Chapter 17: Bedivere's Melancholy

A foul and perplexing mood had settled upon Sir Bedivere. It was not the familiar sting of insult from some arrogant, thick-necked knight. Bedivere was used to that. His features were fine, almost gentle, and more than one newcomer to the court had mistaken him for a woman, a mistake often followed by muttered doubts about his skill at arms. Some had even grumbled at his high station among the Knights of the Round Table. But years of war had a way of silencing wagging tongues. His deeds spoke for him now. As a knight, his prowess was beyond question, his valor proven on a dozen battlefields. Now, he was Sir Bedivere of the Round Table, one of the thirteen, and none dared question his place.

He had been one of the few who knew the truth of the King's disappearance. While the others rode out to scour the lands, he had remained in Camelot with Merlin, a steady hand to help keep the kingdom from unraveling. Only this morning, with Artoria's safe return, had the knot of tension in his gut finally loosened. He mounted his horse, intending to ride out, to clear his head after days of suffocating worry. With the King returned, an announcement would be made that she had recovered from her "illness." Tomorrow, the knights would attend her in court. As one of the thirteen, Bedivere could not afford to look weary.

As he passed through the palace gates, a flicker of movement caught his eye. A man, dressed in a fashion unlike any he had seen in Britain, stood watching him. He carried two swords on his back. The stranger wore a suit of well-made leather armor, though Bedivere couldn't place the hide. Bear, perhaps? But the feather adornments suggested something else, some great bird of prey. Bedivere knew that some boiled leathers could turn a blade, of course. Many of Britain’s own militiamen wore such armor. A thin, pale scar traced a line across the man's left cheek, from a mess of grey hair down to his jaw. It didn't make him look monstrous, but added a strange sort of edge to his features.

"Sir Bedivere?" Zeilin said, stepping forward as the knight emerged. The girl was still with Merlin; the old sorcerer was apparently fascinated by her tale. It would be hours, at least, before Zeilin could see Artoria again. He decided he might as well use the time. Learn something about this kingdom, and the king he'd somehow ended up escorting.

"I am," Bedivere replied, reining in his horse and dismounting with practiced ease. He faced the stranger. "And who might you be, sir? What is your business with me?" Camelot had few lords in the old style. Here, the Knight King and her knights governed. Courtesy, justice for the poor, protection for the weak – these were their tenets. A plea from a commoner was given the same weight as one from a wealthy merchant. Arrogance had no place in their code. "You're not from these lands," Bedivere observed, his eyes sharp. "An Imperial, from the mainland? Or from the south?"

"That's right. I'm from… elsewhere. Arrived this morning," Zeilin said, nodding, but volunteering nothing more. He was a stranger here, and he knew nothing of the local politics. Best to keep his own counsel until he had the lay of the land. "It's a fine city," he offered. "Clean. Didn't see a single beggar or cutthroat in the streets. That's a rare thing."

"Here, every man and woman has their purpose. None need beg to fill their belly." A flicker of pride touched Bedivere's lips at the praise. "As for cutthroats… rest assured. Whatever chaos reigns elsewhere, in Camelot, no man who defies the King's law sleeps easy. But your swords draw more attention than our city, I think. I've never known a man to carry two. In fear the first might shatter?"

"No," Zeilin grunted. "Everything has its purpose. Each sword has its own work to do. No different from a knight carrying a lance on horseback." The Griffin School weren't sword purists like the Cats or the Bears. They favored their signs, their magic. Just as the Vipers were masters of alchemy, the Griffins were battle-mages of a sort. Even so, Zeilin knew his way around a blade well enough to be called a master. As for the Wolves? Those bastards knew a bit of everything.

"An interesting philosophy. Perhaps I shall try carrying a second blade myself. But you sought me out for a reason, I take it?" Bedivere smiled faintly, dismissing the topic. "Do you require aid? Speak plainly. This is Camelot. All who seek help here are given a fair hearing."

"I wished to ask about Her Majesty, the Knight King." The words were barely out of Zeilin's mouth before Bedivere's hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, a reflexive, predatory motion. Zeilin's lips quirked in a half-smile. "Easy now. I'm no spy. What sort of spy would be stupid enough to walk up to one of the King's most trusted knights and start asking questions?"

"A clever one might," Bedivere replied, his voice level. He relaxed his hand, but Zeilin could see the tension hadn't left his shoulders. He was coiled, ready. If Zeilin made a wrong move, Bedivere's sword would be out in a heartbeat. Not that it would do him much good. In this narrow space, a simple Axii sign, and the knight would be standing slack-jawed before he even knew what had happened.

"I came into the city with your King this morning," Zeilin explained. "A sorcerer named Merlin saw me, if you need confirmation."

"Ah. So it is you." Hearing Merlin's name, the last of the tension seemed to drain from Bedivere. He extended a hand. "The mercenary Merlin spoke of. The one who brought our King home. Zeili, was it?"

 "Zeilin, if you please. Unless Merlin also met some other impostor named Zeili." Zeilin took the knight's hand. It was a warrior's grip, strong and sure. "And no need to test my grip, friend. I just want to know a bit more about the person whose life I was paid to protect."

"An Anglo spy would say much the same, wanting only to know our secrets. Oh, pay that no mind. I do not mean you." Seeing the flicker of annoyance on Zeilin's face, Bedivere offered a faint, disarming smile. "I am merely stating a fact. And I must say, your eyes are… quite remarkable."

"A fact, nonetheless," Zeilin said, his face impassive as he withdrew his hand. "Don't trouble yourself, my lady. No offense taken." As a Witcher, he was used to suspicion. It was the currency of his life. Humans, non-humans, they were all the same, full of fear and distrust. He’d seen it boil over into massacres in places like Blaviken. He had no desire to see that again.

"My… lady?" Bedivere froze. The polite smile vanished from his face. He sighed, a long, weary sound, then deliberately unfastened his iron gauntlet and tossed it at Zeilin's feet. Seeing the Witcher's baffled expression, the knight's voice turned cold and formal. "I have found that a duel is the most effective way of teaching certain people how they ought to address me. Do not fear. You carry two swords. I trust they are not merely for show. A friendly spar. Nothing more."

"A duel?" Zeilin asked, picking up the gauntlet and examining it. "This is how you settle disagreements here?" He turned the fine steel glove over in his hands. "Good steel. Master-smith's work. You want to fight me over a word? An honest mistake? Tell you what. Why don't we settle this according to the customs of my homeland?"

"The customs of your homeland? Very well," Bedivere agreed, his confidence unwavering. He wouldn't normally issue a challenge over such a slight. But this was an opportunity. A way to test this stranger, to see what kind of man had brought his King home. Was he a true warrior? Or just a fast-talking gambler who’d gotten lucky? If Zeilin was weak, then his story about the Wild Hunt and portals between worlds became much harder to believe. Artoria was a peerless warrior, but Bedivere knew his King well. In matters of the world, she could sometimes be as trusting as a child. He would not see her deceived by a charlatan. Zeilin, for his part, considered himself both a warrior and a gambler.

"Excellent. Let's find a more suitable venue, then," Zeilin said, a slow, cold smile spreading across his face as the unsuspecting knight walked straight into his trap. "And just so you know… in this kind of duel, you'll never beat me. Trust me."