Winded Read online

  I tune back into the conversation when I hear my name.

  “And then Merry won me this bear at the archery stall. Isn’t it cute?”

  Cecil looks at the grinning mockery of a teddy bear and grimaces.

  “I think you have a very generous definition of cute,” he says dubiously. Hah. I like him better already. I cut in.

  “Of course it’s not cute—it’s a monstrosity hiding a belly full of moldering sawdust under its maniacal grin. I only won it for you because you promised to frighten your roommate with it, and then toss its plague-ridden corpse into the dumpster at the first opportunity.”

  Cecil snorts and Jen pats the bear’s head.

  “There, there, he didn’t mean it,” she says consolingly to the bear. “So, what were you thinking for this afternoon?” This is directed at Cecil.

  “Oh, um,” Cecil briefly glances at me then back to Jen. “There’s a festival on, down by the beach. There’s a play at four. I thought you might be interested.”

  “Sounds great,” Jen says at once. “We’d better get moving. I’ll pay and we can head out.” Jen jumps to her feet and hefts her purse to her shoulder.

  “Don’t throw your back out with that thing,” I say, and she wrinkles her nose at me as she leaves. I turn to Cecil once she’s safely inside.

  “All right, Cecil.” I lean forward to rest my weight on my forearms and gaze at him calmly. “What’s the deal with you and Jen?”

  Cecil sputters incoherently until he finally pushes out, “What do you mean ‘deal?’”

  “Awkward, indecisive response. Noted.” I nod as if completing an internal checklist. “What was the name of your last girlfriend?”

  “What?” Cecil looks nonplussed. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

  “Hmm. Either hiding something or still a virgin.”

  “What?” Cecil yelps.

  “Don’t resist me, Cecil. I only want to know you better. Jen doesn’t have an older brother, so feel free to slot me in that role.” I note with satisfaction that Cecil’s eyes are wide and uncertain, the anger that was forming not overtaking him yet. I’m having too much fun to stop now, so I continue while Jen is gone and I have the chance. “You seem like a decent guy, Cecil, despite the unfortunate moniker, so I’ll give you a friendly warning—mess with Jen, and I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.” I flash him a smile that is calculated to be too wide and too calm for comfort. “You understand, I’m sure.”

  Cecil looks at me, alarm not at all hidden under a careful expression of neutrality. I try not to laugh, and decide to lay off. Jen did ask me to be nice, after all. I lean back.

  “Good call on the play, by the way. Definitely up Jen’s alley.”

  Cecil breathes easier at my statement, although his lauvan stay tensed.

  “Yeah? Okay, good. She seems the type, but you can never be sure.”

  Jen bustles back, her lauvan visibly calmer than before. She must not have overheard my conversation with Cecil.

  “All paid up. Thanks for getting me out to the fair today, Merry.”

  “Anytime. Thanks for the coffee.” I turn to Cecil. “Jen’s a thoroughly modern woman, so she may insist on paying for half.” I flash her a smile when she rolls her eyes. “But perhaps she makes a special dispensation for dating.”

  “Umm,” Cecil stammers.

  “Stop being a pain, Merry. Come on, Cecil.” She gives me a wave and steps off the patio with her carnival bear. Cecil nods at me mutely and scuttles after Jen.

  I’m not quite ready to leave the sunny patio with its happy clientele chattering around me. A light breeze swirls through an alder across the street, air lauvan dancing among the leaves. I let my mind go blank for a minute, not looking, not thinking, simply being.

  Then I see it. To my left, just beyond a laughing patron’s head, floats a shiny lauvan, the steely gray of a stormy sea. It’s an untethered piece that drifts freely in the wind. I frown. It’s the same lauvan I saw at the fair this morning when I sensed we were being followed. I glance around surreptitiously as if looking for a waiter but I don’t see anyone out of the ordinary. Not that I’d expect someone skulking in a trench coat and looking shifty—too clichéd, and it’s too hot for coats—but I would recognize the lauvan if I saw similar ones surrounding a nearby body. I’m out of luck—nobody’s lauvan in the vicinity even remotely approaches the steely gray of the floating lauvan.

  I stand up, struck by an idea. Quickly but calmly, I push in my chair and stroll off the patio in the direction of the lauvan. It meanders down the sidewalk, pushed and pulled from the breeze created by lauvan of passersby.

  I catch up to it at an intersection. My hand darts out as if I am waving to someone across the street, but instead I grasp the lauvan between my finger and thumb and draw it down to my side. I wait for the light to turn while I explore the strand, letting my own chocolate-brown lauvan tentatively prod and poke and wrap their tendrils around the gray strand. This isn’t a conscious move on my part—my lauvan would act this way toward any foreign threads.

  Immediately, I receive a sense of the person who produced this lauvan. Nothing as clear as a vision of a face—even gender is unlikely. No, I’m restricted to a sense of personality or attitude, which can still be enlightening.

  This lauvan has a strong signature of anger, with undertones of vengeance and a large dose of fear and desperation. My mouth tightens. That’s a potent combination for someone who may or may not be following me for purposes unknown. I release the lauvan and it drifts away in currents no one can sense. I’ll have to be vigilant. I don’t know who the person is, or why they’re interested in me, but I do know one thing.

  They’re not getting the upper hand over Merlin.

  CHAPTER II

  Dreaming

  We’re lucky with the weather today. This time three years ago, when we hammered out a truce with Framric’s Saxon army on our borders, it rained until the river broke its banks. Today dawned brilliant sunshine, cool but bright and spring-like. It’s a perfect day for the festivities.

  There’s a clang when sword parries sword, and a gasp from the crowd. The two combatants step back and circle each other to look for an opening. I’m on the edge of my bench, engrossed in the fight. One fighter lunges in a clumsy maneuver and misses his target, who dances away.

  “No, Balin!” I shout in exasperation with the crowd’s collective groan. Balin is a fine swordsman in Arthur’s service, but he’s not showing his talent this afternoon. “You can move faster than that!”

  Perhaps goaded by my taunt, Balin swings his sword up over his head to release a mighty blow. His opponent, the son of an Irish lord settled in eastern Brycheiniog, moves to block the downward stroke. Balin deftly changes his angle and cuts in from the side under the other’s sword. The blow to the man’s ribcage causes him to crumple, winded and bruised but alive. They fight with blunted weapons.

  The crowd cheers and Balin raises his arm in triumph before he offers it to his vanquished opponent, who takes it gratefully.

  I sit back on the bench. Guinevere claps politely for a moment. She hides her boredom well but I can see more than most. It’s a long morning of contests if one has no interest in them.

  “Only a few more bouts before the meal,” I reassure her. Guinevere nods gratefully at me. Arthur looks at us, his boyish face flushed and eyes bright from excitement. His expression turns to concern at my words.

  “Are you weary of the games, Guinevere? I did not think to ask. Would you like to leave early?”

  Guinevere smiles and pats Arthur’s knee.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she says in her stilted Brythonic. “No, I stay. These fights are important. Saxons and your people together. People see me leave, what do they think?”

  “True enough,” I say. “These games, the festival, you did start it to celebrate the truce. Guinevere is an important part of that truce, and the people need to see her support.”

  “I could tell you
what’s going on,” says Arthur, taking Guinevere’s hand. “What each man is trying to do, good attacks, bad defenses. Would you like that?”

  Guinevere leans against her husband, looking pleased.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Wait a minute.” Arthur looks my way. “Why haven’t you taken your place in the sparring grounds, Merlin? I had my contest ages ago.”

  “You won almost,” Guinevere says consolingly.

  “It was close, but the better man won,” says Arthur. “But Merlin has been unusually still and quiet all morning.”

  “Not quiet, loud,” Guinevere murmurs with a smile at me.

  “I would have thought the answer was obvious, Arthur. I fight to win, and I use every means at my disposal. Even the more unorthodox. I have an unfair advantage in a friendly contest, so I withdrew from the competition. Rather good of me, I thought.”

  “Oh, indeed. So kind of you to give us lesser folk the opportunity to shine,” Arthur teases. “Why don’t you try a fight without lauvan?”

  “It’s hard to separate lauvan and sword work—I only ever use both together.”

  “I think you’re afraid you won’t win without it.”

  “Oh, hush,” Guinevere says, but I laugh.

  “If you’re trying to goad me into a fight, you succeeded. Boy,” I beckon to a nearby servant. “Bring me my jerkin. Guinevere, where does your father sit?”

  Guinevere scans the crowd, then points to a large blond man close by.

  “There.”

  “Excellent. Don’t wish me luck—I won’t need it.”

  I stand and stride over to Framric, Guinevere’s father and the chieftain of the Saxons with whom we’ve allied. I hail him in a loud voice in his own tongue.

  “Lord Framric! Who is your fiercest warrior? I wish to challenge him.” I repeat the declaration in Brythonic for the benefit of the crowd that watches me with interest and roars its approval at my words. Framric looks surprised but willing, and confers with a man sitting three down from him. The man nods and Framric leans back.

  “Your challenge will be met, Merlin. Meet Osgar, a warrior unparalleled.”

  The other man rises in place. I recognize him from an earlier bout. He’s huge, at least a head or so taller than me, with braided hair and a grim brow. Muscles bulge beneath his sleeveless tunic and I wonder what I’ve landed myself in. He won his last fight handily—the other man still hasn’t appeared from the healers’ tent.

  We greet each other with nods and a firm grasp of each other’s forearms.

  “You’ll regret your brash challenge,” Osgar says in Saxon.

  “There are many who would contradict you,” I say with a wicked grin. “But all of those are dead in battle and cannot talk.”

  Osgar grunts in return.

  We break apart and I allow the serving boy to help me with my leather jerkin. Osgar pulls on a thick leather coat and accepts a blunt spear from an attendant. The blunted two-handed sword the attendant gives me is longer and heavier than my usual sharpened spatha. Sweat gathers on my brow as I consider my disadvantages. Huge opponent. Unfamiliar weapon. No lauvan. Why did I let Arthur get under my skin? This was a much better idea on the bench.

  When we’re prepared, we march to the center of the straw-strewn sparring ground. The crowd cheers. I eye Osgar, looking for potential weak points. He’s depressingly fit and holds a sturdy round shield. He sustained one injury from his previous match, visible to me as a knot of lauvan on the lower right side of his ribcage. I promised Arthur I wouldn’t manipulate lauvan to win but I can’t stop myself from seeing them. And once I see the knot, how can I ignore my advantage?

  A drum pounds once, and Osgar and I begin to circle. I like to keep fights fast and my opponents on their toes, so I don’t wait for long before striking first. I feint to the right with a real slice to the left thigh before I dance out of range. Osgar winces, but is otherwise unmoved. He lunges forward with his spear which I dodge nimbly by sidestepping, but it was a ploy for him to get close enough to grasp my arm and pull me in.

  Oh, no. Grappling with an overlarge opponent with no lauvan allowed? I have a few moves but I’m clearly at the disadvantage here. Better get out while I can and put a sword-distance between us.

  I try to ignore the lauvan swirling tantalizingly in front of my eyes. Osgar throws me over his back in a move designed to stun me, but I twist halfway through and roll gracelessly but safely a distance away. I regain my footing just before a disturbance of air lauvan alerts me to an incoming missile. I dodge it narrowly and Osgar’s spear thuds into the ground beside me, shaking with the force of impact.

  That’s it. This fight is not going my way and I need to change the tide fast. I charge Osgar with a whirlwind of blows designed to overwhelm. He backs away, around in a circle. Too late, I realize his goal and shout in frustration but he yanks his spear out of the ground and uses it to block further blows.

  Neither of us has the advantage now, until by chance I slip inside his defense. I seize my opportunity and press my blade to Osgar’s throat. My victorious grin barely has time to cross my lips before the cold iron of Osgar’s spear presses into my own neck.

  We are still for a long moment, silence between us and in the crowd beyond. I break it by starting to laugh. I take my sword away and step back but hold out my arm in friendship.

  “Well fought, my friend. A win for both parties?”

  Osgar’s broad face splits in a grin to match mine and he grasps my arm heartily.

  “A win for both! Come brother, let us drink together. I’ll bet I can drink you under the table.”

  “That’s a challenge I’ll gladly accept.”

  The crowd cheers.

  CHAPTER III

  The next day, I’m walking in the cool under a row of trees on campus when I hear my name.

  “Merry! Hold up.”

  I turn to see Wayne Gibson striding behind me. He’s just shy of forty, his balding head gleaming in the dappled sun. His short but well-built body and beginnings of a tan contrast against the white and doughy physique of many who work here. He’s a good man, and one I should probably get to know better, if I recall Braulio’s advice to open up. I’ve been reserved during our casual lunches and hallway conversations thus far.

  “Wayne. Heading to your office?”

  “Yes, marking awaits. On a day like today, you don’t know how tempted I am to hand out random letter grades and escape to the beach instead.”

  “I hear you, loud and clear.”

  “What are you teaching this term?” Wayne’s forehead glistens in the persistent heat.

  “Currently? A condensed course on Shakespearean tragedies and another on Chaucer and his contemporaries. In a few weeks I’ll start one on medieval French literature for the French department—they want me to fill in for an instructor on maternity leave.”

  “French, hey? Better you than me. I’m up for politics of the Italian Renaissance over the next few weeks.” Wayne waves at a passing colleague and then winces. I glance pointedly at the livid purple bruise that peeks out from under his sleeve.

  “What a shiner. I hope the other guy looks worse.” I say it in jest, but Wayne nods.

  “He does.” At my bemused expression, he elaborates. “I’ve taken up MMA, mixed martial arts. The gym I go to offered training, so I thought I’d try it.”

  “That cage-fighting business, where anything goes?”

  Wayne grins. “That’s the one.”

  “Remind me not to get on your bad side.” On reflection, Wayne’s revelation doesn’t surprise me. He’s never struck me as a mild-mannered professorial type. But then, that doesn’t describe me either—perhaps that’s why we get along.

  “Speaking of bad sides, did you hear that someone was looking for you at the office? I was passing by, and heard the guy asking for your schedule and the room numbers. He seemed a little dodgy, but the admin assistant told him anyway.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. The admin and
I don’t see eye to eye. Did you get a look at the guy?”

  “Brown hair, short, a little older than you, maybe. Do you know him?”

  “Not as such.” I scan the lawn full of students basking in the shade of sweeping trees. Wayne’s inquisitive eyes are on me and I debate what to tell him. Answers will lead to more questions but I grow weary of hiding everything. Braulio did tell me to open up, after all. And I’ve known Wayne for over a year—at some point, I have to take the leap. “I think I’m being followed.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I interrupted someone’s plans and they didn’t take it well.” Wayne’s lauvan are dancing with curiosity and already I regret telling him anything. “I’d better get going—I have a flight to catch. I’ll be back in a few days. Let me know if you see the man again, will you?”

  “Sure thing. You should come along for some MMA training. Might come in handy.”

  I pat him on the shoulder and turn to leave. “Perhaps I’ll keep you around as my bodyguard instead.”

  Fighting is my strong suit—I wouldn’t have lasted this long without it. But how do I fight someone who hides in the shadows?

  ***

  I tuck my satchel under the aisle seat and slide in smoothly, unhampered by the suitcases everyone finds essential. I can’t count how many journeys I’ve set forth on with nothing but the shirt on my back, and once or twice not even that. Granted, I see no reason to exclude a few luxuries—a toothbrush and comb are prominent in my satchel—but the sheer volume of “necessities” that travelers require staggers me.

  Oh, well. It’s also a mildly amusing way to pass the time, as I watch an older woman attempt to wrestle a behemoth bag into the overhead compartment. She rams it repeatedly, not realizing that another suitcase impedes her way. She keeps trying, providing a case study of insanity—doing the same thing while expecting different results.