Chapter 18—Reasons

The room assigned to Merlin was basic servant quarters but much more luxurious than anywhere he had ever resided. He’d once thought his parents’ inn to be palatial and the furnishings fancy, but compared to this room, they were little better than the stable. In fact, as he thought about it, the palace stables were nicer than the inn. He ran his hand over the carved foot board of the narrow bed, then tested the mattress by bouncing on its surface. He couldn’t feel a slat or a nail. It was as though the bed floated in a soft cushion of cloud.

He stood and crossed to the window which overlooked the stables and the back entrance to the kitchens. A farmer, his cart stacked high with baskets of bread, handed the containers to kitchen staff, who carried them through the open door. At the sight of the crusty loaves, his stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten all day. He had no idea how to go about getting food within the castle. He watched the procession. His stomach rumbled again, in protest. “All right, all right,” he said, rubbing the hollow cavity below his ribcage. “I’m going.”

Decision made, he left his room and walked along the servant’s hallway, passing palace staff dressed in red and black livery with the Pendragon rearing lion stitched onto the left breast of their tunics. They took no notice of him, intent on their tasks. A woman rushed by him, her arms full of bundled strips of torn cloth. She veered down a passageway to the right, which led to the main courtyard. As she pushed open a door, the cries of the injured swelled, until the closing of the door muted their voices once again.

He grimaced. Food first, then he would begin his search for the sorceress. Merlin took the first passage on his right, wandering the dim hall, which spilled into a doorway set with tall thin windows on either side. He opened the door and came face to face with the head cook, distinguished by the pristine apron tied around her ample waist and a long wooden spoon that she brandished like a sabre. “Harriet will have our hide if you drop any of that bread! No, Patrick, do not stack them, you will crush the loaves!” As Merlin watched, a loaf tumbled over the side of his tottering basket, rolling across the ground to stop just short of his feet. Merlin bent down and picked it up. It was still warm to the touch.

“Well, that’s a loaf, ruined. Toss it on the rubbish pile, boy.” The cook shooed the workers back inside, smacking a few rear ends with the long wooden spoon to hasten their departure. Bemused, Merlin dusted off the dirt and took a large bite of the bread. It was soft and nutty flavoured, with a crunchy crust. Famished, he wolfed down the bread as he walked, thinking about everything he had witnessed over the last day or two. There was something bugging him, some part of the puzzle that he was not seeing. He took another bite, chewing slowly now as his belly filled. Something…something…

And then it came to Merlin. Why attack Affalon Ford? What was it about that village that had made it a target? And what was its connection to Camelot? Affalon Ford was the head water for the wells of Camelot. He knew that, having passed over the river multiple times. But a lot of villages shared the waters of Affalon. It couldn’t be the water. What else did it have in common with Camelot? And where could he learn of the village’s history? As he walked, his eyes fell on a rotund building graced with a copper roof, set with a copper weather vane. Both roof and vane bore the green patina of age. And housed under its jade roof was the royal library of Camelot. He shoved the last of the bread into his mouth and broke into a trot, jogging over to the building.

Merlin pulled open the massive oak door and entered. He paused just inside, to allow his eyes time to adjust to the dim lighting of the interior. A thin, sallow-faced man rose from behind an ornately carved desk.

“May I help you?” The librarian moved around, to stand in front of Merlin. His eyes ran over his simple peasant clothing, and frowned. “This library is not open to the public. If you would kindly leave…”

“I am a new hire to Camelot. I am here by Prince Arthur’s command,” he said quickly. “He has requested that I bring him research on the history of Affalon Ford.”

“The books are not allowed to leave the library. Arthur knows this.” The librarian’s frown deepened. “If Arthur wishes research accomplished, he need only ask me and I will do it for him,” he said, with an audible huff.

Merlin eyed the disgruntled librarian and said, “Prince Arthur wishes to leave your valuable time free for more important matters. This is a minor inquiry. If you could point me to where the scrolls concerning the recent history of Affalon Ford are kept, I will not bother you further.”

The librarian’s brow smoothed. “Too true. Researching shipping records are best left to clerks such as yourself. I have much more important duties to attend to. You will find shipping, taxation, and census records in aisle zeta.”

Merlin nodded his thanks and walked away from the mollified librarian.

The intensity of his gaze on Merlin’s back was an unreachable itch until he turned into the last aisle. His gaze swept the alcove. Stained glass windows depicting scenes of clergy copying books decorated the curved wall. The sunlight was muted, but it provided sufficient illumination to make his search possible. The stone walls were hidden behind a complex riddle of cubby holes, into which were tucked tightly furled scrolls. Merlin ran his index finger down the carefully written labels, searching for he did not know what. His eyes scanned past livestock reports, sales reports, contracts of every conceivable nature, a section on judgments and punishments, each with its own dedicated crypt for each year. A little further on he discovered a coding chart with a sample of the ribbon colour used for each town under Camelot’s rule, which made things immensely easier. Affalon Ford’s records were bound with an egg yolk ribbon.

Now that he knew what ribbon to look for, his search quickened. He scanned the legal section. Marriages were recorded in abundance, as were deaths.

More names will be added to these scrolls soon, he thought with a grimace.

Scrolls recording baptisms were also housed in the library, and he pulled one out at random, to view it. It was a copy, as noted by the transcriber, a church record keeper named Cyrus. He rolled up the scroll and retied it, replacing it where he had found it. His eyes caught on a dusty cubby located high above him titled “Witch and Warlock Purge.” Anger flared in his belly at the evidence of the persecution of his kind. He rolled the wall ladder over to the vertical stack then climbed up to retrieve the scrolls, carrying them over to a plain wooden table. He placed them gently on the worn surface, then returned to the aisle and continued scanning the wall. There were plenty of scrolls to keep his fury from fading.

Then a particular label jumped out at him. It read “Recruitment for the Clergy, 1358–1402 AD”. Curious, he pulled out the bundles of scrolls and carried them over to a plain wooden table, placing them carefully on the surface beside the others. Sure enough, he found a yellow ribbon in both piles. Extracting the ones concerning Affalon Ford, he put them aside while he sorted the scrolls into groups with matching ribbons.

He untied the bindings and began to read, comparing the contents side by side. It did not take long to find a correlation. The towns and villages all had one thing in common. Magic.

Three hundred years prior, when the church was on the rise, magic was condemned as pagan, and those who practiced such beliefs were deemed heretics and a threat to the true faith. It was decreed that the pagan gods be eliminated, along with any who practiced such idolatrous beliefs. Pious the First, founder of the abbey of Camelot, compelled the first king to enforce the churches decrees. The knights of Camelot became the church’s right hand of strength in a holy quest to purge Palestine of the infidels. On their return, they took up the cause in Camelot as well. Under the command of the church, the purge of the pagan gods began, along with those who practiced magic. Targeting the Druid populations, the Templars became the muscle behind the church’s declaration that all witches and warlocks should burn at the stake, and their children be brought into the church as servants of the Lord, for no child should be held responsible for the sins of their parents.

Merlin scanned the list of towns and the carefully inked dates involved on the first set of scrolls, against the secondary scrolls containing the names of children offered to serve the church and the date of their intake. A clear and direct correlation existed between the two. He moved on to the scrolls of Affalon Ford, which were of more recent date, less than twenty years ago. These scrolls are likely penned by scholars still living. Merlin felt a thrill shiver his spine. A purge had occurred, listing sixty dead. But strangely, no children had been taken to serve the church in the aftermath. He leaned in closer. The recruitment scrolls, however, had a recent addition inked into place. It gave a date of a year ago. Ten names were listed, with surnames that identified the children as familial relations to those deceased during the purification.

“You have an interest in the purge?” Merlin jumped. The wizened librarian stood at the end of the aisle, peering suspiciously at Merlin and the scrolls littering the tabletop.

“The prince has concerns about the dragon attack and the use of magic. He asked me to see if I could determine a suspect from the records.”

“And why are you qualified to give such an opinion?”

“I’m not. But I was the one he had available to do research. The party and all, you know. Everyone is so busy.”

The librarian looked doubtful, but shuffled over to peer over Merlin’s shoulders. “What are you examining?”

Merlin glanced back quickly, then placed a finger on the list of names. “Do you know anything about these children?”

The librarian picked up the scroll, squinting at the text. “They are children that were brought in to serve the church as choir boys and altar boys. Some become cloistered after a time. But you need not worry over that list.”

“Why?” asked Merlin.

“All those children have died, or gone missing, during the past year.”

“What?”

“The deaths are recorded in another scroll. Five have succumbed to disease.” He shuffled over to another area, squinted at the labels in the dim light, then retrieved a nondescript scroll and shuffled back to Merlin. “They are recorded here.” He placed the scroll on the table. “The other five have been moved away from the abbey, after entering the clergy. They will not be seen again, as part of their training is to remain separate from society, so as to dedicate their lives to the service of God.”

Merlin picked up the scroll and scanned the names of the deceased. One name jumped out at him. Theodore al Fallon, a relative of Nimue al Fallon, a Druid high priestess of such renown as to strike fear in a warlock’s heart. Merlin was no common man, yet he could not suppress a shiver of anxiety.

If the church has taken one of the high priestess’ nephews…

He rolled up the scrolls, retying the ribbons. “Thank you, you have been of great help.” Merlin carefully replaced the scrolls back where they belonged and left the library, certain he now knew who was behind the attacks, both on Affalon Ford, and Camelot.

He needed to find Arthur.

Fast.