Prologue:  The Knight Prisoner

I did nothing wrong, but they do not care.  To those that chained me, their prestige, their authority, matter more than my innocence.  More than seeking justice, they are seeking a criminal, a face to pin to a death.  To Arthur, the man, the king who has imprisoned me, my freedom is the cost of his pride.
I am not sure if I blame him for it.  He is a new king, and his position is fragile.  Slights against his authority are dangerous, because they undermine his ability to rule; if he was to let the death of his cousin go unanswered, he would be seen as weak.  Why should people follow him, when he could not protect his own family, and is unable to capture the lad’s killer?
There are other kings, waiting for a chance to pounce, to exploit any weakness that Arthur shows.  Therefore, he could not afford to let this crime go unpunished.  Many people did not believe that he was the true king.  They did not believe he could bring peace and stability to a land that had been torn apart over the past several years.  To those of us that had stumbled and suffered through the chaos, Arthur was just another man claiming to be king.
There were tales of him drawing the sword from the stone, but that was as dubious as the stories about his birth.  He was raised by Merlin, after all; the wizard was a trickster, and this could just be another act.  Merlin had been the one to put the sword in the stone in the first place.  It wasn’t unthinkable that he could release his spell for Arthur, regardless of his birth.
My brother, Balan, didn’t believe that he was the real king.  He chose to remain loyal to Baron Malom, who we both served  When Arthur came to take control of the region, Malon fielded his army, with my brother at the lead.
I chose not to fight.  I did not know if Arthur was truly the son of the last king; but he was promising stability, and he had the support of many of the other lords.  He was the king, if not by birth, then by deed.  He led an army of knights, and he had the support of many of the key lords in the region.  Even though there were many self-styled kings who coveted their own position, none had the support that Arthur had.  From my point of view, Arthur was the best chance for peace; of all of the lords, only he could make good on the promise to return stability to the realm.
I should have fought beside him.  I should have offered him my sword to the king.  I should have made is so that the king had no reason to doubt my loyalty.
I could not, not with my brother taking the field for Malom.  There was no way that I could raise my sword against my brother; we were of one blood, born to be allies, not enemies.  I was not afraid of losing to him, I was only afraid of fighting him, of severing the bond that we had forged together; I would not betray our brotherhood, not even for the king.  
Balan did not believe that Arthur was anything more than another warlord; before we parted ways, he told me that, “There will be no peace; there will always be warriors wanting their own wealth.  Arthur is just another man with a sword and a crown, wanting wealth and power.  I’m not going to bow for anyone.  I’m just like them, out for myself.”  It hurt me to see that my brother had lost all hope that the constant fighting between false kings and petty barons could end; it hurt me more to think that he would die in battle without me to help him.
I argued with him, trying to make him see reason.  His decision was as immutable as adamant.  In the end, I fled from Malom’s keep, and the coming battle.  He stayed to fight.  I was not there to see what happened, but I gathered enough of the story from the rumors that drifting through taverns and the knights who captured me.
My brother was strong, and he proved it in that battle.  He led a small group of knights through the woods to attack Arthur’s flank; he clashed with the king’s forces, tearing deep into the side of the army.  Most of his followers were killed before he retreated into the woods, using the terrain to his advantage.   It was a tactic that I had taught him over the years.
Balan and his soldiers split up, as they were pursued by a group of warriors, headed by the king’s own cousin.  While the lad was all but a stranger to the king, they were still blood, and so he had been given the duty of leading a group of pikemen.  The cohort caught up to my brother, and forced himself off his horse.
From there, he exploded into violence.  He was a knight, not a mere recruited militia man.  He dispatched most of the pikemen, forcing them to retreat; the king’s cousin, thinking he was skilled enough to fight against my brother, drew his own sword.  The two faced off, and battled.
My brother was never good at controlling his blood lust.  He was a passionate fighter, wholly given over to the moment, the clash of blades.  Balan was born to be a knight, and showed it by besting the king’s cousin.  He pulled the noble whelp from his horse, forcing him to his hands and knees.
Then my brother made a mistake.  Beating the noble was no crime; he could have taken him as a prisoner and ransomed him, or given mercy, or any number of things.  Instead, he did the one thing he should not have done; stuck in the frenzy of battle, he struck the lad, cutting off his head in one strong stroke.
The remaining soldiers fled back to Arthur.  My brother, taking the now riderless horse of his victim, flew from the scene.  I’m not sure where he hid; there are many caves and dark forests where a man can go unnoticed.  He escaped his punishment, but Arthur was not satisfied to let
As brothers, we were alike in feature.  We both had dark hair and blue eyes, the former from our mother and the later from our father.  We were both clean shaven, and wore similar clothing, with tabards of our family crest; a silver pair of crossed swords over a black shield.
When Arthur’s knights found me, I chose not to fight.  In the few weeks since Malom’s fall, Arthur had been consolidating; as I had hoped, he was bringing peace.  Outlaws had retreated, and the barons were falling behind him.  Fighting Arthur’s knights would make me an outlaw; worse, it would be tearing apart the peace.
I told my jailers that I was not the killer, but they would not believe me.  I couldn’t blame them; I fit my brother’s description.  Perhaps I could have given my brother’s name, but that would only throw Balan into their hands.  It was unthinkable to send my brother to prison, even if it was a result of his own actions.
Thus, I would no resist the king’s justice.
I will say this.  King Arthur was fair.  He could have executed me; I had no lord to protect me, no family, and so I was entirely at his mercy.  But he did not kill me.  I was placed in the dungeon on the northern tower of his castle, but I was not abused .
I was given food and water, and the quarters were not insufferable: a small straw cot, a wooden stool, and a privy bucket in one corner.  It was far from being chained to the wall.  My first week in incarceration, I slept, walked about the small confines of my chamber, and stared out the single barred window; watching the world move on without me.
After a week passed, the king came to me.  When he stepped up the stairs, to the bars on my door, I needed no page to announce him; he was regal, his eyes and the hilt of his sword shining in the torches his attendants brought with him.  His blonde hair was held back by a golden circlet, with a ruby set in the middle like a third eye.  He had worry lines underneath his eyes, from deep thought and a lack of sleep, but he was still young; about my brother’s age, I realized.
Despite all of this, he did not seem proud.  He did not look at me like an animal in a cage; nor did he look at me like an unthinking tool or object, like Malom did.  From the very beginning, even though I was his prisoner, he looked at me, spoke to me, as if I was a person.
He reached out a hand to grasp one of the iron bars.  He thought before he spoke, a good measure of a king I think.  “There has been too much blood spilled in my name.”  His voice was clear, like two swords ringing together; deep and thoughtful.  I liked listening to it.  “I will not add yours, sir knight.”
He furrowed his brow.  “You have wronged me,” he said, although there was a sense of hesitation in his voice.  Did he know the truth?  Was he being forced to act this way by his situation?  I wanted to know, but I had no chance to ask him.  “But I am not cruel.  If someone can pay the ransom I have placed on you, I will release you.  I will not banish you, or hold any ire against you; what happened was a misunderstanding, the result of a confusing time and a chaotic battle.  A mistake.  One that has consequences, but one that should not destroy the life of a promising night.”
Behind him, I could see the scarecrow that was Merlin grinning.  He watched the king, wallowing in smug pleasure at the king he had wrought; then his eyes turned to me, and his grin widened, as if he was saying “Look, look what I have done, what I have made!”
“What you did, you did out of bravery and loyalty to the Baron.  While he was my enemy, I cannot fault a knight for holding true to his vows.  If someone will show that same loyalty to you, you will be free.”  He gave me a small smile, a small nod, and let go of the bar; he walked a step away, and then stopped, as if an idea came to him.  “I hope that when that day comes, you will use your sword for the kingdom; we have a need for strong knights.”
It seemed a bit rehearsed, as though the words had lost their flavor after being on his tongue for too long.  He still meant them, though.  I could see that in the way that he looked back at me, judging my reaction, as if afraid he was being too lenient, as if he was afraid I would laugh at him.
He was not a born king.  He was naturally regal, yes, but he was untouched by pride and wealth.  I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had known hunger, that he had known want, and that he had known suffering.  He was a warrior not because of his birth, not because of his desire, but because that was what he had to be to secure the kingdom.  To give security to his people.
He had lived in the chaos, he knew what the suffering was; he was desperate to bring peace, no matter what he had to do.  He would make allies of his enemies, he would forgive the murderers of his kin, so long as it brought peace; he would suffer sleepless nights and a heavy crown.
I was too shocked to say anything.
His lords followed him like hounds as he left.  I couldn’t blame them; he was worth following, worth being loyal to.  Only one person didn’t follow.
Merlin’s lanky form moved closer to the bars, to peer at me over his long crooked nose.  His blue eyes were as sharp and dangerous as a sword.
“You don’t seem the sort to lose your head in a battle.  The sort to kill a lord.”  Merlin’s voice was like leather creaking, a sort of aged smoothness that dripped with amusement, as if he knew the answer to some riddle and wasn’t telling anyone.
I disliked him.  “As I have said countless times, I am not guilty of killing the king’s cousin.”  I stood, and moved closer, so that the bars were the only thing separating us.  I had been a small boy, so I still felt intimidated by those who were tall; standing up, looking Merlin in the eye despite his impressive height, made me feel more in control.
He tilted his head, stroking his grey beard; I marveled at his oddness.  His hair was steel, but it did not frizz and break as an old man’s does.  It was smooth and strong, like a young man’s, despite the color.  Not a wrinkle marred his face, despite the age in his eyes and the fact that he was old enough to be my grandfather; if he were to shave off that beard, he would look like any other man, one that had never wielded a sword but knew the pen well.
“I wonder who did, then,” he said, his voice tilting up.  He was teasing me, and I felt anger boil in my heard.  “At the battle, the soldiers said a beardless, dark haired man killed the king’s cousin.  Most noticeable was his sword, which looked like…  this.”  He shifted, drawing one long fingered hand out from his cloak; he held in it my sword.
There could be no mistaking that blade, even though it was wrapped in its sheath.  The crossguard was steel, shaped into the form of wings and scrolled with nickel to give it the impression of having blue-black feathers; the bird’s beak was against the blade, two sapphires marking its eyes.  My brother’s blade possessed blood-rubies instead.  It shone like a hawk, or perhaps a raven; my brother and I often talked about what bird adorned the hilts of our family swords.  He favored the bloody battle-field raven, while I hoped it to be a noble falcon.  In the end, I suspected it was up for us to decide.
“Such a unique sword.  How odd that they would remember such a thing, if you were not the one to kill him.”  He looked at it, his eyes glittering like the eyes of the bird.  “I remember this blade, though; a knight once possessed two swords like this, one to fight in battle, one to guard his home.  They were somewhat well known, once upon a time.”  He clucked his tongue.  “So, if you did not kill the king’s cousin, perhaps whoever has the other blade did.  Such a pity, for these weapons to be stolen by robber knights.”
I felt a surge of anger.  I put my face near the bars, glaring, wanting to take my sword and cut him down with it.  He didn’t seem to mind my anger, finding it amusing.  He chuckled before continuing.  “Ah hold, hold. I think that knight had two sons; isn’t that the truth, eh?  His name was the same as yours, come to think, making you his son; then the other sword, and the killer, would be…”
My anger boiled, but now it lost focus.  Was I angry at Merlin?  Why, because he knew the truth?  He was not the one who threw me in here.  He was not the one who committed a crime and then fled, leaving me to take the blame for the act.  It was my brother; he was the one who acted out, who chose war instead of peace.  He was the reason I was here, he was the reason I was suffering; suffering so he could run free.
I should tell Merlin right now.  Tell him my brother’s name, tell him where he could be found; buy my freedom with that fool.
No.  I bit back the anger, turning to walk away from the prophet.  My brother and I had grown up together, struggled together against the chaos of the world.  I had to protected him.  Even if he was a knight, and a criminal, he was still my younger brother, the tiny child that my mother introduced to me, let me hold while she told me that I should protect my little brother.  I would protect him from this, too; it was no different than the times he had fought to help me.
Merlin put my sword away, his grin melting away.  “Well.  Well.  We might never know; such is life.”  I kept walking, intending to throw myself on my cot.  “Ah, I almost forgot.  Arthur requested that I give this to you.”
I looked over my shoulder at the king’s name, looking to see what Merlin’s outstretched talon held.  A book, black leather, with a pin and ink pot strapped to it with strips of cloth.  He held it through the bars, so that I might take it from him.
I moved to him and took it; it was heavier than I thought.
“Pen and paper have often been the companion of a man behind bars,” Merlin said.  “The pages are blank.  You can write, can’t you?”
“A bit.  My late mother taught me.”  But not my brother.
He nodded, pleased.  “It is good when knights take up the pen, as well as the sword; your mother was wise to teach you that.”
He left me, grinning all the while.  I returned to the cot, sitting down; with my foot, I drug the stool over to me, and set the gift down on it.
In the week I had been in the cell, I had lost all fascination with the window, or with pacing my small quarters.  I had done minor exercises, sit ups and pushups, but I soon grew tired and bored with such things.
I untied the cloth straps, and set out the pen and ink pot.  I turned the page to its first blank page, and then flipped ahead one more.  I dabbed the pen into the ink, and took a deep breath.  Then I wrote:

“My name is Balin le Savage.  I am a knight hailing from Northumberland, now made a prisoner in King Arthur’s Castle Camelot, in the five hundred and first year of our lord.  May God and the king grant mercy on me.”