Arthur Pendragon, Crown Prince of Camelot

Merlin makes snuffling noises in his sleep. It's distracting. I'm supposed to keep watch, but instead I keep staring at the mop of unruly hair that sticks out of his blankets. He doesn't like hunting trips like this, I know that, and it's hard to find any game at all with him crashing through the undergrowth like a wild boar, but out here I feel more free than I have in the castle for years. Merlin proves to be rather better company than any of his predecessors, and sometimes it's nice to think I can be something other than the Prince, without being completely alone.

There is something strange about Merlin, strange like the fairies at the end of this book.

Anyway, night-time noises aside, it's still hard to sleep. The feast is going ahead and some of the guests have sent servants ahead, making demands thinly veiled as diplomatic courtesy. Bayard has sent a wagon full of ale, which father is going to have Gaius test for poison - every single barrel. The King of Cumbria wants to bring his consort, a witch by all accounts, and powerful beyond what we've seen in recent years. There is talk that she can ensnare the mind of a man with a few words and make him willing. Father is livid over the insult, because that's what it is - Cumbria knows Camelot can't afford his displeasure, not with alliances as they are now.

I meant to discuss this all with Morgana instead of writing it into a magic book, but Morgana is... unwell. Her eyes are clouded with the medicine Gaius gives her, and I'm afraid that it's more a case of trying to hide damage that's already been done. She seems wholly out of sorts when we talk, like she's grieving - I've only seen her like this once, just after she came to live at the Castle following the death of her father.

For now, I can't do anything but watch and wait. It's beginning to fray my nerves.

There is something strange about the book. It looks perfectly ordinary, soft pages, the smell of leather and fresh glue. It's nothing like the magic books Geoffrey keeps locked up in that library of his. It's not malignant, there is no evil taint about it. Then again, father did say that magic rarely reveals its true intentions.

Still, it seems benign, except for this small voice that seems to say, "write in me! write of your troubles!" Like I have any troubles. Really. It's preposterous.

I suppose I could use it for a journal. Just writing these lines now appears to satisfy some need in the thing or maybe- maybe it satisfies some need in myself. It doesn't matter.

Father has invited some of the neighbouring kings to a great feast, ostensibly in honour of the midsummer feast day, but I suspect he's working toward an alliance with Essex and wishes to take the temperature of the company, so as to avoid a war until it's all finalized. He means to establish a larger kingdom, a united realm, under one great king - himself. It's an ambitious project that I'm not entirely sure Camelot can support. The harvest has been meagre the past two years and border skirmishes with Mercia have cut into our reserves. Now is not the time, I told him that, but he seems obsessed with the idea.

Perhaps he feels his age, weighing on his bones, afraid that he'll have little time left before he dies.

He's been pressing me on prospects for marriage as well. I worry that he's weakening, that his time is coming to an end and he's rushing what should not be rushed. Hm. At least this feast won't have a group of simpering noblewomen vying for my attentions. The kings of Albion are bad enough as it is.

I wonder if Merlin would be willing to wear the hat again. He's been awfully acquiescing these past few weeks, ever since the incident with the Questing Beast. Someone has to teach him that I'm not some kind of maiden who faints at the sight of blood, and what better way to do it than humiliating him in front of the court? Besides, I think he rather likes the ceremonial tunic. It does look fetching on him either way.