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32. A Book of Cures and Curses

  The road to Tintagel stretched before him, dark and slick from the dampness of the evening air. The forge still glowed behind him, casting flickering light on the stones, but its warmth no longer reached him. The scent of worked iron clung to his clothes, settling in his lungs like something he could not quite shake.

  Dinadan stood at the edge of the village, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, thumb tapping absently against the worn leather. His new armor sat too well on his shoulders, the weight of it familiar but different. It was not like his old, mismatched pieces—no loosened straps, no dents where another knight had fallen before him. This had been made for him.

  He didn’t like it.

  Armor that fit too well carried expectations. It made him visible. It made him known. A knight’s armor was not just steel—it was a name, a claim, a promise that he stood for something.

  But what did he stand for?

  He had a king. He had a name. He had a place, whether he liked it or not.

  But even the sound of Uther’s name no longer held the weight it once had.

  There were whispers now, growing in the corners of courts, in the low voices of tavern halls, in the careful hush of villages where men gathered in twos and threes, too wary to speak too loud.

  Doubt did not take root all at once—it grew slow, creeping, twisting its way into the minds of men who would have once sworn Uther was Albion’s certainty.

  Vortigern’s name had begun to creep through Albion like a sickness. Not just as a threat, but as an alternative. The things he said, the claims he made—they were not ignored. Not as quickly as they once were.

  Dinadan exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

  Tintagel lay ahead. He had no desire to return to court, to listen to another round of games between men who played with swords and treaties like pieces on a game board. But he had spent long enough on the road, and he needed to hear what they were saying at the heart of things. If men doubted Uther in their fields and taverns, what did they say in their halls?

  Bracken shifted beneath him, sensing the decision before it was spoken.

  "A knight’s armor, a knight’s road," he muttered, clicking his tongue for the mule to move.

  A king to whisper to, and yet no certainty beneath his name."

  He swung into the saddle. The mule shifted beneath him, waiting for a command. He gave none, and still, Bracken stepped forward, his hooves settling into the worn path as though he had known it all along.

  The road unwound before him, silvered by the moonlight. He rode in silence, the steady rhythm of hooves against damp earth filling the air. The scent of the forge faded, replaced by the clean bite of the night air, the lingering dampness of distant rain.

  Bracken slowed, ears flicking.

  Dinadan saw the figure before he caught the details. Cloaked, walking at an easy pace along the road ahead, as if he had nowhere urgent to be. He moved with the weight of someone who already knew the path, as though the road itself had bent to meet him.

  Merlin.

  Dinadan pressed his heels lightly into Bracken’s sides, urging him forward. The mule quickened his pace, overtaking the old wizard with little effort. Dinadan turned his head as he passed.

  "You’re walking the wrong way for a man who likes to be dramatic," he called back. "I expected you to be waiting in some cave, lighting fires in the shape of prophecies."

  Merlin did not pause in his steps, nor did he turn his head.

  "I expected you to be quicker," he answered.

  Dinadan let out a dry chuckle.

  "You have strange expectations for a man who does nothing but sit around and wait for things to happen."

  "I do not wait," Merlin said, finally lifting his gaze. "I watch. And then, when the time is right, I choose where to step."

  Dinadan slowed Bracken, letting the mule fall into step beside the old man.

  "And tonight, your steps led you here?"

  "Of course," Merlin said, as though it were obvious. "You were always meant to be here. You just didn’t know it yet."

  Dinadan sighed, running a gloved hand over his face.

  "Blight it all. This is going to be one of those nights, isn’t it?"

  Merlin gave the smallest nod of acknowledgment as if Dinadan had simply stated the obvious.

  Ahead, a fire burned low against the night. A small fire, nothing grand, nothing meant to be seen from afar. It burned as if it had always been waiting.

  Merlin stepped toward it without hesitation, and Dinadan, despite himself, followed.

  The fire flickered, catching the sharp edges of the old man’s face.

  Dinadan crossed his arms, tilting his head. "Let me guess. You’re going to tell me something cryptic and then vanish in a dramatic swirl of wind and shadow?"

  Merlin almost smiled, but the weight of whatever he carried in his chest did not allow it.

  "No. I am going to give you a task."

  Dinadan scoffed, shaking his head. "I’m not in the habit of running errands for old men in cloaks."

  "Then consider this a test of new habits."

  The fire crackled, snapping against the cold. Dinadan glanced down. Pages curled at the edges, their ink lost to the flame. Charred scraps of parchment smoldered, their words carried into the air as nothing more than drifting smoke.

  His jaw tightened. He had seen pages burn before. He had seen stories lost to men who needed them forgotten.

  "Do you understand what is happening to Albion?" Merlin’s voice was quiet but steady.

  "That’s a broad question."

  Stolen story; please report.

  "You’ve seen the signs. The stories changing. The past unraveling. The people forgetting."

  Dinadan did not deny it.

  "What is lost in memory is lost in truth," Merlin said. "And what is lost in truth is lost in power."

  The flames licked higher, curling around the last of the parchment.

  "You think history is written in stone?" Merlin asked. "It is not. It is written in the minds of men. And minds can be rewritten."

  A gust of wind stirred the embers. The last of the words scattered into the dark. Dinadan watched them go.

  Merlin reached into his cloak, withdrawing a small scrap of parchment, unmarked, worn soft at the edges.

  "There was once a book," he said. "Written by a healer long before our time."

  Dinadan flipped the parchment between his fingers. "And?"

  "It held knowledge of more than herbs and remedies. It held the secrets of how things are meant to be."

  "Meant to be?" Dinadan raised a brow. "That sounds suspiciously like fate."

  "It is missing."

  Dinadan exhaled through his nose, tossing the parchment back at Merlin. "You’re asking me to find the book?"

  "No. I am telling you to."

  Dinadan sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "And what happens if I refuse?"

  Merlin caught the parchment with ease, his fingers folding around the frayed edges.

  "Then one day, you will wake up and not know you ever had a choice."

  The fire crackled, burning low. The night held its breath.

  Dinadan clenched his jaw. He wanted to refuse. But the weight in his chest said otherwise.

  He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling sharply. "Let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that I agree to this madness. Where would I even begin?"

  Merlin smiled slightly, as if he had known Dinadan would ask. Of course he had.

  Merlin’s voice shifted, lighter now, but no less deliberate.

  "The Book is missing," he said. "But it has not been lost. It rests in the hands of a woman who holds knowledge the way others hold power—with a firm grip and little intention of letting it go."

  Dinadan frowned. "A sorceress, then."

  "Call her what you like," Merlin said. "She has gathered those who remember the old ways—the ones who will not allow their history to be rewritten. And so she keeps the book, not to destroy it, but to decide who is worthy of reading it."

  Dinadan exhaled through his nose, shifting in his saddle. "And let me guess—you want me to go in, charm the woman, and ride off with the book before she notices?"

  "If you go in thinking it is yours to take, you will fail before you begin."

  "Wonderful. I do love a challenge that comes with a promise of failure."

  Merlin ignored the quip. "The Healer’s Book is not a simple collection of remedies, Dinadan. It is one of the oldest texts in Albion, passed from healer to healer since before men built their first strongholds. It is not just a book of knowledge—it is a book of laws. The old kind. The kind that is not written in edicts, nor upheld by swords, but woven into the very fabric of life itself."

  Dinadan scoffed. "That sounds suspiciously like magic."

  "Magic is only a word for what men do not yet understand," Merlin said. "This book carries something deeper—a record of what was, and what should be. Not just how to mend flesh, but how to mend what is broken in the land."

  Dinadan narrowed his eyes. "And you think a book can do that?"

  "A book cannot heal the world any more than a sword can win a war on its own," Merlin admitted. "But what is written in this book may change the course of battles before they are ever fought. There is knowledge in those pages that was meant to shape Albion’s future. But only if it is in the right hands."

  Dinadan tilted his head. "And whose hands are those?"

  "Not hers."

  There was something final in Merlin’s tone, a rare certainty that was not clouded by his usual riddles.

  "The woman who holds it now is no healer. She is no guardian of wisdom. She is a weaver of belief, a woman who understands that knowledge if wielded well, is the sharpest blade of all."

  "A liar, then."

  "A sculptor," Merlin corrected. "She does not lie outright, because she does not need to. She bends the truth, shaping it in the minds of those who listen. She does not hoard the book to keep it safe—she holds it because she knows its power. She knows what happens when men believe in something written in ink instead of something written in their bones. And she will not let that power slip from her grasp."

  Dinadan let his fingers drum against his saddle.

  "So you’re telling me she has a book full of great and terrible secrets, and she’s waiting for the right moment to twist it to her will?"

  "She is already twisting it, Dinadan. Even if she never speaks a word from its pages, the act of keeping it means no one else can use it. No healer can hold it, no dying man can benefit from what is written there. She has ensured that whatever wisdom it holds is hers alone to wield—or to withhold."

  Merlin’s gaze darkened.

  "That book belongs to no one. But neither should it belong to her."

  "And who exactly is this woman?"

  "Her name is known only to a few," Merlin said. "But to those who whisper of her in darkened halls, she is known as Vortigern's witch."

  Dinadan set his jaw. "I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. A man like Vortigern doesn’t rally a kingdom on words alone—he needs someone to shape those words, to bend them into something men will believe."

  "And that is exactly what she does," Merlin said. "You think this is only about a book, Dinadan, but it is far more than that. The words written in those pages hold the past, yes, but they also shape the future. And if the past can be altered—if the right knowledge is buried, twisted, or burned—then what future do you think will follow?"

  Dinadan did not answer. He did not need to.

  The weight of something ancient pressed against his chest, a heat that pulsed just beneath his new armor. The shard.

  His fingers twitched at his side. He had nearly forgotten about it—nearly. But it had never left him. The sliver of something not meant for mortal hands, something that should not belong to this world, nor to any king who sought to rule it.

  It never stirred, never warmed, never reminded him of its presence unless it chose to.

  And yet, as the name Vortigern settled in the air, the shard came alive.

  "You feel it, don’t you?" Merlin asked.

  Dinadan clenched his teeth.

  "I feel something."

  "Then you understand why this must not remain in her hands."

  Dinadan scoffed. "Ah, so I am stealing it after all."

  "You are returning it to Albion," Merlin said. "Not to kings, not to cults, not to those who wish to wield it as proof of their righteousness. This book was never meant to be used for power—it was meant to be used for healing."

  "And yet here we are," Dinadan muttered. "With another relic held hostage by fools who think they know best."

  "Not fools," Merlin corrected. "People who believe their version of the truth is the only one that matters. That is always the most dangerous kind."

  Dinadan exhaled, rubbing his jaw.

  The shard still burned, a dull pulse that matched the faint rhythm of his heartbeat.

  "And once I have it?"

  "Then you will decide what must be done."

  Dinadan let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "You’re putting a great deal of faith in my ability to make wise decisions, Merlin."

  "No," Merlin said simply. "I am putting faith in the fact that you are the only man who has not already decided what the book should be."

  Dinadan sat in silence, rolling Merlin’s words through his mind like a gambler weighing loaded dice. The fire crackled low at his back, its warmth doing little to chase away the cool press of the night. The wind had stilled, but the weight of something unseen had settled over the road.

  Bracken shifted, flicking an ear, as if the mule had already decided what to do.

  Dinadan let out a slow breath. He wasn’t sure what he had been waiting for—some final push, some clarity that refused to come. Instead, there was only the road, stretching ahead toward Tintagel, toward whatever useless squabbling Uther’s court was drowning itself in this time.

  He swung into the saddle, settling against the familiar weight of the reins in his hands. Bracken did not wait for a command. He simply turned, hooves picking up their steady rhythm, following the path that led toward the seat of power.

  "Of course," Dinadan muttered, shaking his head. "Loyal as ever, aren’t you?"

  Bracken did not respond. He rarely did.

  Dinadan let the movement of the ride settle into his bones. The dull ache in his shoulders, the way the new armor sat too well, the way the road stretched ahead like it had been waiting for him all along.

  He should forget what Merlin had said. It was not his concern. It was some old magician’s riddle, another twist of fate that had nothing to do with him.

  And yet.

  The Book. The sorceress. Vortigern.

  Dinadan sighed. Why did it matter?

  That was the real question, wasn’t it? He had no stake in what some sorceress hoarded away in sacred groves, no reason to meddle in secrets. And yet, Merlin’s voice pressed against the edges of his thoughts, the certainty in it, the knowing weight of a man who had already seen the road ahead.

  Was this another test? Another way to drag him into the shape of something he had no interest in becoming?

  Bracken kept walking.

  Dinadan exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

  "If I die over some moldy book, I hope you carve something poetic on my grave," he muttered to no one in particular.

  Behind him, the fire crackled lower.

  "If you die," came Merlin’s voice, quiet and knowing, "there will be no grave to carve it on."

  Dinadan clicked his tongue, shaking his head.

  "Comforting."

  Bracken did not break stride. The night stretched ahead, long and waiting.

  Behind him, Merlin watched the fire burn to embers. He did not look triumphant. He did not look relieved.

  He looked as though he were already mourning something that had not yet happened.

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