Page 4 of Touched By Maen Llia
Cuno stepped forward, moving into the space between Lucan and Prince Merlin, on Marcus’ left.
“Well met, Marcus of the Summer Country.”
“Prince Merlin,” Marcus replied and nodded his head, for he could not bow, while upon his horse.
The first time he had come to the wizard had been on his first night in the fort, when he and a dozen others from Corneus had been presented to King Arthur by Bedivere himself. Merlin had stood two paces back and to one side of the King. Marcus had been unable to tear his gaze away from Arthur. He’d barely noticed the man that some said should have been the high king of England after Ambrosius, and not Uther, Ambrosius’ brother.
Since then, though, Marcus had noticed what he had not seen before. Merlin was far older than he had realized. His hair was a proper Celtic black, but shot with fine white. That alone was not a reliable marker of age, for Marcus knew of men near his own age who had lost most of their hair already, or most of it was grey already. Men aged differently, that was all.
It was the fine creases in Merlin’s face that spoke of his true age, and the deep lines at the corners of his eyes. The flesh beneath his chin was soft, too—but it was not flabby. Nor were his shoulders stooped, or his body frail. Merlin was taller than Marcus, who was considered a tall man himself. Merlin was thin, though, but then he’d never a day in his life picked up a sword.
Whenever Merlin’s black eyed-gaze settled upon him, Marcus noticed that his eyes had not aged in the slightest. There was humour and youthful exuberance in them. Sometimes, there was a faint trace of impatience, for Merlin did not suffer fools with great patience. And sometimes, there was a deep thoughtfulness in his gaze that made Marcus wonder what he was thinking about, although he had not yet had the courage to ever ask Merlin what he was thinking when he saw that light in his eyes.
“Marcus Yorath,” Merlin said. “We have been discussing your name. Your father is not the Idris who is now King of Strathclyde, I presume?”
“My father was naught but a simple man at arms, my lord.”
“Was?”
“He died at Badon.”
“Ah. Then he was a hero.”
“No, my lord.”
“All who died at the Battle of Mount Badon were heroes,” Merlin corrected him. “For they fought without hope and turned the fate of Britain. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise.”
Marcus tried to hide the smile that wanted to form. He fell a swell of pride at Merlin’s pronouncement. “I will remember that. Thank you.”
But Merlin was not finished with him yet. The wizard stirred in his saddle. He was riding an older gelding, Marcus realized, not a restless warhorse at all. Beyond the roan’s neck, Marcus saw Bedivere’s black stallion.
“You were given a Roman name, Marcus?” Merlin asked.
“My father considered himself a Roman, my lord. Or he tried to be a good Roman, at least. My mother, Sian, could count her ancestors back to the Iceni. She named me Marc Iowerth.”
“And your father shifted it to the Roman rendering?” Merlin guessed.
Marcus grinned. “Yes, my lord.”
“And you kept that rendering?”
“I suppose…it is a habit, now,” Marcus admitted.
“Then you do not deem yourself Roman?”
“I…I do not think I have considered it before,” Marcus admitted.
Merlin’s gaze roved over him. “Your hair is not cut short and brushed forward, the way a Roman would wear it. Yet you use a Roman fibula to hold your cloak at your shoulder, which is black, and not a centurion’s red. The carvings on your armor, which is also black, not brown, are the stylized markings of a language of Britain so old that not even I can read it. Your boots are fastened Roman style, but your sword is long. Tell me, Marcus of the Summer Country, whenwillyou decide who you are?”
Marcus realized he was squeezing the hilt of his sword with his spare hand, and hastily released it. “I want only to serve Arthur, my lord.” His voice emerged strained.
“Arthur, the High King of Britain, who tossed what is left of Roman rule out of his hall and told them to never return,” Merlin pointed out.
Beside Merlin, Bedivere nudged his horse forward, so he could lean and look at Marcus. His face was expressionless. He did not seem to mind that Merlin was attacking one of his own men. Lucan did not speak, either.
Marcus drew in a slow breath, reaching for calm. His heart pounded. He could hear it in his ears and mind, feel it in his temples. “You would toss me from Camelot, too? Because my name offends you?”
“A name is just a name,” Merlin said. “Until meaning is assigned to it. Tell me why you want to serve Arthur.”
