“She won’t tell, though. Not ever.”
“Well, it’s not like anyone would believe her without the pictures.” I wave them in the air and watch Alejandro’s eyes track the envelope. I should destroy them, but I don’t want to lose that picture of Josephine. Perhaps I’ll tuck the photos in my sketchbook. “And now they’re mine. So, that solves that loose end.”
“Yes, señor. They are yours now. And I know grandfather loved you like a brother, so if there is anything you need, you only have to ask.” Alejandro’s lauvan twitch nervously but then straighten out with determination. He’s afraid of what I might ask of him, but courageous enough to offer anyway. I’m starting to like him. He seems to have the Fernandez backbone.
“Thank you, Alejandro. I’ll keep that in mind.” I shove the envelope into the plastic bag with Braulio’s notes. “But for future reference, call me Merlo. ‘Señor’ makes me feel ancient.”
“But Merlo, you are ancient.”
I raise my eyebrow and let out a bark of laughter.
“Cheeky bastard. That’s your grandfather in you.”
Alejandro smiles then, and as he does so his eyes light up with the adventurous twinkle that Braulio always had. Damn. I’m going to miss Braulio.
“Merlo? Grandfather left me money in his will. I’m going to use some of it to travel. Can I—could I—is it too much to ask if I can visit you in Vancouver?”
“Really? We’ve just established that I’m immortal with otherworldly powers, and you want to stay as a houseguest?”
Alejandro fidgets and backtracks.
“No, I understand you wouldn’t want—it’s fine, I just thought I’d ask—”
I look at him, bemused.
“Well, of course you can stay. I simply don’t understand why you’re all right with this.”
“Grandfather trusted you. That’s good enough for me,” Alejandro says clearly without his previous hesitancy.
So much trust, unearned in this generation. I don’t understand Alejandro yet but I’m starting to respect him. He’s an odd mix of diffidence and bravery, of unknown and familiar. I’m curious to know him better.
I dig out my wallet and give him my card. It only has my name and phone number on it, all the better to remain anonymous.
“Here. Call me when you know you’re coming.”
“Are you free this Saturday? I may have already booked my ticket. I can change it, of course.”
“Wow. You really felt comfortable about me, didn’t you? Saturday it is.”
Alejandro takes the card and frowns when he reads the name.
“Merry Lie-tone,” he pronounces slowly. “Is that your name now?”
“Merry Lytton,” I correct him. “And yes, I have to change it every so often so I can’t be tracked.” I check my watch. “I should go—my plane leaves in a few hours.”
“Of course. I will call a taxi.” Alejandro turns to go, then looks back. “Thank you, Merlo, for letting me visit.”
I shrug and smile.
“Don’t expect anything too exciting. I’m a simple university instructor in a one-bedroom apartment, nothing glamorous these days.”
He smiles back and exits, leaving me a little windblown with the developments of the past half-hour. Strangely enough, a single thread of his dark-green lauvan is connected to my center. The color is strongest near my body and fades to transparency an arm-span away, as all connections do. That was oddly quick. I hardly know him. I reflect briefly, then smack my forehead with my palm.
“Braulio, you old dog. This was your plan all along.” Braulio knew I hadn’t told anyone else about my past and he didn’t trust me to take care of it myself. So, in his typical take-charge fashion, he set up two new acolytes to take his place. Time will tell whether Alejandro is a worthy successor of his grandfather. I find myself eager to know him better, to talk about what I can’t with anyone else, and to share my experiences with someone who won’t shy away.
CHAPTER IV
Dreaming
Braulio puffs up the slope, his face red and sweaty.
“What I do for you, Merlo.”
“You’re a true friend,” I say absently and push on to the summit of the small hill we are attempting to crest. “But so am I. Look at this as a wonderful opportunity to get fit.”
“Fit?” Braulio huffs. “I’m in fine form. As fit as the day I met you.”
“Then pick up the pace. You know what the problem is? Juliana feeds you too well. Ever since you married her, your belt size has increased steadily.”
A stick wallops me on the back of my calves and I grin. Teasing Braulio is always easy, especially about his looks. In truth, he’s still a fine specimen at forty. He hasn’t lost his youthful vigor and he’s vain enough to stay trim.
“Perhaps if I had immortality, I too could stay young forever,” he says with a grumble. “I’ve had to start watching what I eat.” This last is said in a high-pitched nag, which I presume is in imitation of his wife. “Imagine that.”
I don’t answer, because we’ve reached the top of the hill. A glorious vista spreads before us of jagged snowy peaks surrounding an intensely blue lake. A ribbon of silvery brown descends from a mountain and trails around the perimeter of the lake before it vanishes through a cleft between two peaks.
“There it is,” I say with satisfaction. We’ve hiked all day to find this lauvan cable. “It’s right where I expected it to be.” I pull out a piece of thick paper from my backpack and trace the path of the cable over the topography of my map.
“Have you given much thought to the purpose of the lauvan cables?” Braulio doesn’t wait for a reply. “I’m sure they have great importance in the spirit plane. Far too many cultures speak of them. I wonder if they act as a conduit, or a way elementals can interact with the physical plane. Are you listening, Merlo?”
“Not really. You were jabbering on about spirits again.”
“You’ll see, one day,” Braulio says darkly. “I’m entirely certain I’m correct, and one day you’ll know I’m right.”
***
It’s a long road from Powys, not all of it smoothed by frequent traffic. Arthur’s villa is less than an hour’s ride from here and I am eager for a hot meal and a warm fire. Drizzling rain hasn’t penetrated my cloak, but I am damp from the moisture-laden air nonetheless.
A rider canters toward me over a hill from the direction of the villa. It’s a fast pace—unexpected for long-distance travel—and I wonder where he goes in such a hurry. Perhaps he carries important news.
The traveler approaches and I recognize Lancelot, one of Arthur’s warriors. He’s the son of a local lord and was fostered across the sea for a time, where he learned Saxon and grew into a fearsome swordsman.
He’s too pompous for my liking but his dearth of humor makes him easy to tease, which redeems him in my eyes. I hail him and he slows his horse. His face is wary.
“Lancelot. I didn’t expect to see you on the road. Didn’t Arthur charge you to keep the villa and his wife safe while he is in the east?”
Lancelot’s lauvan flinch at the mention of Guinevere but he gives no other sign.
“Yes, while my leg healed. But Arthur has returned and my wound is much better. He gave me an important message to give to Pellinore.”
“What is it?”
“You’d best speak to him about it,” he says, and kicks his horse into a trot. “I’ve no time to lose. Farewell, Merlin.” He encourages his horse into a canter and disappears down the road.
That’s strange. I can think of no reason to contact Pellinore. I wonder how the most recent campaign went while I was stuck negotiating in the north. I push my own horse into a trot, eager to discover the meaning of Lancelot’s haste.
I approach the villa to find it in an uproar. Horse boys and kitchen slaves huddle together, chattering and gesticulating excitedly. Indecipherable shouting travels through the open villa door, through which a maid runs out to join a nearby group. I stop her.
“Wait, girl. What’s happening here?”
“My lord Merlin!” Her eyes are wide—she wasn’t expecting me. “Thank goodness you’re here. My lady has locked herself in her chamber and won’t open the door for anyone.”
That’s strange news. In the few months I’ve known her, Guinevere has always struck me as a sweet, mild-mannered woman. What the rest of the house sees as reserved and cold, I see as shy and painfully aware of her lack of Brythonic language. Perhaps she has more fire than I was aware of.
“That’s ridiculous,” I say firmly, then raise my voice. “And did Arthur give you all permission to congregate here like gossiping old women? Return to your duties at once.”
They scurry in all directions and leave me to stride through the door toward Guinevere’s chamber. Arthur sits, slumped, against the wall with head in hands. He looks up at the sound of my boots on the tiles. His face is awash in misery, tempered only slightly by relief at my presence.
“Merlin. You’re here.”
I squat to speak to Arthur more closely.
“Tell me what happened.”
Arthur closes his eyes and holds the bridge of his nose as if his fingers are the only thing that keep him from disintegrating.
“I came home from the campaign this morning—decisive victory, by the way—and went immediately to greet my wife.” This final word is said with more vehemence than I am used to hearing from Arthur. “Lancelot stumbled out in a panic as I approached, without a shirt and holding up his trousers. He was obviously trying to escape when he heard our horses. I was in shock, at first, but then I grew angry. So, so angry.” He leans against the wall with his eyes still closed. “I couldn’t move for a moment—should I chase after Lancelot or confront Guinevere?—but while I dithered, Guinevere ran to the door and slammed it shut. Lancelot got away and I’ve been outside this door ever since.”
He finally opens his eyes and stares at me with pain. “What do I do, Merlin? How did this happen?”
I stand.
“Nothing will get sorted when the two of you are on opposite sides of a door. I assume you aren’t planning any violent retribution on Guinevere, otherwise you would have broken down the door already.”
“No, of course not. She won’t open the door, though.”
“She won’t open it for you, you mean. Stand back for a moment.” Arthur gets up and walks down the hall to lean against a pillar, facing the central courtyard. I rap smartly on the door and say in Saxon, her native tongue, “Guinevere, it’s Merlin. May I come in?”
There is a moment’s pause, then there is the sound of furniture sliding across the floor and the door opens a crack. Guinevere’s frightened eye peers out to confirm my identity, then she flings open the door for me to enter. She swiftly pushes a wooden trunk back against the door once I’m in.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” she bursts forth in rapid Saxon. “It’s just what I’ve been praying for. You’re the only one I can talk to.” She paces back and forth across the room like a caged wolf, then stops to look me in the eye. “Is Arthur furious? I didn’t dare open the door to his shouting. I didn’t understand a word, and I don’t want to be beaten. But I can’t make him see—how can I explain when I don’t speak Brythonic?” She wrings her hands feverishly.
“Guinevere.” I take her shoulders and steer her to sit on the unmade bed, whose blankets are strewn haphazardly across the foot. “Calm yourself, and tell me what happened. You slept with Lancelot? Was it the first time?”
“The second,” she murmurs to the floor. “He’s been teaching me Brythonic while you were away. Then with Arthur gone, he was very attentive, and kind. And he was the only one with whom I could have a real conversation.” She rubs her feet together like a penitent child, which isn’t far from the truth. I sigh.
“You didn’t flee with Lancelot today. Why?”
She meets my eyes with outraged pride. Not such a child, then.
“I would never do that. Arthur is my husband, and my people depend on me for the peace to hold. I’ve done wrong, and now it’s up to me to try and make things right.”
“Many men would kill their adulterous wife,” I say in a detached tone. To my surprise, Guinevere lifts her chin and answers in a strong voice.
“I will face the consequence of my actions.”
I regard her for a moment, this proud daughter of a Saxon king. She gazes back, undeterred.
“As it happens, Arthur has no desire to hurt you. I gather he’s more bewildered than angry, and he’s not sure what to do. Let’s bring him in and I can translate.”
Guinevere fidgets with her fingers, but nods. I open the door. Arthur leans against a pillar, looking drained.
“Arthur, come speak with Guinevere,” I say in Brythonic. “She wants to explain herself. I’ll act as translator.”
“Should I, Merlin? Is there anything she can say that will help?”
I shake my head.
“I’m the last person to dole out marriage advice, but I think you need to hear her out. Come in.”
Arthur rights himself as if his shoulders weigh far more than they should, and moves slowly into Guinevere’s chamber. Guinevere stands by the bedpost, gripping the wood with white fingers.
“My lord, I am so sorry.” She pauses for my translation. “I betrayed you for a moment’s respite from my solitude. I will make any amends you desire, anything at all. But for the sake of both our peoples, please let me try again to be a good wife to you.”
Arthur looks into Guinevere’s eyes until I stop speaking, then he moves his gaze to the window while his jaw works. There is a long silence.
“I too want peace.” Arthur’s voice is hoarse. “As for amends, you will not see Lancelot alone again. And if solitude is the problem, you will continue your Brythonic lessons with Merlin, as often as he can spare the time.”
Arthur turns abruptly and leaves the room. Guinevere sinks onto the bed and covers her face with her hands. I squeeze her shoulder then follow Arthur down the corridor until he enters his own chamber.
“I think that was wise, Arthur. Difficult, but wise.”
He throws himself into a chair and groans.
“I’ve only just won over the key warlords with my battle strategies. How will they respect a cuckold? And how can I ever trust Guinevere again?”
“Did you trust her before? Trust must be earned over time. You need to know your wife better first. And for that, I recommend you learn some Saxon from me.”
“I don’t feel that I should be the one to put in the effort after Guinevere’s actions.”
“Then you will never have a successful marriage,” I say sharply. “Give and get, push and pull. You get out what you put in.”
“Are you saying it’s my fault Guinevere slept with Lancelot?” Arthur says hotly.
“In some part, yes. You left your new wife alone and friendless in a strange land, among people who speak a foreign tongue. Small wonder she turned elsewhere for solace, especially since she hardly knew you at all.”
Arthur’s shoulders droop and he rubs his face in his hands. I continue in a softer tone.
“Don’t misunderstand me—Guinevere is not blameless. But give her a second chance, and she might become the friend, lover, and ally you hope for. As for the warlords, let me help. They want peace as much as you do—they’ll support you once they understand your position. One last thing. What do you want to do about Lancelot?”
Arthur’s face hardens.
“I want to slide my sword deep into his gut, and let him writhe in agony until he dies.”
“Right. Well, I’ll back you in whatever you want to do.” Privately, I wonder if Arthur would get the chance. He’s an accomplished fighter with passionate vengeance on his side, but Lancelot is almost unparalleled on the battlefield.
The light of anger dies in Arthur’s eyes, and he looks older and tired.
“I can’t do that. He’s too valuable to lose. We’ll have to send word that I forgive him, a
sk him back.”
“How can you be so fair-minded? The man rutted your wife.”
Arthur’s face spasms.
“It doesn’t matter. We need him. I can’t afford to let my personal grievances get in the way of our victories. But he will be posted in the furthest reaches of Gwent, far from here. I don’t need to see his treacherous face more often than I must.”
CHAPTER V
I finish the last pages of Braulio’s notebook the morning after I arrive home from San Jose, the hot sun streaming in my window. It’s truly fascinating, especially since I now know the information is of crucial importance rather than the cryptic ramblings of an obsessed man. Braulio spent years researching, and it shows. Everything is meticulously referenced and the conclusions drawn are considered and reasonable.
But when I put the book down on my coffee table, I’m not sure how to use the information. Everything is so theoretical and I can’t imagine how to apply my new knowledge. Still, anything I can learn about the spirit world is better than the scant nothing I know now.
Perhaps I’ll text Jen, let her know I’m back. I pull out my phone. Normally I’d call, but it’s early. My desire for connection shouldn’t supersede Jen’s sleep.
I’m back. Lunch soon? How is loverboy?
The phone buzzes seconds later. Jen is up.
Good to hear. If you mean CECIL, he’s fine. Coming on strong, though. Too strong?
Hmm, I wonder what that means. Another buzz shakes my phone.
Lunch on Friday? Text me later.
Deal.
So, Cecil’s lauvan antics are translating into real-world actions. I wonder what he did. Jen didn’t seem interested enough to tolerate too much pushing, but we’ll see. Cecil bears watching.
***
Dr. Dilleck stands when I enter her office, until I take a seat on the couch opposite her.
“Good morning, Merry. How are you today?”
She looks tired. There is a fine sheen of navy-blue lauvan over her eyes, which she’s had ever since our first meeting. It’s a common feature and generally indicates self-deceit. Often, it’s a philandering spouse that the significant other doesn’t want to know about. A glance at Dr. Dilleck’s hand reveals a bare ring finger. No husband, then. Still, I’d bet that whatever she’s trying to hide from herself is what’s keeping her up at night, especially since the lauvan over her eyes appear to be thinner than before. Something is coming to a head. Perhaps I should offer my shrink skills to her in exchange. A therapy circle, as it were.
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