Ignition

by Emma Shelford

  “So, you’re not seeing your new friend tonight?” Jen asks, peeking at me slantwise.

  I groan.

  “No, I’m done with Anna. She’s bad news.”

  “I could have told you that.” Jen tsks but softens it with a smile. “You should ask a woman for advice sometimes. We know things.”

  “Yeah, but usually I don’t want the advice until it’s too late.”

  “Ha. That I can believe.” She picks at a piece of salami but doesn’t eat it. I’m contemplating another slice when she speaks.

  “Merry?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Why have you never—you know—tried to go for me?”

  I look over at her sharply. She keeps her eyes on her pizza slice, trying to act causal, but it’s disintegrating under her picking fingers. Her golden lauvan are not their usual lively swirls, but have slowed to cling closely to her body as if she’s protecting herself, as if my answer matters.

  I’m flummoxed. Where is this question coming from? A minute ago everything was easy between us, and now she wants to know why I haven’t come on to her?

  “Do you want me to?”

  “No! No, that’s not what I meant.” Her lauvan twist in agitation and I can see she’s telling the truth. I still don’t understand what she’s getting at. “No, I want you as a friend. I love what we have. I’m just—I just wondered—why not me?” She rubs her upper arm with her free hand in an unconscious gesture of protection from what I might say next.

  It finally clicks. Jen thinks I’m not interested in her romantically because I don’t find her attractive.

  I turn to her fully, taking her mangled pizza slice and placing it in one of the half-empty boxes. I pick up both her hands in mine.

  “Jennifer Chan, you listen to me. You are an intensely beautiful, incredibly intelligent, fiery spirit of a woman, and never forget it. I haven’t pursued you because our friendship is vastly more important to me than trying for some half-baked hook-up. I love spending time with you, and I think everything is perfect just the way it is.” She stares into my eyes for a brief moment, then her eyes crinkle in a smile and her lauvan relax. I shake her hands and release them.

  “Thanks, Merry. You always know just what to say.” She considers me for a moment, then punches my arm lightly.

  “Besides, you deserve better than me.” I lean back further into the pillows.

  Jen looks shocked.

  “Careful, Merry. That reeks of low self-esteem.”

  I let out a bark of laughter.

  “I have an ego the size of a house, Jen. Don’t worry about me. I know my demons and low self-esteem is not one of them. But I also know what kind of man I am, and I know there’s someone out there who deserves you more than I do. You’ll find him one day and then you’ll see. And you’ll thank me on bended knee for not sweeping you off your feet.”

  “Oh, and I’d have no say in this ‘sweeping,’ would I?” Jen’s eyes flash, but a hint of a smile plays around her mouth.

  “Nope. Very few can resist the magic of Merry Lytton.”

  “There’s that ego I was worried about. I think it might actually be the size of an office building.”

  “An office building? How boring. I think the Eiffel tower would be a better fit.”

  Jen kicks my ankle, laughing.

  “You would.”

  My answering chuckle is interrupted by an enormous yawn. Jen clears away the remains of the pizza and grabs the remote.

  “I’m zonked. Let’s find some terrible made-for-TV movie to vegetate to.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Dreaming

  Arthur droops behind me on the last stretch of trail before home.

  “Can’t we just change into deer and run there? It’d be so much quicker and easier.”

  “Come on, lazy boy,” I throw back over my shoulder. “We’re almost there.” Running as deer would be much quicker, but easier? It’s been such a busy day. We were up before daybreak to catch the sunrise for direction reckoning, followed by arms practice with Uther’s men in the courtyard, then deep into the woods to gather agrimony. I’m far too exhausted to find the strength to transform both of us, but I don’t tell Arthur that.

  “Keep up,” I say. “You know your father doesn’t like us to be late for supper.”

  Arthur trots to catch up to my long strides. He’s grown like a weed these past few months, and I think he forgets sometimes that he can step farther than he used to. He’s not quite as tall as me yet, but he’s well on his way.

  My words get him moving at last. Uther is a loving father, but as he ages his tolerance for things out of routine diminishes. Dinner at this time of the year is promptly at sundown.

  The last few hundred paces last forever. Arthur is too tired to chat much. When the villa comes into sight across a small valley with its tiny burbling creek grown noisy with the winter melt, I pat him on the back.

  “You did well today. Especially at the beehive—your technique for infiltration was very well thought-out.”

  Arthur smiles bashfully at the praise. It’s not often I dole it out, after all. His eyes light up at the memory of the afternoon. I transformed him into a honeybee from a foreign colony and placed him carefully at the entrance of a hive embedded in the empty crevasse of a lightning-struck oak. His task was to make his way into the beehive and then escape unharmed. He had done so by cleverly finding some discarded comb near the entrance of the hive and rubbing his tiny bee body with the honey and wax in order to mask his foreign scents. Once disguised, he simply flew past the guard bees and waddled around the hive, his natural curiosity driving him to explore this new environment. I kept a watch on him by holding onto the lauvan that connect us. If he had ever been in trouble, I would have felt a change in energy. Then it would have been a simple matter of transforming him back into a human. It would have destroyed the hive in the process, of course, but the tree knot was large enough to support Arthur’s size and he would have been unharmed, save for a few stings.

  “If your father asks you what you learned today, what will you say?” I ask him this question every day in which the lessons include my special talents—which is often. Uther still doesn’t know what I can do, and I’m perfectly content to keep him in the dark.

  “Today we worked on navigation by the sun, healing techniques while on the march, and strategy when in enemy territory,” Arthur recites. He’s good at distilling our lessons into their essences, as well as knowing what his father wants to hear. Uther is never keen on the details but likes to know Arthur is progressing.

  I reach over to ruffle Arthur’s hair. I have to raise my arm quite high these days. He dodges my hand and grins.

  As we approach, it becomes apparent that something is going on. Boys run around with reins of horses in their hands and dodge bustling men with swords at their sides who enter the great hall. The dim light makes it hard to identify physical features of the figures from this distance, but their lauvan glow despite the dusk.

  “What’s going on?” Arthur asks, squinting in an attempt to see better.

  I narrow my eyes in thought when I recognize the lauvan of a few of the men in the doorway.

  “I think the nobles have gathered. Yes, look, there’s Lord Deverell.” I point to a huge man wearing a short green cloak who leaps off his horse, his distinctive orange lauvan clearly visible.

  “Oh, yes. But why? The Samhain festival isn’t for weeks yet.” Arthur looks to me in confusion, and his eyes widen. “Do you think there’s trouble in the east?” He tightens his lips but can’t hide the excitement in his eyes.

  I repress a chuckle. Arthur wants desperately to prove himself in battle, even more now that his swordplay has progressed so far. Even today he disarmed the youngest of Uther’s soldiers, a young man named Cadoc no more than four years Arthur’s elder. Arthur was more astonished than anything by the win, but he graciously helped Cadoc to his feet. It was only later, when Arthu
r was alone with me, that he gloated about his victory.

  “One day you’ll get to see a battle firsthand, I have no doubt. The Saxons aren’t going anywhere fast, and when they take a break the Angles push forward. We’ll be fighting for years. Don’t worry—you’ll have your day for blood and glory, little squirt.”

  Arthur glowers at me.

  “When are you going to stop calling me that? It’s such a child’s name.”

  “When I decide that a child no longer strides beside me.” I raise my eyebrow. “The precise day, well, that’s up to you.”

  Arthur sighs in annoyance but makes no further answer.

  By the time we reach the villa, the lords have already entered and the boys with the horses have trotted off to the stables. Arthur eagerly flings the door open and slips inside the great hall. I follow more sedately, but I’m no less interested than Arthur in the reason for the gathering.

  A fire roars in the hearth against the chill beginning to seep in through the stone walls from the dusky autumn air. Candles in wooden holders dot the central table where eight men lean over a piece of parchment. These men are the local lords and warriors who make up a portion of the war council, those in charge of defending the region of Gwent from pillaging by Saxons from the east, or bandits from Eire over the sea. The men vary in age, from the son of Lord Deverell who is several years younger than myself, to a few strong but battle-scarred warriors, close comrades of Uther. Uther’s white hair and moss-green lauvan are visible at the head of the table.

  Arthur hangs back, reluctant to interrupt the men despite his eagerness for news. Uther looks up at the closing door and his head nods in greeting.

  “Ah, there you are. Merlin, will you join us? We could use your knowledge of the southern kingdoms. Saxons have landed on the coast of King Marcus’ lands and he asks for help, given our alliance.”

  “Of course,” I say, and move to the end of the table. Arthur fidgets behind me.

  “Arthur,” Uther says. “You come and join us too. It’s high time you should be listening to these talks. Soon enough you’ll be taking my place on the council, no doubt.”

  One of the men next to Uther, a short man with arms like haunches of venison and a perfectly bald head that shines in the candlelight, guffaws and slaps Uther on the back.

  “Not yet, Uther! You’ll be fighting Saxons until you’re too old to walk, and then we’ll carry you onto the field.”

  The men laugh and Uther smiles fondly.

  “Only if you swing your ridiculous battle-ax beside me, Ector. Somebody has to make the enemy piss their pants in fear.”

  When the laughter dies down, I notice that Arthur has quietly inserted himself at my side. I nudge him with my elbow. When he looks up at me, I give him a wink. He smiles briefly, looking reassured.

  Uther pushes the map in my direction.

  “Penn, show Merlin where the Saxons have landed.” To me he says, “This is the best map we have, unfortunately. It’s rough, but will have to do. King Marcus’ messenger here,” he nods at a slender young man in a woolen tunic that I hadn’t noticed before, “didn’t bother to bring us a better one, and he doesn’t know the lay of the land well enough to aid us.” The messenger flushes and looks defiant but says nothing. His lauvan twist in annoyance.

  I pull the parchment toward me, the ragged edges of the skin soft under my fingers. Penn points to a spot on the map near a lake.

  “Here’s Marcus’ base, and here,” he points to a promontory on the coastline, “is where the Saxons landed three days ago. The messenger left right away, but at that time he says the Saxons were setting up camp there as if getting ready to raid the surrounding countryside. King Marcus is the defender of these lands and has sworn protection for the people living there. He would deal with the interlopers himself, but his forces are stretched thin by invaders from the east.”

  “And they are Saxons,” Uther says. “They won’t be satisfied with raiding that area alone. They will push farther inland, if they haven’t already. If we let them gain a foothold, they will cross the Severn before winter, mark my words.”

  Arthur leans in close to me, studying the map before us. I point at a range of hills on the map, near the landing place.

  “See this? There’s a line of hills here. And here,” I point to a blank space on the other side. “This is swamp land, impassable for an army or even a small group, unless they know the paths. There are villages here, here, and over here.” I look at Arthur. “If you were a Saxon looking for towns to pillage, what path would you take?”

  Arthur’s eyes widen when he realizes I expect him to answer in front of everyone, but he rises to the challenge with only a moment’s hesitation. He studies the map briefly before tracing a path from the coast.

  “I would follow the swamp on the right, avoiding hill marches when I could. I would attack the villages within sight on my path. When I reached the river here, I would follow it up. Southern towns are often on rivers, and this river looks large.” He swallows and looks at me. “King Marcus’ base is on the river.”

  I nod at him and turn to address the group at large.

  “Arthur is right. I’ve traveled those lands a number of times in the past, and last summer stayed in Lord Gethin’s villa on the coast, only a couple of miles from where the Saxons landed. There are a few ways the Saxons might go, but the path Arthur described is by far the most likely. If I may suggest a course of action?” Uther nods and I continue. “They’ll be moving slowly. Setting up camp, organizing raiding parties, moving inland—it will be a week or more before they come near Marcus’ base, which gives us a little time. If we move quickly, we can sweep around the hills here,” I push the map to the center of the table and point. The lords all lean in for a closer look. “Then we can catch them on their flank, hopefully without much forewarning.”

  “What of any scouts they might have?” A chieftain with a scraggly beard and loose, flowing lauvan asks.

  “We’ll send our own and kill them before they can scurry back to the Saxons,” Uther says. “Thank you, Merlin. That was most enlightening. Does anyone have objections to Merlin’s plan?” There’s a shaking of heads around the table. “Then assemble what men you have here tomorrow, and on the following morning we march south to beat back this plague of Saxons once again.”

  The nobles mill about for a few minutes longer to say their goodbyes and call for their horses. It will be a dark ride home, but the moon is bright and the sky clear. None live more than an hour’s ride from Uther’s villa. There will not be many men in this little army when we depart, but they will be tough fighters and will likely prove formidable against a simple raiding party.

  Arthur stays quiet at my side while I look over the map, and ruminate on the few months I spent climbing the low-lying hills of the region and swimming along the frigid coast with its stony beaches. I snap out of my contemplation and nudge Arthur with my shoulder.

  “Advising the war council now, are we? Why, it’s almost like you’ll be one of them someday.”

  Arthur flushes and tries not to smile. Then he looks at me, worried.

  “I hope I said the right thing. What if the plan doesn’t work?”

  “It’s exactly what I would have advised. Don’t worry. If it weren’t a sound plan, your father wouldn’t have agreed to it.”

  Uther joins us then, the last of the lords finally departed. He claps Arthur on the back.

  “So, Merlin, it looks like you’re teaching something to Arthur after all. We’ll make a warrior out of him yet.” He gazes fondly at Arthur, who smiles self-consciously under the attention. “Speaking of which, you’ll be coming with us, Arthur.”

  Arthur’s face lights up.

  “Really? Truly?”

  “Don’t get too excited,” Uther laughs. “You’ll be squiring for me. No battles yet for you, my boy.” He sighs. “Your time will come soon enough.”

  Arthur droops a little, but perks up when a thought occurs to him.

 
; “But I’ll be near, so I can watch the battle?”

  “We’ll see. If there is somewhere you can stay out of the way.”

  I can’t help smiling at Arthur’s excitement. He has heard battle stories of the invaders all of his life, and much of his education is centered on fighting and war strategy. Every year the Saxons and Angles that have settled in the east push farther and farther west, and even more arrive on the coast to take whatever they can carry, hampered only slightly by our defenses. Arthur wants to change that, and as his father’s son he is well-positioned to play a bigger role in the defenses if he so wishes.

  But first, he has to earn his way, and that includes squiring for his father. As a squire, he will take care of Uther’s armor and weapons, feed and saddle his horse, and prepare Uther for battle. It’s an important role, but for a boy itching to bloody his sword it is a weak substitute for the real thing.

  “The Saxons that landed, do you know their tribe?” I ask Uther.

  “No one has spoken to them, but they bear the mark of a yellow spear on their shields. I don’t care who they are—if they invade our lands, they deserve our wrath.”

  I suck in my breath. I know that sign.

  “The yellow spear is the mark of Aldwulf’s tribe. I spent last summer on the mainland and passed through his lands.” I did more than that—I played my harp for one of Aldwulf’s men for a month in exchange for my supper. Uther doesn’t need to know that, though. My wanderings take me many places, and that’s my business. I bear no allegiance to any lord or master, only ties of friendship. Many find that hard to understand, especially when it involves Saxons. The man I stayed with, Penda, was solemn, but fair and wise. The rest of Aldwulf’s men, as far as I could tell, were grim and pitiless. “Aldwulf leads a terrible people, cruel and hard. He will show your men no mercy, so be warned.”

  “Wise advice.” Uther looks grim.

  “Are you looking for another sword?”

  “Always.” He looks at me with narrowed eyes. “Are you offering?”