Prologue
"Sometimes, I really hate magic."
Merlin Emrys, one-time Court Sorcerer of Camelot, lay sprawled on his back in the middle of his study. His head swam alarmingly, like he'd just woken up after a night out being goaded into drinking by Gwaine. His ribs ached where he'd collided with the edge of a table as he fell. Groaning, he closed his eyes and tried to breathe.
It wasn't so much that magic was the problem. It was that he was Magic and that was something altogether different. A not insignificant part of him was always directly in tune with it, was always aware of the Balance, was so closely tied to the elemental Magic of the world that not even he could tell where it ended and he began. When it hurt, so did he.
Something had happened, something so shattering that it had cast ripples through the fabric of Magic strong enough to blast through his wards and to knock him on his arse. He'd never seen it coming. One moment, he'd been examining a book he'd picked up at an estate sale to determine if it was in fact a spell book or the mad ramblings of a lunatic. The next, the ambient Magic that existed in every place as the soul of the world flinched. His own magic had suddenly writhed within him. It was a sensation that was almost impossible to describe, like a discordant noise that grated against the ears, but was something felt in his very soul instead. The book had fallen from his lifeless fingers and all the strength had left his limbs. In that moment, he had known only one thing - something was wrong with Magic.
And it was his duty to fix it.
Merlin gritted his teeth against the nausea and the lingering Magical discord. He forced his breathing to become measured. He was too connected to Magic to block out all awareness of it, but he could muffle it a bit, enough to keep himself from being affected by whatever the wrongness was.
Moments passed. His heartbeat eased back into a steady rhythm. The prickling of uncontrolled, agitated magic faded. He breathed in deeply once and opened his eyes.
"What in the name of Avalon was that?" he hissed.
That kind of ripple could only be caused by something very close or something very powerful. Given that his wards were extensive, what had happened couldn't be close and it had to be very, very powerful.
Merlin clambered to his feet. Things had mostly stopped spinning, but he still felt a bit unsteady and he stumbled over to the small table on the opposite side. It was the only flat surface in the room that wasn't completely covered in papers, spell books, or other paraphernalia. It held a single, large silver basin filled with clear water that Merlin had collected from the Lake of Avalon centuries before. The basin was unadorned save for a series of runs engraved an inch below the rim. The runes coupled with the inherent magic of the water to allow Merlin to scry with more accuracy, distance, and clarity than any other means he had come across. The basin had seen much use over the years.
Bracing himself on the table with one hand, he passed the other across the surface of the water. He focused on the feeling of the magic in the ripple. The words of Old Magic came easily.
"Forelōce þaes hwilc āsēċe," Cast my gaze to that which I seek.
The basin went dark.
Merlin repeated the command. Colors trickled into the darkness, swirling through the water like ribbons of oil. Slowly, the strands twined together, merging to form an image.
It was a graveyard, an old one if the state of the headstones was any indication. They were huge stone monuments, cracked, weathered, and completely overgrown with weeds. The grass was unkempt and yellowing, where it grew at all, as though no one had cared for the grounds in decades.
One marker in particular stood out amongst the others. It was larger than any of the neighboring headstones and showed no signs of weathering.
Merlin spared a moment to wonder what on earth had possessed someone to use the figure of the grim reaper as a graver marker, then focused on the scene playing out in front of the macabre monument. A dozen black-robed figures stood in a rough circle before the reaper. Each wore a white mask carved in the likeness of a stylized skull. The details were difficult to make out from the vantage point of vision, but Merlin thought that no two were the same.
Two more figures stood in the center of the ring, facing one another, wands clutched tightly in their hands. One, taller and with this back to Merlin, wore flowing black robes similar to those of the figures in the outer circle, but with his head uncovered. The slightly smaller figure wore a tattered and dirty shirt of a color that was indeterminate in the darkness and obviously favored one leg. His pale face stood in stark contrast to the sweat soaked black hair that fell across his forehead. There was something familiar about him. Merlin twitched a finger. The image slowly drew nearer and the young man's face came into focus.
It was Harry Potter.
“What the bloody hell is going on?” Merlin whispered.
He knew who Harry Potter was. Of course he knew. The world might think that he was dead, but Merlin hadn’t exactly become a hermit. It was still his job to watch over the magical community. They were his people no matter how much time had passed. Besides, he’d never been very good at just watching things happen.
The two great Wizarding Wars of the last century had particularly caught his attention. Not that he was ever inclined to ignore a war, magical or mortal, but Grindelwald and Voldemort had both delved into the mysteries of more ancient magic. They had brushed against the Old Ways, dancing closer to it than anyone had in many years.
Merlin had lurked around the edge of those wars, observing closely and unable to directly intervene. There had been a moment near the end of Voldemort’s reign that he had thought the balance of Magic would tip just enough that he would be able to step out of the shadows. Instead, Voldemort had seemingly died and the war had ended. Merlin had never been entirely convinced that it was over. There had been a lingering dissonance, something that even he couldn’t quite put his finger on. His unease had led him to keeping discrete tabs on the boy inextricably linked to Voldemort’s demise.
It somehow did not surprise Merlin to find that Harry was in the middle of whatever had caused the upset in Magic. The boy was quite possibly a bigger magnet for trouble than Arthur had ever been.
That was another reason that Merlin had kept any eye on him.
The second figure, taller and clad in black robes that matched the wizards surrounding them, turned just slightly. His face became visible. Merlin swore.
It was Voldemort.
The Dark wizard’s wand snapped up into a dueling position. It slashed through the air and deadly emerald magic flew through the air toward Harry. Merlin felt his heart stop. His hand gripped the edge of the table with painful strength. He was unable to look away.
Harry raised his wand. A crimson spell erupted in a jet from the tip. It flew across the graveyard and collided head on with the Killing Curse. A resounding shock of magic shook the earth. Merlin could feel the vibrations through the basin. Power, pure and ancient, radiated from the two connected spells. The twelve Death Eaters were pushed back half a step by a flickering silver-white force field.
A halo of white magic indicated the point where the two spells were joined. Slowly, it moved toward Harry. Gritting his teeth, he gripped his wand with both hands, digging his feet into the ground and refusing to give way. The halo shuddered to a stop.
Agonizingly slowly, it moved away from Harry, drawing inexorably closer to Voldemort, until it touched the tip of his wand.
Tormented screams rent the night air. The death eaters startled backward, forsaking their efforts to break through the barrier. Silver smoke issued from the wand. Merlin leaned in so closer that this hair fell forward, nearly breaking the surface of the water. The smoke formed four nebulous figures. The gleam of the barrier made the details of their appearance almost impossible to make out, but he had a pretty decent guess.
Harry wrenched his wand up. The connection between the two spells broke. The dome vanished and the ghostly figures rushed at Voldemort. Harry dove at something on the ground and vanished.
A shaky breath escaped Merlin’s lips. It required conscious thought to make his fingers release their death grip on the table. He could feel the indentations from where the edge had pressed into his flesh and his knuckles ached from the force of his grip. He felt like someone had clobbered him over the head with a shield.
“How in bloody hell did he come back?” Merlin whispered in horror.
He bent back over the basin. The graveyard had emptied during his brief distraction. He snapped his fingers and muttered another incantation. There was a pause, and then the scene rewound to the moment preceding the ripple that had knocked him flat. Merlin watched closely until he saw what looked to be the beginning of the confrontation. He snapped his fingers again. The scene played forward once more. He brushed his fingers against one of the runes and the sounds emanating from the basin grew louder.
What he saw left him reeling.
“Bone of the father, flesh of the servant, blood of the enemy.”
The words echoed through his mind. They bore the weight of old power, but it was wrong. It grated against his magic. Even worse, the incantation sounded familiar.
Repeating the words in a mutter, Merlin spun on his heel and strode across the room to the large, floor-to-ceiling, bursting at the seams bookcase that took up the entirety of the back wall. The volumes on its shelves were only a small sample of the thousands that he had collected over the years. Most he kept somewhere a bit more removed from the mortal world, somewhere safe. These were simply the books he used most often.
Frowning, he surveyed the ancient tomes. Nearly five minutes passed before he found the one he sought tucked on the top shelf beneath a stack of old, unbound parchments. He gestured sharply. The parchments lifted themselves up and the book slid off the shelf, into his outstretched hands.
The weight of the four-inch tome nearly knocked the wind out of him. Merlin grunted and moved to a nearby worktop. It was cluttered with papers, notebooks, and a couple of small magical artifacts that he was in the process of cataloging before sending them off to his sanctum in Avalon. He dropped the tome unceremoniously on top of his notes and began tearing through it, muttering all the while.
“I know I’ve seen that spell before. Bloody hell, I’m getting old if I can’t remember a blasted spell when I need it. This is utterly ridiculous. I need a bloody inde—hang on!”
The words were emblazoned diagonally across the page in script the color of dried blood.
Bán þæs fæderes, flæsc þæs ambihteres, ond dreór þæs ealdgewinnan
Merlin quickly flattened down the page. His hands were shaking just a bit with anticipation and worry. He ran a finger over the incantation.
“Dragon’s fire,” he whispered. “It’s exactly the same.”
He leaned forward, brows furrowed in concentration. The text that surrounded the spell was cramped and spidery. It had faded with age in a way that the incantation, preserved by magic, had not. The entire page was written in the Old Tongue, a variant of Old English that paid little respect to grammar and borrowed heavily from other ancient languages. It was also a language in which Merlin was luckily fluent.
When the wisdom of those long past is needed, fear not for there is a way.
Be warned, for it is not without price, great and dear.
Only at direst need should this spell be invoked, when all else has failed
Find one who bears his father’s bones, descended true from him whose counsel you seek
And so shall kin call to kin even through death
Take one who serves his master well, whose loyalty does not waver
He shall guide them from beyond
Spill the blood of the enemy that you face
Their sacrifice will open the gateway.
The passage went on to describe the spell in detail: it's origin and purpose, outlining how to cast it and the precise repercussions of the spell. It was a dark spell, created by a warlock desperate to save his small tribe. It was a terrible spell meant for terrible circumstances.
As Merlin read through the details of the incantation, his blood ran cold.
“Oh, gods. He did it wrong.”
It explained the backlash throughout Magic. The Balance of Life and Death would never have accepted the paltry offerings that had been given in that graveyard. And Magic was not happy about it.
The old adage “be careful what you wish for” flickered through Merlin’s thoughts. The restraints of immorality had been chafing more bitterly over the last several years. He had found himself longing for the opportunity to get involved once more, not merely to observe. The repercussions, the lingering effects of these spells were not something that he could ignore. Merlin had gotten exactly what had hoped for: a reason to become involved. The Balance had to be righted and he was the only one who could do it.
He reached out a hand. The sidhe staff he had won from Ulfric and Sophia so long ago appeared. The jewel at its top glowed with subtle, sapphire light. He felt its magic tingling up his arm, mingling with his own power.
“Well, then,” he said. “Let’s get started.”