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“Your mind is as sharp as a razor, and you know it. You can quote enormous passages from Plotinus and Plato. You’re the smartest man I’ve ever known.”

He sighed. “Thank you, I suppose. But if I am so smart, why can I not understand all these murders? Why can I not find the connection?”

Peter fell pointedly silent and glanced out of the carriage. Morgan was complaining about something, gesticulating wildly at the king, who was ignoring her. Finally he said, “You’re too suspicious, Merlin. Maybe the seeming plague deaths really are deaths from the plague.”

“Nothing human is ever that simple. Or that innocent. That poor boy who died at the mill can hardly have been a victim of the plague. But if he was working for the interests of Morgan and Lulua… and if they were concerned he might not keep silent about it…”

“If is a game for idle scholars, Merlin.”

“Since you only a moment ago told me that is what I am, what is your point?”

Peter laughed. “You are anything but idle. Your mind is more agile than any I have ever known. But I give up. Yes, the plague deaths were not really plague deaths. Does that satisfy you?”

“I have not been satisfied since I became an adult, Peter.”

Peter glanced outside again. In the distance he could see a huge, rambling ruin of a barn. He was grateful of it. “It appears we’ve reached our destination.”

Merlin looked, saw the barn, smiled. “Finally. We can be done with this fool’s errand and get back home.”

“But… I thought Perceval said this area was abandoned. There are people.”

Merlin sighed. “Another complication, I suppose.”

All day the weather had stayed sunny and dry. But more and more clouds built up, so gradually that Arthur was barely aware of them. Then the wind kicked up. He wrapped his cloak about himself as tightly as he could and glanced up at the sky. “Look, Bed. The world never stops working its mischief.”

“We’ll have more rain, Arthur. Or snow, more likely.”

“We have reached our goal. We can bury the Stone soon, then we can get back to Camelot. Back home.”

“You think it won’t be winter there?”

“Be quiet.”

They rounded the base of a low hill, keeping the barn in sight. It was huge, and in ruins. Planks were missing from the walls; the thatched roof was in tatters. Before and around it was a wheat field, or what had been one. The crop had not been harvested; it had all gone to seed. Weeds grew everywhere. At the far side of the barn and stretching off into the distance was what appeared to be a graveyard. Painted wooden grave markers were toppled or listing badly.

Arthur shaded his eyes to see better. “That must be it. It’s larger than I expected. Larger than any barn I’ve ever seen. It could make a good, small castle.”

“With its own cemetery.”

“Get Perceval.”

Bedivere pulled his horse out of the column and headed back. A few moments later he returned with Sir Perceval beside him. They all consulted; Perceval assured them that, yes, this was the ruined barn where he had found the Stone. “The locals call it the Barn of Bran.” He wrinkled his nose. “Peasants.”

Morgan rode to the head of the column. “Well, Arthur, we have arrived. You are prepared to do your sacred duty?”

Just behind her came Gildas. “It appears this is the blasphemous spot, Arthur. Are we ready to rebury the profane stone?”

Arthur looked from one of them to the other, smirking. “We are prepared to rebury it, whether it be sacred or profane. But first it appears we must pass through a local festival of some kind.” He gestured vaguely.

There were in fact a half dozen people in the field between the cemetery and the barn. They had set up kiosks and were selling things. Little flags and banners that waved in the wind, little pictures of the god Bran, miniature skulls carved out of local stone, strings of prayer beads. Two of the stands were vending food and beverages.

Merlin took it all in. “What the devil can this be?”

Arthur was equally puzzled. He dismounted and approached one of the kiosks and signaled Bed to follow. It was manned by a stout, middle-aged fellow dressed in peasant homespun. Seeing Arthur approaching, he smiled. “Afternoon, guv’nor.”

Bedivere stiffened. “This personage is no mere governor, my good man. He is Arthur, your king.”

The man laughed. “As you say. What can I do for you?”

“First, you can tell us who you are.”

“Duck. Richard Duck. At your service, sirs. What can I do for you?” He gestured at his goods. “Little soapstone replicas of the authentic skull of the god Bran? Guaranteed genuine, sirs. And blessed by the god himself.”

Arthur glanced around. Nearly everyone in sight had stopped moving and was watching these armored newcomers. He turned to Richard. “For a beginning, you can tell us what’s going on here. Is this some sort of fair?”

“No, sir. This is business as always.”

“Business?”

Richard seemed mildly astonished. “Do you not know where you are, sirs? This is one of the holiest places in all England.”

“I had heard rumors to that effect, yes. But surely the Stone of Bran has been dug up and taken to Camelot. There are no relics here.”

“The ground itself is holy, sir, made so by the Stone of Bran. Or at least that’s what people want to believe. They come from all over the country to see this place. It is more productive for us than farming crops.” He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “This is how we make our living. Ever since that knight dug up the Stone here-”

“Sir Perceval.”

“Yes, him. Ever since he dug up the stone, living here has become quite lucrative. I, for instance, have all these relics of the Great God Bran.” He gestured at several tables in his stand. They were covered with tiny polished stones, pictures of the god and various other objects not easily identifiable. “You want to buy one, don’t you?” Undisguised avarice showed in his face. “You and all your men?”

Bedivere spoke up. “We do not. How recently did you manufacture these ‘relics’?”

Richard feigned shock. “ ‘Manufacture’? These articles are genuine, sir. I swear it. It is all these others”-he made a sweeping gesture to take in the other kiosks-“who counterfeit the holy objects they sell.”

“Of course.”

The other vendors were slowly getting over their shock at the arrival of this small army, or over their fear that the knights meant trouble. One by one they left their kiosks. Carrying goods, they approached the men. It was clear from their manner they smelled sales. Some of the knights met them with interest; others tried their best to ignore them.

Morgan, seeing it all, stiffened. “Bedivere, tell these people who I am.”

Bedivere looked to Arthur, who nodded. Bed announced, “This lady is Morgan le Fay, the high priestess of England.”

Richard smiled a wide smile. “Then you would certainly like to buy a holy relic, wouldn’t you, ma’am?”

“I would not. How dare you all profane this holy place with”-she wrinkled her nose-“commerce.”

“Profane, ma’am? This is our living. People come from miles around to see the barn where the god’s skull was interred. We’re planning to renovate it, you spruce it up a bit, so we can charge people a fee to go inside. Do you think he gave us this gift only to take it away?”

“This is the resting place of the god.” Morgan made herself sound ominous and imposing.

Gildas could not resist. “Or a part of him.”

Morgan glared at him.

Richard went on as if she’d said nothing. “Do you think Bran wants us to starve?”

The three of them started bickering, with Morgan arguing for the sacred nature of the place, Gildas arguing the opposite and Richard interjecting occasional comments about his livelihood.

Arthur was enjoying it, but after a few moments he ordered them all to be silent and sent Bedivere back along the column to disperse the other Bran merchants.