Sword in the Stars (Once & Future #2) - Cori McCarthy Page 0,26

all of history—his old self would pitch him headfirst off the cliffs at Tintagel. If he said no, Old Merlin would know he was lying.

Have I ever used magic?

An answer took the long road to Merlin’s lips. He thought of all the ways he’d failed his Arthurs. How his new limitations meant he was leaving Ari and her knights to fend for themselves in this ruthless world.

“Not very well,” he said.

Old Merlin liked that answer. He guzzled it the way Merlin had done with the wine.

“Perhaps you can be taught a thing or two, carbuncle. I could use an apprentice.” Old Merlin folded his hands over his robes, a sign that he was set in his decision. “If you train well enough, perhaps you will gain the skills to find this errant family of yours.”

This was definitely not part of the story. Merlin didn’t remember having a pupil studying at his knee in Camelot. Some things had gotten lost in the haze of time—but this? He would remember a scruffy would-be mage. Had he just tampered with the cycle? Thrown it off entirely?

“I think I’m going to…” Have an aneurysm. Throw Camelot’s first pity party. Give up altogether. “… find Lancelot and tell him the good news,” Merlin blurted, shooting up from his chair and nearly landing in the fireplace. “Thank you.”

Old Merlin nodded. “From now on, you will do nothing, go nowhere, without my say.”

Gods, what had he just agreed to? The stone in the doorways tumbled down, leaving rubble that Merlin could easily clear. The manacles unlocked and dropped to the floor. He ran, leaping, as that sweet, cidery old voice chased him out. “You’ll most likely die, and I won’t be held responsible for your idiocy.”

“Of course not,” Merlin said.

He was the only magician in all the ages stupid enough to get apprenticed to himself.

After two days of constant, non-magical chores—removing dust from books, rust from enchanted weapons, and owl droppings from everything—Merlin was finally allowed out of the confines of the tower for long enough to meet with his friends. He walked past the market in the hale, hearty sunshine, stopping to watch a puppet show in the square. One that featured everyone’s new favorite knight, Lancelot.

“Can we talk somewhere less public?” Lam asked as they approached Merlin.

“Public meetings are less suspicious. Trust me, it’s something I’ve picked up over a few millennia,” he said. “Let’s just hope the rest of them can make it.”

“One of them is already here,” came a crisp voice from behind.

Merlin turned to find Gwen, looking so different he hadn’t noticed her in the throng. She wore a headpiece of twisted rags with a half-veil, and she’d shucked her queen’s garb and replaced it with a simple white linen dress that did nothing to hide her bun in the oven. In fact, it looked like she was cooking an entire batch of tiny Gwen-and-Kays.

“You look different!” Merlin cried awkwardly.

“So do you.” Gwen angled her head, bunching her plum-colored lips. For a moment Merlin felt certain that she knew his magic and aging were knotted up together. She’d always been terrifyingly perceptive. “Your glasses, Merlin!” she burst out. “They’re gone. Too anachronistic?”

He’d lost them in the oubliette, actually. But it got worse. When Old Merlin had brought him up from the dark, he’d realized he didn’t need them anymore. His eyesight had greatly improved with this last leap into youth. “Yes, that’s right,” he said, eager to turn attention away from him. “And you… that dress!”

“It’s good to see the littlest knight on proud display,” Lam said.

“I had to borrow a handmaiden’s dress. Your note said to be low profile. This one is helping me fly under the radar. We’re very sneaky, aren’t we?” she asked the bump. Somehow that little question made the baby real to Merlin in a way that they never had been before. There was a soon-to-be-person in there.

The crowd roared a laugh, and Gwen squinted at the stage. “This again? They need a bigger repertoire.” Puppet Lancelot was dancing, his sword positioned at the front of his pants and bouncing to the beat. It was a lot of enthusiastic sword-wagging.

“That joke really is as old as time,” Lam said, just as Ari swaggered into the square. People’s eyes didn’t know where to stick—the Lancelot in the show, or the real one, shining and bold as she clanked her way toward her friends. Ari’s bluntly hacked hair and sharp features complemented the intense look on her face. When