And we're back, for the last few chapters or so. I want to thank everyone for reviews. And of course, since I missed Heart's three year anniversary, I have to thank SamoaPhoenix for being the greatest roommate in the world and Aphrodite's Dragon for being the greatest sister in the world. I couldn't do it without either of you!

There was something eerily wrong about the evening. Nimue could feel it. She wished that the others were here with her so she could confide her fears to them. All she had right now was Cymen and his older brother Wlencing. While Cymen had been a trusted member of the Dumnonian Court for the past four years, he had never trusted Nimue. Her powers made him uneasy, as it did all of the Saxons serving in Areria’s army.

At least Cymen was somewhat tolerant of her. As far as Nimue could tell, his older brother Wlencing didn’t want anything to do with her. Of course it was difficult to tell since he couldn’t speak Latin. Now he was saying something softly to Cymen-- probably how much he distrusted her. Nimue couldn’t understand their gurgled Saxon, although she was wearing a magical charm that would translate the words for her. She figured they deserved some semblance of privacy, and her mind wasn’t really on how much the Saxons didn’t like her.

She was sitting near the entrance of the haphazardly constructed tent. All of her attention was focused on the world beyond the tent. Something was wrong out there. She could practically taste the evil in the air.

She turned when she heard footsteps behind her. Cymen settled down next to her. Nimue returned her attention back to the circular campground of Saxon Kings as Cymen shifted uneasily next to her. She didn’t have time for his wariness.

“You’re making Wlencing nervous,” Cymen said in Latin. His accent was still heavy despite spending most of the past four years living at Maiden Castle.

“That’s not my concern,” Nimue said curtly.

“What are you waiting for?” Cymen asked.

“Whatever called us here,” Nimue said. “The meeting starts soon and no one has any idea who called it.”

“I think that for one such as you, such a thing wouldn’t cause such worry,” Cymen said.

“We’re in the midst of the largest gathering of Saxon Lords since Hengest called the Saxons to join him in Britain,” Nimue said. “I have a right to be uneasy.”

“But?” Cymen pressed.

Nimue sighed. “There’s a power here. A dark power.”

Cymen paled and left her to speak with Wlencing. Nimue remained where she was. She was so focused on trying to figure out what was wrong that she almost didn’t notice it. The sudden loss of moonlight was what caught her attention first. Startled, Nimue looked up at the sky. Clouds had rolled in. More than that, Nimue realized as she looked back at the camp. A heavy mist had settled upon them as well. Nimue could barely make out the next closest tent.

“Cymen!” she called.

Both men broke off their conservation and rushed to join her at the front of the tent. Wlencing cursed, or at least Nimue assumed he cursed since he spoke in Saxon. Cymen asked his brother something and Wlencing nodded grimly and stepped out of the tent. Nimue and Cymen followed him out.

The Saxon tents had been arranged in a wide circle. It was a request from whoever had called this meeting. Many of the Saxon leaders had been unnerved by this request. They didn’t like the idea of spreading so far apart, or the idea of what could possibly end up in the center of the camp.

It seemed that their fears were well founded, as the thickest fog was in the center of the camp. Other Saxon leaders had left their tents and were staring at the mist in horror.

“What is this black magic?” Cymen whispered, making what Nimue assumed was the Saxon sign against evil.

“Evil,” Nimue whispered, making her own sign against the dark powers, for the mist was beginning to clear. In the center of the camp now stood a large command tent.

“Welcome, brothers,” the mist seemed to whisper as it faded away. “To your destiny.”

“I am here to relieve your shift,” Yvain said as he dropped to the ground between Mordred and Galahad. “Mordred,” he added belatedly, turning to Galahad. “You get to stay with me, love.”

“You’re early,” Mordred observed as Yvain rested his head on Galahad’s shoulder and snuggled closer to his lover. A lover who had been sitting on the cold ground for the past couple hours while Yvain lay along in their tent.

“Sounds fair, s-s-since you were early t-too,” Galahad told Mordred.

“Right,” Yvain yawned. “Go to sleep, Mordred. We’ll watch the scorned lover.”

All three pairs of eyes turned to Percival, who stood a few feet away from them, skipping rocks in a small pond that was located near the border of Brittany and the Saxon lands. The Fifth Command had positioned themselves on the border to wait for Nimue’s return from the Saxon meeting.

Percival glanced over his shoulder at the three of them, scowled and returned to skipping stones. Mordred hadn’t made it a secret that Percival’s every move was to be watched. Percival had thrown a fit when they had decided that Nimue was the one best suited to infiltrate the Saxon meeting. Nimue wasn’t at all impressed with Percival’s over protectiveness and the two had parted on bad terms. Nimue hadn’t even been out of the camp a minute when Mordred ordered a watch on Percival. He was convinced that the Red Knight would go after her.

“I wish something would happen between them,” Yvain added.

“What w-would happen?” Galahad asked.

“Something. Anything,” Yvain said. “We all know they’re in love. I bet they know they’re in love. Why do they insist on remaining nothing more than friends?”

“Because that’s where they’re comfortable,” Mordred said.

Yvain lifted his head and frowned at Mordred. “Why are you still here? Go sleep.”

“I’m not tired,” Mordred said.

“You’re worried,” Galahad observed.

“About Nim?” Yvain asked. Mordred nodded. “Since when? You’re the one who has been championing her all this time. Saying that she is the only one who could safely infiltrate the meeting. Why the sudden loss of confidence?”

“I don’t know,” Mordred admitted. “I’m just uneasy.”

“The m-meeting has p-probably started already,” Galahad said. “Maybe th-th-that’s why.”

“Maybe,” Mordred agreed.

“Just don’t tell Percival about this,” Yvain yawned as he rested his head back on Galahad’s shoulder. “Or else we’re in real trouble.”

“You sh-sh-should go back to c-camp,” Galahad said. “Or else h-he’ll suspect.”

“Right,” Mordred agreed, getting to his feet.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Yvain added as Mordred turned to leave. “Nim is one of the most powerful magic users in the world. Nothing short of an attack by the Deceiver is going to stop her from seeing this mission through.”

Mordred kept walking. He didn’t have the heart to tell the others that an attack from the Deceiver was exactly what he was worried about.”

The tent flap opened and a Saxon man ducked out of the center tent. He was very tall. Nimue was willing to bet that he was even a few inches taller than Agravain or Cymen. He wasn’t as big as those two, but he was powerfully built. It was clear that his strength was what he depended on in a fight. However, there was a keen intensity in his blue eyes that reminded her of Mordred. It unnerved her to see that intensity in a stranger’s eyes.

The Saxon man said something in his native tongue and held out his arms in greeting. Nimue rested her hand on the bronze necklace that was clasped around her neck and traced the small rune on it with her finger. The motion activated a spell that allowed her to understand the Saxon tongue.

“Cerdic,” one of the other Saxon leaders said. Next to Nimue, Cymen and Wlencing started. “You called this meeting?”

The man, Cerdic, nodded. “And I applaud all of you for following the rules I laid out.” His gaze roamed over the Saxon leaders who gathered before him before settling on Wlencing. “I don’t believe I know you.”

“I am Wlencing, son of Aelle.”

“The traitor,” someone whispered.

“He fights for the British Warrior Queen,” another said, a bit louder.

“Slaying his own kind,” another yelled, which caused a commotion among the Saxons.

“Peace, brothers,” Cerdic ordered. “I sent a letter to Aelle, calling him here. Like all of you, he deserves a chance to hear my proposal. However,” Cerdic’s voice and gaze hardened as his attention returned to Wlencing. “I called for Aelle, not his son.”

“My father is old, and ill,” Wlencing explained. “He could not make the journey. My older brother, Cissa, has taken on our fathers duties of leading our settlement. But Aelle sends his two younger sons as a sign of friendship. Myself and my brother, Cymen, serving as my sword.”

Cerdic made his way forward and Nimue looked down as he approached. He stopped in front of her and ran his hand along her chin. “And who is this pretty thing?”

“The female slave you allowed us to bring,” Wlencing replied.

“Pretty,” Cerdic muttered, lifting Nimue’s chin so he could get a better look at her face. His eyes widened with delight as he stared into her cream-colored eyes. “Exotic. How much for her?”

“She is not for sale,” Wlencing said, taking Nimue by the arm and pulling her away from Cerdic.

“Pity,” Cerdic said, turning away from them. “Come into my tent, brothers, and I will tell you why I have called you here.”

The Saxons exchanged a wary glance. One of the leaders stepped forward. “No,” he declared.

“No?” Cerdic asked softly, turning on the man.

“You used magic to bring yourself and that cursed tent here,” the man said. “I will not set foot inside such a place.”

“Not cursed!” Cerdic laughed. “A gift! From our powerful new ally. Come. You have nothing to fear, my brothers, I give you my word.”

The leaders exchanged another worried glance before uneasily making their way into the tent. Their one warrior and one female slave followed close behind their masters. Nimue caught Wlencing’s arm before he could join them.

“Who is this Cerdic?” she asked, wishing that she had a spell that would allow her to speak the Saxon tongue.

Cymen translated her words and Wlencing scowled. “He is a young Saxon chief,” he explained and Nimue shook her head as Cymen tried to translate his words for her. “He has only ruled over his people for a few years, but already he has sworn to taken Britain for all the Saxon people.”

“And now he has called a meeting of the Saxon chiefs,” Nimue whispered. Wlencing nodded at Cymen’s translation.

“It is a disturbing thought,” Wlencing agreed, making his way into the tent with Nimue and Cymen right behind them. At the entrance of the tent stood Cerdic.

“I was worried that you weren’t going to join us,” Cerdic said.

“My father has ordered me to hear your words with an open mind,” Wlencing said. “And I dare not disobey my father.” He tried to move to find a spot at one of the tables that had been set up within the tent, but he stopped when he realized that Nimue was frozen where she was. Her attention was focused on the banner that had been staked in the center of the tent.

“What a simple creature,” Cerdic laughed, following her gaze. “It’s a banner, child. The British warriors use it to announce their importance.”

“And what is it doing in a Saxon Camp?” Cymen growled, grabbing Nimue by the arm and pulling her towards the table. The jolt of the movement brought Nimue back to her senses. She quickly cast a spell over her body so that eyes would only pass over her, assuring that she wouldn’t be recognized.

“What’s wrong?” Cymen whispered in Latin.

“That banner,” Nimue replied. “The blue moon is the herald of the Deceiver.”

Cymen sucked in a breath and whispered that information in his brother’s ear. Wlencing gave no outward sign of concern as he took his seat. Nimue knelt on the ground next to him and Cymen planted his feet behind his brother’s chair.

“My brothers,” Cerdic announced. “For years we have dealt with the harsh hand of invasion. Our enemies rape our land and women, burning our crops and killing our men. Years ago it seemed that we had found a home across the sea. Vortigern of Britain invited Hengest, one of our great leaders, to his land as a guest. Britain is a fertile land, with more than enough room for our people. However, with Vortigern’s death, we were cast out of Britain by the Red Dragons- Aurelius Ambrosius, Uther Pendragon and Arthur Pendragon. We were cast back into this degraded land, forced to gain what we can from it while our enemies continues kill us. The Red Dragons have become horrid monsters that our women use to make sure our children behave.”

“What would you have us do about it?” one of the leaders asked. “The Red Dragon’s reign has never been stronger, and the Black Dragon guards the shorelines. We cannot hope to take Britain now.”

“When was Britain ripe for the picking?” Cerdic asked. “When Vortigern was High King. The British were so busy fighting amongst themselves that it was easy for us to take the land. When Aurelius Ambrosius took the throne, Britain united and drove us out. When Uther Pendragon died with no apparent heir, Britain divided again and was easy to take.”

“But she united again under Arthur Pendragon,” another leader said. “And her strength has never wavered. Arthur has a son and heir, and a grandson as well.”

“There is also the Black Dragon,” another man said. “And his army. We lost our chance to take Britain ten years ago, when the Black Dragon started defending the shore.”

“Don’t you see?” Cerdic snarled, pacing around the tent. “Britain was weak when she was divided and as divided tribes we were able to take her. Now she is united and strong, but if we were united, we would be stronger.”

“You speak of war,” Wlencing said softly, but his voice carried across the entire tent.

“What else is there?” Cerdic asked. “We are warriors. Our sons have swords thrust into their hands the moment they are strong enough to hold one. We have grown up to invaders stealing our land. Our grandfathers grew up to war and even now our children grow up to it.”

“And so you suggest doing the same to the British as these barbarians do to us?” Wlencing snapped. “When we cross the sea, we become what our children have come to fear. How can we speak ill of the British when they are only defending what is rightfully theirs?”

“Because they have so much land,” Cerdic snarled. “How dare they cast us out when they have more land then they shall ever need?”

“The British are proud people,” Wlencing said. “Try to take what is rightfully theirs and they will defend it until their dying breath--”

“If you’re saying that we must kill every last Britain in order to gain this island sanctuary, I have no objections,” Cerdic said lazily.

“Joining forces and invading is not the way to gain a home on the Isle of Britain,” Wlencing said. “To do that, you must ask Arthur Pendragon for a place.”

“Like you did?” one of the chiefs asked.

“No, Aelle swore his services to a woman,” another sneered.

“Not just any,” another said. “The British Warrior Queen.”

“And now Aelle’s people slaughter ours in her army.”

“The year after we settled on Cymen’s Shore, we had a bad harvest,” Wlencing said. “My father was prepared to lose many lives to the famine. The Warrior Queen discovered our plight and sent us food from the harvest she had collected from the rest of her territory. None died. Two years later, a fire set by foolish youths burned our village to the ground. We expected to take months to rebuild, but the Black Dragon brought his army and within three days we had rebuilt. My sons, daughters, nieces and nephews don’t know war or hardship. This life could be yours, if you only agreed to become lesser kings to the Red Dragon. The man collects taxes, harvests and soldiers. It is a peaceful life, and it could easily be yours.”

“We are a proud people, too,” Cerdic stated. “I will not swear allegiance to another king.”

“But you expect us to swear ours over to you?” Wlencing demanded.

“As a general,” Cerdic said. “Once we take Britain, you are free to do as you please?”

“Of course,” Wlencing said softly.

“It’s not possible,” another leader said. “Even allied together, I don’t think we can take Britain. They will burn our boats before we can come ashore.”

“This is where my ally comes in,” Cerdic explained. “Within Britain, she is known as the Deceiver, and above all else she desires the demise of the Pendragon line. She will help us get ashore without notice. Do you think, my brothers, that the British will have a chance at stopping us once we are ashore?”

The leaders began to mumble among themselves and some even nodded their heads. Wlencing pushed back his chair and stood.

“Where are you going?” Cerdic growled.

“I do not think that I need to hear anything else,” Wlencing said. “And I cannot make a decision without my father’s blessing. To all of you, goodnight. Cerdic, my father will send word of where our people stand as soon as he is able.”

“Of course,” Cerdic agreed, nodding to Wlencing. Cymen grabbed Nimue by the arm and hauled her to her feet. They left the tent without another word.

“Why did you do that?” Nimue hissed once they were back in their tent. Cymen translated her words to Wlencing. “We need to know how many will side with Cerdic.”

“They will all side with Cerdic,” Wlencing said. “Those that do not will be killed while they try to return to their lands. That is why I left. They will vote, and if we had stayed, I would have been forced to cast one for our people. Leaving when I did will hopefully spare our lives, since Cerdic knows that Aelle will not side with him if his sons lie dead.”

“Prepare our bedding,” Cymen told Nimue. “We should sleep.”

Nimue nodded. They had to keep up appearances, and she was supposed to be their slave. She started to unroll their bedrolls near the fire. Cymen took Wlencing aside and began to speak to him in a low voice. Nimue muttered a spell so she could hear what they were saying.

“--matter. You were too forceful in there,” Cymen said.

“I had to try and convince those old fools that there is another way. A peaceful way.”

“And what good would that do? No one is foolish enough to go against Cerdic. Not now that he has such an ally.”

“But perhaps if they doubt, they will not be as powerful an enemy.”

“We cannot let her die,” Cymen hissed.

“No!” Wlencing snapped. Startled, Nimue looked up from rolling out her bedroll next to the tent entrance. “You will sleep between us tonight.” Speechless, Nimue nodded and dragged her bedroll close to the fire, between Wlencing and Cymen’s. Wlencing gave his brother a scathing look before removing his armor and settling it on the edge of the tent. Cymen did that same, and both men kept their swords with them as they joined Nimue by the fire. They laid down on top of their bedrolls and Nimue had no choice but to lie between them. The enchantress closed her eyes and tried to sleep. It would be light in a few hours and they would be leaving then.

She didn’t know how long she had slept when she heard the tent flap rustle. Someone said one curt word in Saxon. Nimue blinked her eyes open and focused on the dying fire. As her vision cleared she saw that a shadow had fallen over her.

“What’s wrong?” a female voice purred. Nimue frowned. The woman was speaking Latin and her voice sounded familiar.

“Wlencing protects his property,” Cerdic grumbled, also in Latin.

“Don’t tell me you’re all worked up over a simple slave girl?” the woman scoffed.

“She’s pretty,” Cerdic said.

“But I’m beautiful.”

“Exotic,” Cerdic continued.

“I could be exotic,” the woman said. “Come. I’ve missed you.”

“You would not be here if it wasn’t for your mistress.”

“My mistress sends me here to make sure you’re making progress,” the woman purred. “She would not like it if she knew how much I’ve come to adore you.”

“Adore me?” Cerdic rumbled.

“Come,” the woman whispered. “She’s just a simply slave. I am a much better choice.”

The tent flap closed and the shadows disappeared. Nimue sighed and tried to relax. She wasn’t at all surprised when Wlencing protectively shifted closer to her. She could have handled Cerdic, but then they wouldn’t be able to get another spy into his camp anytime soon.

Nimue was still awake several hours later when Wlencing and Cymen got up and started to break camp. Both appeared as tired and worn as Nimue felt, but she could easily last a few more hours. They were close to the border of Brittany and the Fifth Command waited for them there.

Wlencing and Cymen loaded their gear onto the spare horse and then helped Nimue onto Wlencing’s. Both men mounted and made ready to leave. Cerdic stepped out of his tent clad only in a pair of leggings. He nodded to them and Wlencing nodded back before turning his horse into the forest. Once they were a fair distance from the camp, Wlencing dropped the reigns of the pack horse and kicked his own into a run with Cymen right behind him. Nimue whispered a spell of invisibility so Cerdic’s men couldn’t see them, although they’d be easy enough to track.

After an hour of riding, Wlencing turned off the trail at Nimue’s orders and took them deeper into the forest. They paused when they heard the sound of hoof beats behind them, but the riders rode on without pausing. Wlencing, Cymen and Nimue let out the breath they had been holding before continuing on into the forest.

A mile or so off the road waited Nimue’s horse along with a change of clothes for each of them. Nimue gladly stripped out of clothes and jewelry that marked her as a Saxon slave and changed back into her blue dress and pulled a gray cloak over it. Wlencing and Cymen had discarded their Saxon armor in exchange for British. Nimue mounted her horse and the two men flanked her. They returned to the road and started riding.

Soon after they heard the sound of hoof beats again and turned to see a small Saxon party riding towards them. The Saxons stopped when they saw two British Knights escorting a lady. Both Wlencing and Cymen drew their swords and Nimue lifted her hand and the image of a black dragon appeared above them. The Saxons turned and ran. Nimue sighed in relief. The disguise had worked then. Cerdic wouldn’t hear news of Wlencing entering Brittany. Instead he would hear that two knights of the Fifth Command and Lady Nimue were patrolling the area.

They followed the road into Brittany, and sure enough the Fifth Command was waiting right at the border. Nimue, Cymen and Wlencing were immediately swallowed up within their ranks and taken right to the command tent. Percival immediately appeared next to Nimue’s horse and the enchantress scowled as he helped her down.

“I’m perfectly capable of dismounting on my own,” Nimue informed him.

“Listen you--” Percival started to say.

“Nimue,” Mordred interrupted, stepping up next to them.

“A complete success, no thanks to Wlencing,” Nimue said. Mordred glanced at Wlencing and nodded. Nimue couldn’t help but be reminded of Cerdic’s gesture earlier that morning. How alike those two men were. She didn’t need the whispers of the Otherworld to tell her that one day Cerdic and Mordred would meet on the battlefield.

“Unfortunately,” Nimue continued. “Things are worse than we feared.”

“Wart!”

“Here, wizard,” Arthur called.

“Enchanter,” Merlin grumbled as he trudged through Arthur’s study and onto the balcony where the High King stood. “The Fifth Command has entered the city.”

“So I see,” Arthur said, lifting his gaze so he could see the riders cantering through the city. He lowered it so he could again look down upon the courtyard where Alessandra was playing with her son. The four year old terror was running around trying to stay out of his mother’s grasp. Alessandra was laughing as she tried to catch him, but even from this distance Arthur could see that she wasn’t trying very hard. She was staying just within reach so she could grab the boy when the horses rode in.

“What are they doing down there?” Merlin asked.

“Someone made the mistake of telling Gwydre that Uncle Mordred would be visiting today,” Arthur explained, smiling at the memory of that morning. “He threw a tantrum when he found out he wouldn’t see his uncle until sometime this evening. He finally let up when Alessandra promised they would wait in the courtyard if Gwydre promised to behave for the rest of the day.”

“Mordred comes to Camelot two or three times a year for a day or so at a time,” Merlin sniffed. “I don’t see how he could have made such an impression on Loholt’s son.”

“He’s good with children,” Arthur said. He wondered if Mordred’s boys were as devoted to their father as young Gwydre was to his uncle. Neither Melehan nor Melou had ever made the journey to Camelot and Arthur had yet to make a visit to Maiden Castle. He was hoping to make the journey this winter, for Christmas and Yuletide.

The sounds of hoof beats echoed up to the study balcony as the Fifth Command cantered into the courtyard. In one swift motion, Alessandra swept Gwydre up into her arms and back away from the knights. Mordred was at the lead and he pulled his mount to a halt when he saw Alessandra. The black stallion bucked for it was young and would have run all day if allowed. Mordred was able to rein the animal in and finally it stood still, snorting in annoyance.

“Shall we?” Arthur asked, looking at Merlin. The enchanter shook his head and motioned back to the study. Mordred and Merlin had had little to do with each other over the past four years. At first Merlin had tried to get Mordred to acknowledge his heritage as a Pendragon and his duty as the Heart of Camelot, but Mordred would have none of it. Arthur had finally ordered Merlin to leave his son alone. He knew well enough now to know that Mordred wasn’t going to budge. The wizard had been sulking ever since.

So Arthur went down to the courtyard alone. When he got down there, Mordred had dismounted and held Gwydre in his arms. The boy was chattering to his uncle and Mordred was listening with all seriousness, although his eyes were light with amusement. Alessandra stood next to them and her face was aglow with happiness.

Arthur’s eyes drifted over the men Mordred had brought with him. He had only brought two squads out of the five that now served in the Fifth Command. Duke Cador of Cornwall was the other squad leader who had accompanied him. Arthur had received news of a Saxon raid to the south. Mordred must have sent the rest of the command to deal with that. Mordred’s squire, Sagremor, held the reigns of his horse in one hand and his helmet in the other.

“Father?” Alessandra called, drawing Arthur’s eyes back to his son, daughter-in-law and grandson. Gwydre looked at Arthur, smiled and then whispered something in Mordred’s ear.

“Really?” Mordred laughed. Arthur frowned as Mordred tapped a finger against Gwydre’s lips. He handed the boy back to Alessandra.

“No! Uncle Mordred!” Gwydre shrieked, trying to squirm out of his mother’s grasp.

“Remember your promise?” Alessandra chided, and Gwydre stopped struggling. “Uncle Mordred has to speak with Grandpa. He’ll see you later tonight.”

“Promise?” Gwydre asked.

“If you promise to behave for your mother,” Mordred said, holding out his hand. Gwydre grinned as he clasped his uncle’s hand and shook it vigorously. Mordred laughed and ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately. He kissed Alessandra once on the cheek and then ran up to join Arthur. Father and son shared a quick embrace before making their way to Arthur’s study.

“What did Gwydre whisper to you?” Arthur asked.

Mordred choked back a laugh. “I believe the exact wording was ‘Grandpa made a funny noise after dinner last night.’”

Arthur’s cheeks flushed. “I’m getting old,” he muttered and Mordred laughed. They had just stepped into the study and both Loholt and Merlin turned to see what was so funny. Arthur waved, dismissing what had transpired before Mordred could repeat it to them.

“Brother,” Loholt said as he and Mordred embraced. “It’s good to see you. I take it your mission went well.”

“We were successful,” Mordred agreed, taking a seat across from Arthur’s desk. Loholt sat next to him as Arthur and Merlin made their way around the desk. Arthur took his seat and Merlin stood behind him. “The Saxons are uniting, as we had feared. Their leader is a young chief named Cerdic. Wlencing believes that he has the charisma needed to unite all the tribes against us.”

“So it is as we feared,” Arthur mused, resting his chin on his hands and looking down at his desk.

“Worse,” Mordred said, causing Arthur to look up. “We believe that the Deceiver is aiding Cerdic. Her banner was in his tent and Nimue thinks Gwenhyvach was in the camp.” Next to him, Loholt stiffened and his blue eyes iced over. Arthur’s frown deepened as well. Somehow young Gwenhyvach had managed to escape four years ago. Mordred doubted that she would escape this time. There wasn’t a person in his family who didn’t want her dead for what she had done to Loholt and Alessandra’s daughter and her involvement in Lancelot and Guinevere’s treason.

“Nimue thinks?” Merlin repeated. Arthur looked over his shoulder and shook his head at the wizard. Merlin and Nimue also hadn’t had the best of relationship as of late. Nimue made it no secret that she thought he was a tiring old fool way past his prime. Merlin, in turn, thought she was young and reckless for refusing his guidance.

“She heard a woman talking to Cerdic after the meeting,” Mordred explained. “She said that voice sounded familiar. However, it’s been so long since any of us have thought of Gwenhyvach that Nimue didn’t even think of her until Percival suggested it. She’s sure it’s was Gwenhyvach’s voice she heard, but with all of the magic flying around that camp, she’s not sure if that means anything.”

“Magic too?” Arthur muttered.

Mordred nodded. “According to Nimue, Cerdic arrived in a cloud of mist.”

“And their plans?” Arthur pressed.

“The meeting didn’t go beyond Cerdic stating his desire to unite the tribes and Wlencing was forced to leave before the vote was cast. Although he believes that none dared to vote against Cerdic.”

“With such a large force, it shouldn’t be difficult to spot them making the crossing,” Loholt said. “We could easily be ready to crush them right as they come ashore.”

“Don’t be so sure, your highness,” Merlin said. “With the Deceiver involved, I don’t forsee us catching Cerdic’s force until he’s right on top of us.”

“I have plans to get another spy in among Cerdic’s camp,” Mordred said. “But I need a middle man. Someone stationed on the border of Brittany and Saxon lands. Someone who my spy can deliver information to and then in turn deliver the information to use.”

“You sound as though you already have someone in mind,” Loholt observed.

“No,” Mordred said. “But I was thinking a holy man might be appropriate- a hermit. They live along in the woods, often sharing meals with those who cross their paths. It wouldn’t be difficult to send the spy to him one night and one of our men the next.”

Arthur nodded. “I’ll ask around to see who’s willing.”

“Make sure he’s loyal,” Mordred said.

“Of course,” Arthur agreed. “Is that all?” Mordred nodded. “Then we’re finished here.” He glanced at Merlin, who bowed before leaving the room. Loholt stood as well, squeezing Mordred’s shoulder once before leaving. “I supposed you’ll be heading out tomorrow.”

“At dawn,” Mordred said.

“How’s Areria?”

“When I left for Brittany in April she couldn’t wait for the baby to be born. Things are probably worse now.”

“A fine time to be going home,” Arthur chuckled as Mordred stood.

“Melehan, Melou and I will just have to find the best hiding spot Maiden Castle has to offer.”

“Good luck to you,” Arthur said before he sobered up. “Mordred, how bad is this Cerdic?”

Mordred hesitated. “If he’s even half as bad as Nimue fears, we’re in for a long, hard fight against the Saxons.”

“Three generations of this family have fought against Saxon invasions,” Arthur said. “My uncle and father fought against Hengest and Horsa. I defeated them at Badon Hill and it seems that you and Loholt will face them now.”

“We’ll get them,” Mordred promised.

“Of that I have no doubt,” Arthur said. “This is just a hardship I would have spared you.”

“I know,” Mordred said, nodding to his father before leaving the room. Arthur sighed and got to his feet, groaning as his bones cracked. He hadn’t lied when he said he was getting old, but he still had enough strength in him for one more fight, and right now he needed to find a holy man for Mordred.

Further south, on Cymen’s Shore, Aelle, King of the South Saxons, had called a meeting of his greatest warriors and sons. Wlencing and Cymen had just returned, and they explained to their people what had transpired at Cerdic’s meeting.

“Young fool,” Aelle muttered, wishing he had been there to give the insolent pup a piece of his mind. He could have gone. He wasn’t ill as Wlencing had told Cerdic, and he could have easily made the journey. It was a lie that the Black Dragon had asked them to use. If Aelle sent his sons in his stead, then those sons couldn’t be asked to make a decision without checking with their father.

“And I suppose none of those other idiots cared to listen to your words?” Aelle continued.

Wlencing shook his head. “It’s understandable. Cerdic is a powerful man.”

“And we could be of use to him.”

Startled, Wlencing looked at his older brother, Cissa, shocked that he would say such a thing. Out of all of Aelle’s sons, Cissa had found serving the Warrior Queen and Black Dragon hardest to swallow. Still, Wlencing had never believed that he would suggest such a thing. Over the past two years, Cissa had seemed to be warming to their new home and had accepted the protection service to the Dumnonian Queen offered. And now he said this?

“You can’t mean that,” Cymen said.

“Why not?” Cissa asked. “We now have the chance to take Britain as our own instead of serving this woman. I say we join Cerdic.”

“You would doom us?” Wlencing asked.

“I would free us,” Cissa said.

“And what of Areria’s promise to burn our village to the ground if she ever discovered us aiding a Saxon invasion?” Aelle rumbled.

“A bluff,” Cissa said.

“No,” Cymen said. “You do not know her as I do, brother. She would not hesitate to burn us to the ground.”

“Than we shall take our chance.”

“No,” Aelle said. “We shall not. We have peaceful, fruitful lives here. I will not risk that for a few hot blooded young fools.”

“We won’t just sit idly by,” Cissa growled.

“Then you will go,” Aelle said. “I won’t allow any man who desires to risk our hard won peace to remain. Even if that man is my son.” Cissa stood and left the tent, and six other warriors went with him. Wlencing and Cymen moved to follow, but Aelle motioned for them to stay. “Let them go.” Wlencing sat again, but Cymen shot a defying look at his father, before rushing out after his brother.

“Cissa,” he called.

“Are you coming with me?” Cissa asked over his shoulder.

“You know where my loyalties lie,” Cymen replied.

“Does that mean I’ll see you on the battlefield?”

“I hope not,” Cymen said, coming to a halt.

Cissa stopped and turned to face him. “Nor do I,” he said and kept walking.

“How many men?” Arey asked quietly.

“One hundred,” Cymen repeated. “Almost all of the able bodied warriors in our town.

“I suppose it could be worse,” Arey sighed.

“None have left their post to join Cissa?” Cymen asked. He sounded relieved.

“None,” Arey agreed. “But I’ll put an extra watch on the pages and squires, just in case. If anyone would be foolish enough to run after your brother, it would be them.” She leaned back into the chair and grimaced as the little beast growing inside of her kicked. With Melehan and Melou, kicks had been a heart warming reminder of the life growing inside her. It had been the same with this child for the first few days. Then it became apparent that this beast didn’t know how to sit still. It moved around constantly-- especially at night.

“Majesty?” Cymen asked, paling. Arey had learned during her pregnancy with Melou that he didn’t like seeing her vulnerable. During those nine months she had found excuses to keep him occupied and away from Maiden Castle. Unfortunately, she needed him here now.

“I am well, Cymen,” she said sharply. “We still have a few more months before this child slows me up.”

“Yes, Majesty,” Cymen mumbled.

There was a knock before Sir Tristan stepped into the study. He had decided to come to Dumnonia and serve as a knight in the Dumnonian Guard instead of returning to Arthur’s service. Two years ago Mala, an old friend of Jenal’s and the woman who had sat in Dumnonia’s seat on Arthur’s council since Jenal’s death, had passed on to the otherworld. Areria had been forced to send Agravain to replace her and Tristan had accepted a promotion to Commander of the Dumnonian Guard.

“Majesty,” he said, nodding to her. “Your husband has returned.

“Oh good,” Arey said, smirking in annoyance and pleasure. “Tell him I would see him now.”

“Yes, majesty,” Tristan said, bowing again before leaving the room.

“What do you plan to do?” Cymen asked once Tristan was gone.

“I will not punish the South Saxons for what Cissa has done,” Arey said. “Especially not after Aelle banished them.”

“But you will keep watch.”

“I will keep watch,” Arey agreed.

“We will not disappoint you,” Cymen said. He bowed and left.

Arey sighed and leaned forward and rested her face in her hands. The baby kicked again and Areria stifled the urge to scream in frustration. It appeared that it would be this child, and not the Saxon wolves baying at her shoreline, that would be the death of her.

Mordred paused before the door to Areria’s study and mentally prepared himself for the battle he was about to face. Like any woman, Arey was as susceptible to the moods of carrying a child seemed to bring. While she had been pregnant with Melehan and Melou, Mordred had been forced to juggle between defending himself against her quick anger and consoling her tears. Just before May had crept in, right before he left for Brittany, he could already tell that this pregnancy was going to be far worse than the first two had been. Now it was June, and the smug look Tristan had given him told Mordred how bad things were, and they still had to make it to August.

Mordred knocked once before stepping into the study. Arey looked up as he entered and Mordred bowed. “Majesty.”

“So he returns,” Arey said harshly.

Mordred carefully made his way to the desk, trying to decide if she was angry or upset. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I found it a little strange that you decided to deliver the information to Arthur personally,” Arey snapped.

“I haven’t been to Camelot since last summer,” Mordred explained slowly. “I thought it might be good to go now, so I could tell Arthur of the Saxon meeting and how things are going with the Fifth Command so I would not have to make a second journey at a later date.”

“Really?”

“I also have family in Camelot,” Mordred added. “They occasionally like to see me.” Arey’s shoulders relaxed and Mordred grinned. He was glad to see that, for now, the storm had passed.

“Forgive me,” Arey said. “It has been a trying month without you.”

“The baby?” Mordred asked. He walked around the desk and stood behind her, leaning forward and resting one hand on her abdomen. He smiled in delight as he felt the baby kick.

“Feel that?” Arey asked.

“She’s strong,” Mordred replied, for they were almost certain that this child would be a girl-- the heir to the Dumnonian throne. The child had been conceived in a special ceremony, where the Dumnonian Warrior Goddess was supposed to bless their union with a girl child.

“It’s a beast,” Arey retorted and Mordred laughed. She refused to refer to her children as anything but ‘it’ while she carried them inside her. Fortunately that would change once the babe was born.

“Just like her mother, then,” Mordred teased, leaning down to kiss Arey’s neck. He paused when he felt her stiffen, knowing that he had just made a mistake.

“And just where do you intend to sleep for the next few months?” Arey demanded, getting to her feet and brushing past him.

“Certainly not in your bed, with the temper you’re in,” Mordred muttered under his breath. He hadn’t meant for her to hear him, but she had heard him. Arey glanced sharply at him and then turned away. Mordred suppressed a groan. He had upset her instead of angering her and he had always found this mood the more dangerous of the two.

“I didn’t mean that,” Mordred said, going around the desk again and taking her into his arms. “You know that I’d stay in your bed and face whatever danger it brought. I’m just not sure if I’m welcome.”

Arey twisted around and pushed him away. Mordred sighed and remained still as she made her way back around her desk and eased back into her chair. “If you have nothing further to report, go see your sons.”

“Yes, Majesty,” Mordred said, bowing and turning to leave.

“I will see you later this evening,” Arey added.

Mordred glanced over his shoulder and smirked. “Yes, Majesty,” he teased. He quickly ducked out of the room as a cup of wine was hurled at him. Mordred chuckled as he heard it hit the door.

The boys were playing on the floor of the nursery when Mordred entered. Their toys, wooden figures that Agravain gave to them every winter, clattered to the ground as they jumped to their feet and ran to their father. Mordred knelt to the ground and pulled his boys close.

Melehan stepped back first. At five, he was growing into a quiet, thoughtful boy. He had Mordred’s black hair and dark eyes. For now they kept Melehan’s hair long and half of it fell in his face. Mordred doubted that Melehan’s hair would ever be cut short. They had already begun to impress upon the boy that the dragon mark behind his ear was a secret and that he could never tell anyone.

Melou did not step back and instead kept his arms tightly locked around his father’s neck. At three, Melou was as different from his brother as night was from day. He had inherited his mother’s blonde hair and warm brown eyes. Where Melehan was quiet and somewhat withdrawn, Melou loved to talk to anyone willing to listen. The boy loved to tell stories, either repeating ones he head from others or making tall tales of his day to day activities. The boy had the gift of a bard and in a few years Mordred would see that gift cultivated, but not today. Today he would listen to Melou talk about how he and his brother had tamed a ferocious wild cat while trying to dislodge the three year old from his neck.

“Good day, Prince Mordred,” a warm voice said and Mordred smiled up at Efa, the boys’ nanny. She had originally started her service to the Queen of Dumnonia as a wet nurse for Melehan, after her own child had been stillborn. Arey had been so impressed with Efa’s care of her son that she had invited the girl to stay as a nanny after Melehan was weaned.

“Good day, Efa,” Mordred said, getting to his feet with Melou still hanging around his neck and chattering in his ear. “How have things been?”

“Hard,” Efa admitted. “Her Majesty hasn’t been in good temper lately. The babe gives her no rest.”

Mordred smiled warily and caught Melou in his arms as the boy finally lost his grip. “I noticed.”

“Things will be better now,” Efa promised.

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Efa said, giving him a small smile. “When she has you to yell at, the rest of us receive a reprieve.” Mordred laughed and Efa’s smile widened. “Do you require anything else?”

“No, Efa, I believe we’re good for the rest of the afternoon,” Mordred said. The nanny bobbed a curtsy before leaving the nursery. “Well?” Mordred said, resting a hand on Melehan’s head. “What shall we do?”

“You have to see our cat, papa!” Melou said, struggling in his father’s arms. Mordred obediently dropped the boy back to the ground. Melou kept hold of his father’s hand and tried to pull him towards the door. “Come on, papa! Come on!”

Mordred followed Melou out into the hallway and down to the courtyard, Melehan at their heels. When he saw a white fall of fur near the stables, Melou shrieked and tried to run to it. Mordred held onto him long enough to make sure his son wouldn’t get trampled before releasing him. Melou rushed to the cat and scooped the animal up into his arms.

“That’s the wild beast?” Mordred asked. The cat Melou held was a kitten. It couldn’t be older than six months.

Melehan grinned. “Melou tamed it.”

Mordred maneuvered the boys into the stable. He stood for a moment, watching Melou and the cat play in the hay, before finally settling down on the ground. Melehan sat next to him and Mordred rested a hand on his eldest son’s shoulder.

“I’ve been practicing sword fighting with Drystan,” Melehan said. Mordred raised an eyebrow. Drystan had two years on Melehan and was much more experienced with a sword. Melehan had just received his first wooden stick so he could learn the basics. “Not real fighting,” Melehan amended. “I had him swing at me while I practiced the steps you taught me. I’ve gotten really fast. He only hit me once and that was because I tripped.” Melehan rolled back his sleeve to show off a fading bruise. The first of many battle scars.

“That looks like it hurt,” Mordred observed, trying to keep his tone neutral, even though he wanted to scold the boy for being reckless and impatient and getting hurt.

“I didn’t cry,” Melehan said. “And I was able to keep going. Just like you’re supposed to in a real fight.”

“And what did your ma say about this?” Mordred asked.

Melehan looked down at the hay. “She was upset,” he muttered. Mordred grinned and let the reprimand slide. Melehan had likely received more than enough scolding from Arey. “Efa was too.” Mordred laughed and Melehan looked up at him. “Are you upset?”

“I am,” Mordred said. “But I think you’ve been scolded enough for one bruising.”

Melehan screwed up his face. “That’s what mama said you’d say when I told her she didn’t need to be so cross because you and Efa would be cross with me too.” Mordred threw back his head and laughed again. Gods, it was good to be home.

“Something funny?”

“Sir Percival,” Melehan stammered, scrambling to his feet. He bowed once to the Red Knight before rushing off to join his brother in the hay. Mordred sighed, got to his feet and joined Percival away from the boys, so he could see them but they couldn’t hear his conversation with Percival.

“How come your youngest talks me ear off while your eldest can’t even look me in the eye?” Percival asked.

“Because Melehan idolizes you,” Mordred replied.

“Idolizes me? A once slave with no grand title? Over his father? A Prince of Britain and one of the greatest commanders to serve in the king’s army?” Percival asked innocently.

“Yes you, the greatest knight in all Britain,” Mordred retorted. Since Lancelot’s disappearance, Percival had taken over the jousting field. He hadn’t lost a tournament in five years.

Percival grinned. “Jealous?” Mordred glared and nodded slowly, although he really wasn’t. It was good for Melehan to have knights to look up to, and despite his coarse attitude, Percival was truly one of the finest knights in all of Britain.

Mordred’s gaze turned to the boys, making sure they were sufficiently distracted by the cat. “Well?”

“Cymen arrived with this news this morning,” Percival muttered. “He seemed pretty upset.” Mordred nodded. “Looks like it worked on our side.”

“Let’s hope it worked on theirs,” Mordred muttered.

“What did Arthur say?”

“Brother Gildas agreed to play the hermit.”

“Good choice,” Percival said as Sagremor stumbled into the stable.

“Sir!” he gasped. “We just received word of a Saxon raid on the southern coast.”

“Have the men been informed?” Mordred asked.

“Yvain is readying them now,” Sagremor said.

“Take them out,” Mordred ordered Percival as he moved around his friend towards his boys. “I’ll catch up.” He plucked Melou out of the hay and the three year old screamed in protest.”

“Right,” Percival agreed, leaving the stable.

“Sagremor, go find Efa,” Mordred ordered over Melou’s screams. “Tell her to come back to the nursery.” Sagremor nodded and ran off. Mordred took Melehan by the hand and started back to the castle while Melou struggled and screamed. Mordred hoped that Sagremor found Efa soon. He wanted to be out of Dumnonia before Areria found out about this.