Winded Read online

  WINDED

  Also by Emma Shelford

  Musings of Merlin Series:

  Ignition

  Winded

  Breenan Series:

  Mark of the Breenan

  Garden of Last Hope

  Realm of the Forgotten

  WINDED

  MUSINGS OF MERLIN SERIES

  EMMA SHELFORD

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  WINDED

  All rights reserved.

  Kinglet Books

  Victoria BC, Canada

  Copyright © 2017 Emma Shelford

  Cover design by Christien Gilston

  ISBN-10: 1544924097

  ISBN-13: 978-1544924090

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  www.emmashelford.com

  First edition: May 2017

  DEDICATION

  For Oliver

  PROLOGUE

  Time cycles in a great wheel and yet also stretches in a long unbroken line. Day follows night. Spring follows winter. Clock hands circle round and round. Even the sprouting of a tree from sapling to massive-girthed titan that falls with the crash of a mountain crumbling—even this cycle repeats itself with each new seed.

  But time itself stretches from the beginning to an infinitely distant future, marching ever forward, linear and inexorable. Trees may grow, die, and grow again, but an individual tree has an infinitesimally brief moment under the sun, never to return.

  I’ve lived too long, waiting for cycles to repeat themselves, watching the inevitable forward progress I can’t escape, waxing philosophic on the nature of the time that I have so much of. I can only hope that the great wheel I’m waiting for is so large that I can’t yet distinguish between circle and line.

  Our oldest beliefs can be our most powerful and longest lasting. Arthur—the once-and-future-king, according to legend—promised me he would return. I’m here to greet him, when the wheel finally spins him back into the stream of time.

  CHAPTER I

  The smells of hot fat and powdered sugar permeate the air. Punishing sunlight beats down on the crowd milling on black tarmac and excited screams from carnival riders fill my ears. If I half-shut my eyes and breathe deeply, I can almost pretend that I’m at a market of my past. Perhaps in Bavaria—in what is now Germany—to trade silver for a new comb for my wife Gretchen.

  But it’s many hundreds of years later across an ocean and a continent, in Vancouver, Canada, and there are no combs to buy. And I’m not with my ninth wife but with Jennifer Chan, my current friend. There are worse places to be.

  “I remember as a kid I wanted to win one of those stupid arcade games so badly. Those huge stuffed animals were beyond tantalizing.” Jen gazes wistfully at the long row of game stalls, bright-colored and tawdry in the dusty heat. Discordant music fights with clangs and beeps, assaulting our ears along with the shouts of carnies. Prizes sway above our heads, cheap and fluorescent. I glance at Jen, whose nostalgia is written across her face as longing.

  “Oh, come on, then,” I say with mock resignation. “I’ll win you one.” I walk down the row, scouting for a game I can win with ease. A shiny gray lauvan floats across my vision, unattached to any source. Only I can see lauvan, the threads that swirl around each living person and object that has energy. I look around to find the source but no one with gray lauvan is in sight. Jen catches up with me, her own gold-colored lauvan wrapped around her torso and shimmering in her wake.

  “They’re all rigged, Merry. Thanks for the thought, truly, but you don’t need to waste your money.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith.” I stop in front of a stall and consider the possibilities. It’s an archery game—hit a bull’s eye three times, win the largest prize. The bow has never been my favorite weapon, as hand-to-hand combat offers far more opportunity for lauvan manipulation, but fifteen centuries has afforded me more than enough experience to beat this contest. I dig into my pocket and pass the carnie a five-dollar bill which he accepts with grimy fingers and a lopsided grin.

  “Feeling lucky?” he says. “Pick your weapon. You get three shots.” He hands me three arrows.

  I examine the bow. I’ve never seen anything so cheaply made. I’m not confident the plastic will withstand the bending it is made to do and when I pluck the string experimentally, there is hardly any give. The arrows are no better—two of them are bent and the third’s feathers are almost completely stripped. I carefully inspect them all to learn how I must shoot for accuracy. Jen bites her lip next to me, her face a war between pity and an attempt to stifle laughter.

  “Choose your favorite prize,” I say to her. “This won’t take long. And also,” as Jen purses her lips and raises her eyebrows in skepticism at my words. “Promise me you’ll put this thing to good use.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know, perhaps frighten your roommate with it. Put it in her bed before she wakes up. And then toss it in the nearest bin—these stuffed things have been hanging here for who knows how long. They’re disgusting.”

  “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, shall we?”

  “Promise me.”

  “Fine! I promise. Now let’s see your amazing shot, Robin Hood.”

  I wasn’t in England during the reign of King John, so I never found out if Robin Hood was a real person. It’s often difficult to identify which noteworthy characters will become legends that stand the test of time. Some incredible souls are lost to memory forever and other mediocre people are immortalized. It’s a mystery to me.

  Without any further words, I set one of the bent arrows to the bow and pull back to align my sights with the bull’s eye. I aim to the left and a hair’s breadth down to account for the arrow’s bend. I breathe out, and release.

  The arrow leaves the bow with a dull twang and pierces the target with a thud, right in the center of the bull’s eye.

  Jen laughs incredulously and the carnie whistles.

  “You won a prize,” he says, waving a plastic figurine that I don’t bother looking at.

  “Keep it. I’m going for the grand prize.”

  “Maybe you should quit while you’re ahead,” Jen says.

  “What sort of attitude is that?” I notch the other bent arrow in the string and sight, then release. It slots in perfectly snug against the first arrow. Jen gasps.

  “I’m almost a believer. Convert me, Merry.”

  “Not a problem.” The last arrow, the featherless one, will be tricky, but nothing I can’t handle. With my released breath, it flies in a wobbling line to push aside the first two arrows and slide in smoothly between them. The other arrows end up at drunken angles against the target.

  “Well?” I say to Jen, after I place the bow carelessly on the counter and turn to gauge her reaction. She stares at me, a slow smile crawling over her expression of disbelief.

  “That was incredible. When did you learn archery?”

  When? Is “time beyond reckoning” a helpful answer?

  “Oh, a long time ago. What can I say? I’m talented.”

  “Yeah, and so modest, too. You know, you were born in the wrong century. If you’d lived a few hundred years ago, you would have been a very dangerous man.”

  “Indeed, very dangerous to my enemies, but excellent to my friends. Choose your prize, my lady.” I wave at the dangling animals, then address the carnie. “Which can she pick?”

  “Any of the big ones
,” he says, examining the target with its three arrows as if looking for a trick. “Congrats, mister. I’ve never seen anyone shoot like that.”

  Jen peers up, and then points to a dusty stuffed bear in the corner.

  “That one, please.”

  I follow her gaze as the carnie grabs a pole and unhooks the bear from the rafters. It’s quite hideous, with fluorescent blue and green fur and beady black eyes atop a too-wide grin. My jaw drops.

  “You have to be joking. That’s the ugliest mockery of an animal I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  “I think it’s cute. And you told me to choose.”

  “Only because I thought you had better taste than that.”

  Jen thanks the carnie and we walk away. When we’re out of earshot Jen clucks at me.

  “Did you do that using your—you know, the lauvan thing?”

  “What? No!” I protest vehemently, briefly annoyed that she thought I had to rely on lauvan manipulation instead of my own physical skills. Then I kick myself—that would have been a perfect excuse for my archery proficiency.

  “When did you pick up competitive archery? Seriously, Merry, that was ridiculously good. Especially with that cheap equipment from the forties.”

  “I’m a man of mystery and multitudinous talents.” A cop-out, but also true.

  “I’m surprised, but I shouldn’t be. That’s exactly something I could see you being good at. It matches your neo-pagan tattoo job.” She grabs my arm and flips it over to expose the blue oak leaf on my inner forearm, then drops it again. “Are you going to tell me you can ride a horse, now?”

  “Can’t everyone?”

  Jen laughs and pushes my arm playfully.

  “I think we’ve done the fair. Let’s head back and grab a drink. My treat for you winning me the bear.”

  As we turn for the exit, a single unattached lauvan floats across my vision, not an arm-span distant. It’s the gray lauvan again, shiny and gleaming in the intense summer sun. I look around but no one nearby has lauvan of that description. Free-floating lauvan without a visible source? It can mean someone is hiding, feeling anxious or fearful or vengeful in order to shed lauvan with enough frequency that I can spot them. And if I keep seeing the same source-less lauvan, it’s possible that someone is following me.

  Few people follow me with goodwill in their hearts. I should stay vigilant.

  ***

  Jen swishes her straw against the ice in her cup, rattling the frozen chunks together loudly.

  “I don’t know how you’re drinking hot coffee,” she says. She shakes her head at me and fans her face to make her point. “It’s only a thousand degrees out here.”

  “Poor northern girl. It’s an unseasonal twenty-eight, max.” I take a sip of my espresso. It’s warm out, sure, but I’m flexible within reason. Jen, on the other hand, is visibly glistening. She holds her icy cup against her cheek and hisses through her teeth when the cold touches her skin.

  “Who are you calling a northern girl? You said you were born in Wales.”

  She doesn’t miss a trick, this one.

  “I’ve lived all over since then. And speaking of heat,” I say, putting my cup down in its petite saucer. “I’m leaving town for a few days.”

  “Oh, yeah? Where to?”

  “You remember I told you about my friend who lives in Costa Rica?” Not that I told her much—I’ve known Braulio for well over seven decades, which is difficult to explain to Jen. “Well, it turns out he’s not living there anymore.” I trace the saucer’s edge with my finger and track the movement with my eyes. “Let me rephrase that—he’s not living, anymore. His funeral is on Tuesday.”

  Jen draws in her breath quickly.

  “Oh, Merry. I’m so sorry.” She grabs my fidgeting hand and clasps it between both of her own. “What happened?”

  “Nothing unexpected.” I raise my eyes to meet hers which are filled with compassion. I look down again quickly before she can elicit too much of a response from me. I don’t want to travel that road at the moment—it’s the only path I’ve been on for the past week and a half. “Thanks, Jen.” I let her hold on for a moment longer, then I give her hands a squeeze and take my own back. “It’ll only be overnight. I’m going for the funeral and coming straight back. No need for sightseeing—I’ve seen that region before.” And it’s too soon to visit there again without Braulio by my side.

  I look at Jen and smile. She returns the smile uncertainly, her eyes still concerned, but she seems willing to follow my lead. Ever since the incident at the volcano two weeks ago and her introduction to the world of lauvan, she seems reluctant to push me too much. It works for me.

  A tinkling noise from Jen’s purse that squats like a great misshapen toad on the table saves me from thinking of something to say. Jen digs through the plentiful mess within and extracts her phone.

  “Oh, it’s Cecil,” she says offhandedly, then all of her lauvan freeze as if she realizes she let something slip.

  Naturally, I’m intrigued.

  “And who is Cecil, might I ask?” I take another sip of my espresso while I wait for Jen’s answer.

  “Didn’t I tell you? I met this guy at a friend’s party last month.” Jen shrugs nonchalantly but her lauvan fidget around her body. She’s nervous, for some reason. Does she really like him, or is she still deciding and so doesn’t want to talk about him yet with others?

  Or does she not want to tell me?

  If so, it’s high time for Jen to face her fears. It’s good for her, with an excellent side effect of amusing me.

  “What did Cecil say? What a name. I thought it had mercifully expired last century.”

  “He was named after his grandfather,” Jen says, a touch defensively. “He was wondering when I was free.”

  “No time like the present.” Quicker than Jen can react, I lean forward and snatch the phone from her unsuspecting fingers. One hand types a reply while the other fends off Jen’s half-hearted attempts to grab her phone.

  “Hi, Cecil,” I say aloud slowly as I thumb-type. “I’m at the coffee shop at Fourth and Alma. I’d love to see you.” I press send.

  “You did not just do that!”

  “Oh, come on. That was positively restrained. I was very tempted to put ‘xoxo.’ I think I ought to be commended.”

  Jen half-stands and take the phone out of my unresisting fingers.

  “You’re so annoying sometimes, you know that, right?” Her phone tinkles and she quickly scans the new message. “Dammit, he’s just around the corner. He’ll be here in three.”

  “What I want to know is, are you embarrassed of him or of me?” I smile impishly at Jen and she huffs dramatically.

  “Oh, neither. I just—this is very new, and I don’t even know him much yet…”

  “Still, a month of testing—he can’t be that bad.”

  Jen laughs incredulously.

  “Well, yeah, if we evaluate based on your track record. That girl in February, did you manage a whole month?”

  “Five weeks with Andrea, thank you very much. And over two months with—damn, I forgot her name.”

  “Exactly my point. A month for me is still new. So be nice.”

  “I’ll try,” I say dubiously. “But it’s not my default mode. And no guarantees I’ll try very hard.”

  “There he is,” Jen hisses. She composes her face into a cheerful expression and waves behind me.

  I don’t bother turning around. He’ll come to us soon enough and I don’t want to appear too interested, like a jealous boyfriend. I think I’ll go the big brother route instead. That could be fun.

  “Cecil, hi,” Jen says. She hovers on the edge of her seat as if unsure whether to stand and greet the newcomer or stay seated as he arrives. I chuckle to myself. Etiquette is not very well defined in this era, and changes all the time.

  Cecil rounds the corner into my line of view. I take a slow sip of my coffee—the last sip, unfortunately, I would have liked it as a prop—and raise my eyes to exam
ine the stranger. He’s tall, almost gangly, but decently built despite that. I get the sense that he’s worked hard to put some substance on his lanky frame. His face is strong-featured, topped with sandy blond hair cut in a carefully decided style. His eyes are an intense, piercing blue, and overall, I can see why Jen is attracted to him. He’s not a bad specimen, all in all.

  That gives me even more reason to check his motivations with respect to Jen.

  “Merry, this is Cecil,” Jen says brightly. Only I can see that her lauvan are tense and jittery. “Cecil, this is my friend Merry.”

  I stand with a languid motion and extend my hand.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Cecil.”

  “You—you too.” He eyes me uncertainly. “I was expecting a Mary. M-A-R-Y.”

  I smile widely, showing my teeth.

  “M-E-R-R-Y, actually. Fair enough mistake. Here,” I pull a chair from a nearby table closer. “Have a seat.” Cecil nods his thanks and sits down. I raise my eyebrows at Jen as if to say See? I can be nice, and she hides a smile behind her iced coffee.

  “Did you have a good time at the fair?” Cecil asks Jen after a second of awkward pause.

  “Oh, yes,” Jen replies immediately as if happy to latch onto an easy topic. She starts to prattle about the motocross show and the food vendors. I tune out the audible conversation and watch the silent one. It’s quite sweet, actually. Thin tendrils of Jen’s golden lauvan cautiously twist and snake their way slowly toward Cecil, whose own russet lauvan are performing a similar tentative dance. Every so often, the ends of their lauvan touch and they explore each other gently before jolting back like nervous colts. It would bring warmth to my jaded old heart if I didn’t notice that Jen’s lauvan are much more hesitant and jumpy than Cecil’s are. Once or twice, Cecil’s lauvan wrap their ends around Jen’s, attempting to capture them. Jen’s twist away every time, only responding positively to Cecil’s gentler overtures. I frown. This one might bear watching. There’s more attraction on his side than on hers and his lauvan methods don’t bode well for how he might act in the physical world.