is -- the greatest hero that
ever was.  I used to believe in Merlin, too.  Until now." He frowned.
     "Without Griff, I never would have found Excalibur," said Arthur. 
"Why did you hide it in New York City?  Why not England?"
     Merlin sighed.  "Actually, that's a bit hard to explain.  Puck
thought he had laid out all his spells so carefully.  He hid the sword
in the dragon statue, then cast a double binding spell that tied the
statue and sword to a body of water within a certain radius, and The
Lady of The Lake to the water.  But when you triggered the spell last
fall, it didn't go the way it was supposed to.  And Arthur was supposed
to sleep for another three hundred years."
     On Fox's lap, Alex suddenly cocked his head, as if listening.
     "I have the scrolls, here," Arthur said, pulling out the
containers from under his coat.  "I haven't had a chance to read them
all the way through," he said drily.  "You didn't, by any chance, set
things straight about Caerleon's true location?"
     *Owenpuck!* Alex said into Puck's mind.
     *Not now, Alex, Owenpuck is very busy.*
     "You mean the scholars aren't right?"  Maza asked.
     Merlin laughed.  "Not by a half, about a lot of things.  My dear
lady, do you realize that if Arthur had really been associated with
every rock, mound, and castle connected with his name, he would have
done nothing his entire reign but travel around Britain without a stop?"
     *OWENPUCK!* Alex signaled, more urgent.
     *Yes, what is it?*
     *She's coming.*
     *Alex,* Puck telepathed back carefully, *Tell Owenpuck.  WHO'S
coming?*
     At that moment, the nursery door, which Xanatos had shut behind
him some time ago, blew open with a bang.  The mortal in the room
started.  Merlin slowly turned towards the door.
     Framed in the doorway was a young woman with long, thick,
wheat-colored hair coiled up in a neatly coifed bun.  She wore a
tailored,
body hugging gray business suit with a skirt just this side of too short
and a matching jacket.  The woman resting her hands on the door frame,
posing.
     "I understand this is what women of power wear today.  Quite nice,
isn't it, Merlin?  Then again..."  The woman waved her hands over her
body.  A burgundy gown with narrow sleeves and a trailing hem replaced
the power suit, along with a light gray wool cloak.  The hood was pushed
back, mingling with the thick hair that fell loose down her back.  "I
think I prefer the old way."
     Xanatos stepped forward, his hand going to the laser gun in the
pocket of his robe.  "Who are you?  What do you want?" 
     Merlin frowned.  "Morgan, what are you doing here?"
     Morgan smiled, and although she showed no teeth, it was somehow
predatory.  "As long as all your secrets are coming out -- ~Merlin~ --"
she added with strange emphasis, "I thought I would make my contribution
to the proceedings.  After all, I can't let you grab all the glory."
     "Just ignore her and perhaps she'll go away," Merlin told the room
at large, in a bored voice calculated to annoy her.
     "Lady Morgan?"  Arthur blinked.  "But how..."
     "After all this time, you still don't have a clue, do you, Arthur? 
Has Merlin told you yet why he failed you?  He thought he was so
all-powerful and all-wise..."  She caught sight of Merlin's face and
trailed off.  "I see he hasn't.  Oh, please," she clapped her hands
together.  "Let ~me~ tell him!"  Morgan turned to Arthur.  "Merlin could
have turned the tide of battle for you.  So I called him away with a
false distress message.  By the time he returned, the battle had already
begun.  And I made sure he couldn't join you.  You see, we are one of a
kind, Merlin and I."
     She finished speaking, leaving a silence.  Xanatos kept his hand
in his pocket, watching Lady Morgan carefully.  His face revealed
nothing, but his arm was rigid, tensed, ready to whip out the laser
weapon in a second if the need arose.
     Arthur's face had gone stony.  His fingers twitched towards his
sword, but he did not draw it.  He took one step towards Morgan. 
"You...you were the cause?"  His voice began to grow in force.  "You
were the reason my soldiers had to fight losing odds?  Why I had to
watch them die in a slaughter?  Why --" his voice choked off.  "If it
hadn't been for you, we might have had a chance.  Merlin would have been
there and she could have survived. ~You killed her.~"
     Without warning, Arthur launched himself at Morgan.  Moving
automatically, the two detectives restrained him, no doubt certain there
would be a homicide committed if they didn't.
     Fox rose from her chair, taking Alex protectively away from the
chaos.
     Arthur struggled to free himself from the detectives' grasp.  Maza
strained her full weight against him.  "Arthur!"  She said, voice low,
looking up into his face.  "Arthur, don't.  One more death won't make it
all right."
     The king slumped, but stayed on his feet.  Cautiously, Bluestone
relaxed his hold across Arthur's shoulders.
     Morgan snickered.  "He couldn't kill me even if you let him try."
     Merlin was staring at Arthur.  "Who would have lived, Arthur?" 
But he already knew the answer.  After speculating for such a long time,
he finally knew.
     Shaking off the supporting hands of the two detectives, Arthur
looked up, voice bleak.  And he told them.




Camlaan, Britain
6th Century A.D.
     
     Metal clashed on metal, and somewhere, a man screamed.  There were
jostling bodies, blood, the massive, shifting weight of horses
everywhere.  The morning had dawned overcast.  Now pockets of mist
hovered low over the trees and river and field.  It was raining, but
barely more than just a moisture in the air, barely enough to turn the
battle field to mud.  The air smelled of metal and blood and wet
leather.
     "How soon 'til the reinforcements arrive?" Gawaine yelled to him,
pulling his horse around to parry an attack from one of Mordred's men.
     "The forces from Cadwyn cannot get here before sunset, it is a
day's ride."
     "We will not be seeing our allies from the Cornish cliffs until
then, either?"
     "We must hold out until after sunset.  They will come."
     Gawaine's opponent fell from his mount and thudded heavily to the
ground.  He would not get up again.  Still, with all the skills of
Caerleon's knights and soldiers, they were outnumbered.  If they could
last until the Cornish gargoyles arrived, they could vanquish Mordred's
forces.
     A few yards off, a slender boy leapt forward to intercept a man
with a mace that had hurled himself towards Arthur.  Wielding a sword
that seemed too heavy for him, he was clad like so many others in chain
mail with the Caerleon insignia on his breast plate.  Arthur recognized
him as Lancelet.  He was a young visiting knight who had shown up in
Camelot one day at a tournament, had bested Sir Gawaine, and had since
revealed great promise.  Lancelet always kept to himself, rarely
mingling with the other knights and usually avoiding Arthur himself.  It
moved Arthur to see that the boy was there, fighting with his army.
     The attack was sudden, from behind, coming out of the maze of
fighting bodies and the ghost-like rain.  Arthur yelled a warning to the
boy, saw him turn, raise his sword -- and then with nightmare swiftness
the boy doubled over.  Mordred's foot soldier had time to pull his sword
from the boy's body before Arthur knocked him down, killing him.
     Arthur slid from his horse and knelt by the young man.  Blood
seeped through the boy's shirt, through the broken chain mail, as Arthur
raised the lad by his shoulders --
     And saw his face, clearly, for the first time since Lancelet had
come to Caerleon.
     With a quick movement, rough with urgency, Arthur pulled off the
helmet, and then Guinevere's dark brown hair was falling across his arm.
     "Gwen!"
     Leaning against him, Gwen looked up into his face.  "Hello,
Arthur."  She smiled weakly, and it cut through the grime on her face
and the horror of the battle around him.
     "What in God's name are you doing here!"  
     Two foot soldiers with their swords wedged against the other's in
combat stumbled towards them.  In a swift movement, Arthur hefted
Guinevere in his arms and stepped aside, then without bothering to stop
and think, still holding his sword, he pushed his way through the
battle, carrying her off the field into the woods.
     The sounds of the battle drifted faint in the background.  Except
for the flow of the river nearby, the woods were eerily silent, wreathed
in fog.  All the birds had fled.  As Arthur set Guinevere down on the
leaf-strewn ground, he saw her bite her lower lip.
     Tearing off one gauntlet with his teeth, he pressed his hand
desperately against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding.  "I told you
to stay behind in the tower keep!"  Arthur let his sword drop,
forgotten, next to them.  The silvery metal of the blade and the gold of
the hilt gleamed against the deep brown of the woods floor.
     "You said..."  Gwen had to pause for breath, "you could not
concentrate on the battle if you knew I was fighting, in danger.  So I
took up the role of Lancelet again."  She laughed softly.   "Oh, Arthur,
when you presented Lance with that token of honor last spring -- I had
such a hard time keeping a straight face."
     "But why didn't you tell me?"
     "For the same reason you asked me not to join the battle today." 
Her brown eyes fixed on his face, and her forehead creased as she read
the worry there.  "Arthur, I'm sorry," she added hastily.  "Perhaps you
needed a wife...who would stay...obediently...in a tower."
     "Gwen, if I'd wanted a wife who would stay obediently behind in a
tower, I would not have married you," he said with cross gruffness. 
"But you should have stayed where you were..."
     "Safe?"  She struggled to sit up against his restraining arms. 
"Arthur, how could I sit safe while you rode into this battle...stayed
behind, waiting, and wondering, and not knowing if you would still be
standing at the end of it."  She swallowed; and Arthur, horrified, saw
the tears sliding down her cheeks.  Queen Guinevere rarely wept.   "I've
done that too many times before."   Then she added wryly, her voice
steadying, "My nerves couldn't take it."
     Arthur let out a chuckle that unexpectedly turned into a brief,
tearing sob.  "Your nerves are like iron, my dear.  I am never worried
about your nerves."  He looked down at his hand, at ~her~ blood on his
fingers.  There was so much blood...Arthur turned his head, looking
through the silent rows of trees as if expecting someone to appear among
them. ~If I can just get her to Merlin, he'll be able to save her.~ But
Caerleon's mage had vanished three days ago, along with one of the best
horses from the stables.
     She reached up, and as her fingers met his face, he turned back to
her.  "I had...to fight at your side this time..."  Gwen's face twisted
in pain, and she gasped.  "It's all right," she reassured him, but he
knew it wasn't.  Leaning against his chest, she added weakly, "I
couldn't let Camelot be destroyed."
     He was about to say something in reply, anything, but instead he
lowered his head, and felt Gwen's lips soft against his.  "My brave
warrior," he murmured against her mouth.  And then he felt the change,
the suddenly slackness in the weight he held in his arms.  Her eyes
closed, and then the essence of her was gone.
     When he heard the footfall behind him, Arthur was surprised to
find that he was still solid.  He became aware again of the feel of the
cloth under his armor against his skin, of the distant sounds of battle,
of the damp ground beneath his knees.
     "My lord?"  Gawaine said, bewildered.  "What..."
     Arthur turned his head and saw the knight's eyes go to the form
Arthur still held in his arms.  "Lancelet?"  He asked, bleakly.
     And then the knight stepped closer, and saw who it really was that
King Arthur held in his arms.  Gawaine reached up and pulled off his
helmet, then ran a calloused hand up along his face and through his
short, thick, light-colored hair.  "Oh, God...the queen?"  He sank to
his knees next to Arthur, and his helmet slipped from his grasp, falling
to the ground with a soft thump.   "Arthur, it can't be...no..."
     "I told her," Arthur said bleakly.   "I told her to stay where she
would be safe."
     "But...how?"  Gawaine said, numbly.
     Arthur raised his head to look at his friend.  "Guinevere was
Lancelet.  She did it because she thought Camelot was not ready for a
warrior queen."  He added, his voice thick and bitter, "And here I
always thought I was running a court of equality and justice."
     "Don't say that, Arthur.  It wasn't because of that.  Queen
Guinevere had the soul of a warrior.  She grew up with six older
brothers.  She had to know how to fight and stand up for herself.  It
was Colin, I think, who taught her how to wield a broadsword...or maybe
it was Emrys."  Gawaine spoke dully, absently, babbling.  As if nothing
he said really mattered, but he had to keep talking.  And it didn't
matter.  Not anymore.
     "Yes, a warrior..." Arthur paused.  "Yes, she was always more at
home on horseback or on the archery field than in a throne room...yet
she played the role of a queen for Camelot...now she's died for it." 
The wind stirred a few strands of hair across Guinevere's lifeless
features.  With his fingers, Arthur brushed them back.
     Gawaine slowly picked up his helmet and got to his feet.  "Arthur,
we must return to the battle."
     When Arthur neither moved nor answered, Gawaine said, clearly and
carefully, "Your majesty..."
     Arthur slowly raised his head and met Gawaine's eyes.  Then he
stood, Guinevere limp in his arms.  Her sword, he realized, was probably
still lying somewhere on the battle field.  He wanted to stay in that
clearing forever, with the mist curling around him, turning the woods
into something from another world, muffling the battle sounds.  But
there was no time for grief.
     
     Then they had buried her, on the banks of the river that flowed
nearby.  Fifteen hundred years later, when Arthur had returned to the
spot, he'd found the stone that had been so carefully placed.  It had
sunk into the earth, overgrown with moss.  When he had pulled it away,
pushing aside the damp, dead leaves, the faint, worn cuts of the letters
spelling out her name were still visible; but legible only to one who
knew what name was written there...

     


     When he was finished with the telling, Arthur's beard was damp,
but he didn't seem to notice or care.
     Xanatos had moved closer to Fox, reached down, and squeezed her
free hand.  Griff's forehead was creased with sympathy and pain. 
Detective Bluestone looked stunned.  And Detective Maza stood very
still, tears sliding down her cheeks, crying without a sound as if she
didn't know she was doing it.
     "I didn't know," Merlin said quietly, to no one in particular.  "I
didn't know."
     "How touching," Morgan said sarcastically.  "And here all these
years I thought, like everyone else, that Guinevere had a little
dalliance on the side with our fair young Lancelet."  She gave a light,
affected sigh.  "Ah well.  It just goes to show how wrong history can
be."
     "History?"  Arthur said sharply.
     Merlin glared fiercely at Morgan.  "Not -- another -- word!"
     "How could you not have heard?"  She said, ignoring Merlin
completely.  "Everyone knows the story of Guinevere and Lancelot.  How
the queen married a doddering old king out of duty -- but found love
elsewhere," Morgan added viciously.
     Arthur tensed, his eyes dark.  "Is that what they say about her?" 
He turned imploringly to Griff, to the detectives, to the Xanatoses. 
"Please, I have to know."
     Griff cleared his throat.  "Well, that is...as I said, there were
stories...I didn't want to ask you about it -- it seemed...tactless."
     Arthur turned and walked over to the window, where the night sky
was lightened by the stars above and the city lights below.  He didn't
speak.
     Merlin came over to join him.  "We will set it right, Arthur. 
Another scroll, soon to be unearthed by archaeologists.  Properly aged
with the help of a few spells, of course..."
     Morgan, who had been listening with a hint of disgust on her face,
suddenly snapped her attention elsewhere.  She moved towards Fox and
Alexander.  "So this little one is Puck's new pupil."
     Fox rose from the chair, holding Alex tightly, and fixed the other
woman with a glare that should have reduced her opponent to a whimpering
heap.  But Morgan didn't flinch.
     "Fox," Xanatos said, moving quickly to her side, "I think perhaps
you should take our son someplace else in the castle."
     As Fox moved forward, Morgan blocked her path.  But before
Xanatos, the gargoyle, or the other humans could move, there was a
flicker of white light near the window.  Puck appeared between Morgan
and Fox.
     "Ah-ah-ah," he said, wagging a finger in Morgan's face.
     "Very well, Puck," she said.  Morgan stepped back theatrically.     
 With a dance of light over her body that seemed a parody of Puck's
earlier transforma