The siren song of the baked apple drew him back to the present. Merlin reached for the plate, but Old Merlin’s control over his magic was complete. A single whistled note and it flew out of Merlin’s reach, like a well-trained dog called to heel.
“What does the knight called Lancelot want in this court?” Old Merlin asked. “I’m told you’re his squire.”
“His what?!” Merlin said. “Of course I’m not his squire.”
He wants to know you’re not a threat to Arthur, Merlin reminded himself as his stomach turned on him. That apple smelled like cinnamon-covered paradise. Cinnamon was grown halfway around the world from Camelot. His old self had really pulled out the stops.
“It’s true that I arrived with Lancelot. But I’m not in the knight’s employ. We were traveling companions. Lancelot…” Merlin thought about Ari, hacking her way into the heart of the kingdom. “Lancelot wants to help this place. He could be Arthur’s greatest ally.”
Old Merlin cocked his head, moved a bit closer, trying to sniff out a lie. “Did Lancelot send you up to my tower?”
“No,” Merlin said, thanking the truth for being so obliging. Merlin had sent himself.
“What were you doing up there, carbuncle?”
“Trying to help my family.” Merlin had gone to the tower for Ari, Lam, Jordan, Gwen, the baby—and they were bound together tighter than friendship. They had fought together and fought each other. They had nearly died a dozen times, each experience bonding them like quick-dry glue. And then one of them had actually died, and the grief had been quiet proof that they would not crack apart.
“Your family?” Old Merlin said. “You will have to be more specific, I’m afraid.”
The food inched closer.
Merlin searched for anything he could say that would ring true without giving his old self ammunition against Ari and the others. There was one answer waiting, one search that he’d told himself to give up on so many times—and yet it fit into this moment as smoothly as a piece of a puzzle box sliding into place. “I’m… I’m from Camelot, originally. That’s why I came here with Lancelot. I wish to find my parents.”
The food came within range of his fingertips, and he snatched it up, chains smacking together. The apple was still steaming, the meat glazed and perfectly tender. He guzzled a cup of the thin wine they used to give young folks.
Splendid. He was eating from the children’s menu.
Old Merlin didn’t yet understand that he was aging backward. He only knew that he was ancient, magical, alone in the universe. Merlin felt a tiny prick of sadness for his old self. It was filled with the most terrifying poison of all: understanding. He knew what Old Merlin felt like, and it left him nauseated. He wasn’t this horrible person. Was he?
Merlin gulped the last of his wine too quickly and finished with a hacking cough.
“Did you think you’d find your parents in my tower, while a dragon laid siege to the city?” Old Merlin asked. “Your tale is a sock that needs darning. So many holes.” The old mage sang stones to the doorways and started to brick them in. The whole thing would have looked whimsical, except it was ultimately a murder attempt. Merlin’s hands flew up, his defensive sparks held back by the manacles. Which was for the best, only it felt beyond awful.
“I… I know you have magic in the tower, and I’ve been told that my parents are powerful. Magical, most likely,” Merlin said. Nin had said that once. His parents were powerful. “Do you have a way of locating people like that?”
Merlin’s sense of possibility sat up from a dead sleep. This had started out as a way of throwing Old Merlin off the scent of his friends, but what if his old self actually did have what Merlin needed to find his parents?
Maybe this was a puzzle box, and only both Merlins together had all the pieces.
“Perhaps,” Old Merlin said, stroking his glorious beard. Gods, he could be pretentious. “But I am far too busy with this kingdom to help a scrap of a boy find his parents.”
“What if you didn’t know your parents? Wouldn’t you try anything to find them?”
He hit the nerve as squarely as intended. Old Merlin paused the stones in midair. “If your parents are magical, and you are drawn to the enchanted arts… have you ever used magic?”
The fire in front of Merlin crackled. The chair pushed forward until he was so close that he felt slightly roasted. Any answer Merlin gave would seal his doom as surely as Old Merlin was sealing up the doors with the scrape of mortar. If he said yes—he was the most powerful mage in 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
