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Epilogue

The war standard snapped in the breeze.

The walls of Arthur's tent had been rolled up, leaving its roof as an awning against the bright sunlight. Even after a week, smoke from the Saxon village tinged the air, though by now it was more an odor than a haze. Merlin lay in the dust between Gawain and the seated king. The lithe Companion toed the wizard, saying, "I brought this one back, but the others were gone. If there was ever a dragon, I couldn't find a sign of it. I'd have chased after the Irishman, but I figured the boat he and his friends stole would carry him farther than I wanted to go."

"So," Arthur said quietly. He stroked the arms of his high-backed throne. "Where is the dragon, wizard?"

Merlin raised his haggard face. "Gone. Dead. Finished."

"So," Arthur repeated.

He stood up, his scabbard knocking against the oak of the chair. The surrounding guards and courtiers stiffened. "But I haven't failed," the king said. His eyes were on nothing but the eastern horizon. "The Saxons, the world. They'll know me, know me!"

Men looked at their hands or at the ground or even, in horrified fascination, at their Leader. Only Merlin seemed oblivious of the king. The wizard was scratching at the dust with a fragment of willow twig.

"Do you hear me?" Arthur shouted to the world. "I will not die!"

Beneath the king, Merlin gestured and an image shimmered between his fingers. It was a silver chalice, jeweled about the rim. For a moment the sunlight haloed it.

Then the grail tumbled and fell back into the dust from which it had sprung.

THE END

 

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Framed