Three days later, they departed the cabin at dawn. Bobby had procured more suitable clothing for them all—simple but clean garments that wouldn't mark them immediately as refugees. He claimed to have traded with a passing merchant, though in truth he'd "borrowed" them from a clothesline in a distant village using teleportation.
"Remember," Bobby instructed as they walked, "at the fair, you're to observe more than speak. Listen to conversations. Watch who defers to whom. Note who carries weapons and how they wear them."
Art nodded seriously. She'd braided her growing hair, which softened her appearance somewhat, though she still insisted on wearing boy's clothing.
"What about me?" Elaine asked. "What's my role in this scheme?"
"You're her mother," Bobby said simply. "That's role enough. Your presence gives her legitimacy and protection—few will question a child accompanied by her parent."
Elaine raised an eyebrow. "And you? Who are you supposed to be?"
Bobby smiled thinly. "A traveling scholar who's taken interest in a promising pupil. Not unusual enough to raise suspicions, but respected enough to open doors."
They walked steadily through the day, stopping only briefly for food and rest. By nightfall, they'd covered impressive ground, camping beneath the stars rather than seeking shelter.
As Elaine slept, Art sat beside Bobby, watching the fire. "Tell me about the sword," she said quietly.
"What about it?"
"You said it chose me. How can a sword choose someone?"
Bobby considered his answer carefully. "Some objects accumulate... significance. Power. They become more than the metal and wood that form them."
"Magic?" Art asked skeptically.
"If you like that word," Bobby shrugged. "I prefer to think of it as potential. The sword recognized something in you—a potential to become something more than you are."
Art frowned thoughtfully. "Could anyone have pulled it from the stone if they tried hard enough?"
"No," Bobby said truthfully. He'd used telekinesis to lock it in place and release it only for her. "The sword was waiting for you specifically."
"How did you know to put it there? In that stone?"
Bobby smiled enigmatically. "I know many things."
Art rolled her eyes. "That's not an answer."
"No," he agreed. "It's not."
Despite her obvious frustration, Art's lips twitched toward a smile. She was growing accustomed to his cryptic responses. "Will you tell me more about what I'm supposed to become?"
"You're not 'supposed' to become anything," Bobby corrected. "You have potential to become something extraordinary, but the choice remains yours."
"But you said I'd unite Britain."
"I said you could. Whether you will depends on your decisions and actions."
Art picked up a stick, poking at the fire. "What if I fail?"
"Then you fail," Bobby said bluntly. "Failure is always possible."
"That's not very encouraging."
"Would you prefer comfortable lies?" Bobby asked. "Anyone who guarantees success is either a fool or a liar—often both. The path you're considering has never been walked by a woman in this land. It will be difficult. Dangerous. Many will oppose you simply because of your sex."
Art's jaw set stubbornly. "Then I'll prove them wrong."
"Good answer," Bobby approved. "Now sleep. We have another long day tomorrow."
By late afternoon the next day, they crested a hill to see their destination spread before them—a substantial village nestled in a river valley, nearly ten times the size of Art's former home. Even from a distance, they could see the fair had attracted a crowd. Colorful tents and stalls lined the central area, and the sounds of commerce and celebration drifted upward.
Art's eyes widened. "I've never seen so many people."
"This is nothing," Bobby said dismissively. "Barely a hamlet. The towns further south hold tens of thousands."
"Tens of thousands?" Art repeated incredulously. "How do they all eat?"
"Trade. Specialized labor. Taxation," Bobby replied. "Systems you'll need to understand if you're to rule effectively."
They descended toward the village, joining other travelers on the road. As they approached, the sounds grew louder—merchants hawking wares, musicians playing, children laughing and shouting.
The fair itself was a riot of activity and color. Stalls sold everything from simple pottery to finely worked metals. Livestock pens held bleating sheep and disgruntled pigs. A makeshift arena had been erected where two men were demonstrating swordplay to an appreciative crowd.
Art's head swiveled constantly, trying to absorb everything at once. Even Elaine seemed overwhelmed by the sensory assault after weeks in the forest's quiet.
"Stay close," Bobby instructed. "It would be easy to become separated."
They moved through the crowd, Bobby occasionally stopping to examine goods or listen to conversations. He kept Art nearby, quietly explaining significant observations.
"See that man? The one with the red cloak and three armed guards? That's a minor lord. Note how people clear a path for him without being asked."
Art watched attentively. "The guards don't look very alert."
"Good observation," Bobby approved. "They're for show, not protection. This area has been peaceful recently."
As they passed the weapon-smith's stall, Art paused, eyeing the gleaming blades with obvious interest.
"Your sword is better," Bobby told her quietly. "These are adequate, but mass-produced for quick sale."
"Could we get a smaller one?" Art asked hopefully. "One I could actually use until I grow stronger?"
Bobby considered the request. It wasn't unreasonable—the girl needed to practice with an appropriately sized weapon. "Perhaps. Let's see what else the fair offers first."
They continued their circuit, gathering information as much as examining goods. Bobby purchased food—fresh bread and roasted meat that made Art's eyes light up after weeks of simple fare.
As they ate, Bobby subtly directed Art's attention to different significant figures: a Christian priest arguing theology with a man who still honored the old gods; a merchant whose fine clothing hinted at connections to Frankish traders; a group of hard-faced men whose weapons and bearing marked them as mercenaries.
"The real power here isn't obvious," Bobby murmured. "See the older woman by the ale tent? The one with the keys at her belt? She's the village headwoman. More influential than the minor lord who struts about with his guards."
Art studied the woman thoughtfully. "How can you tell?"
"Watch how people approach her. They show deference, but not fear. They seek her counsel, not her favor. True authority doesn't need to announce itself."
As the afternoon progressed, they witnessed a disagreement between two merchants that nearly came to blows before the headwoman intervened, settling the dispute with a few quiet words.
"That," Bobby said, "is leadership. Not the ability to fight, but the ability to prevent fighting when it's unnecessary."
Art nodded, absorbing the lesson. "But sometimes fighting is necessary?"
"Often," Bobby admitted. "Which is why we'll continue your training with sword and spear. But remember—violence is a tool, not a solution."
They approached the swordplay demonstration, where a burly man was now challenging all comers to friendly matches using wooden practice swords. Several young men had already tried their luck, all ending up flat on their backs to the crowd's amusement.
"Could I..." Art began hesitantly.
"No," Bobby said flatly. "You're not ready."
"But—"
"This isn't about your sex," Bobby interrupted. "It's about skill. You've had two weeks of basic training. That man has likely been fighting for twenty years. You would lose, badly, and first impressions matter. When you eventually reveal yourself as a warrior, it must be from a position of strength."
Art's shoulders slumped, but she nodded reluctantly.
As the day began fading into evening, Bobby fulfilled his promise, purchasing a small, simple sword better suited to Art's size and strength. The weapon-smith raised an eyebrow at selling to a girl but accepted Bobby's coin without comment.
They secured lodging in the village's only inn—a single room with a straw mattress large enough for Elaine and Art, while Bobby claimed he would find accommodation elsewhere.
"Rest," he instructed. "Tomorrow we'll attend the second day of the fair. There will be contests and games that attract a different crowd—including, if I'm not mistaken, some who might become your first followers."
After ensuring they were settled, Bobby left the inn, wandering through the village as darkness fell. Lanterns and torches illuminated the continuing festivities, though the crowd had thinned as families with young children retired for the night.
In the village square, musicians played while couples danced. Bobby observed from the shadows, his enhanced vision allowing him to see clearly despite the dim light.
"You're not from around here," a voice said beside him.
Bobby turned to find the headwoman he'd pointed out earlier to Art. Up close, she was older than she'd appeared from a distance—perhaps fifty, with gray liberally streaking her dark hair.
"Few here are," Bobby replied. "That's the nature of a fair."
The woman studied him shrewdly. "True enough. But most visitors come to trade or celebrate. You seem to be... studying."
Bobby smiled thinly. "Perceptive."
"I wouldn't be headwoman if I wasn't." She extended a hand. "I'm Wulfhild."
"Merlin," Bobby offered, clasping her forearm in the traditional greeting.
"Unusual name."
"Unusual man," Bobby returned easily.
Wulfhild's eyes crinkled with amusement. "I don't doubt it. The girl with you—your daughter?"
"My student," Bobby corrected. "A promising mind in need of cultivation."
"Ah." Something in Wulfhild's expression suggested she understood more than Bobby had explicitly stated. "Not common, taking a girl as a student. Especially one dressed as a boy."
"I value intelligence over convention."
Wulfhild nodded approvingly. "As do I. It's made me few friends but many allies." She gestured toward a bench near the musicians. "Join me? I find strangers often have the most interesting perspectives."
Bobby accepted the invitation, recognizing a potential resource. As they talked, he carefully steered the conversation toward local politics—which lords held power, which settlements had suffered Saxon raids, which areas maintained Roman traditions.
Wulfhild proved remarkably forthcoming, perhaps because Bobby presented himself as a scholarly visitor with no stake in local power struggles.
"The real problem," she said after describing a particularly vicious blood-feud between neighboring villages, "is the fragmentation. Everyone thinks only of their own interests, their own grudges. Meanwhile, the Saxons grow bolder each season."
"Britain needs unity," Bobby observed.
Wulfhild snorted. "Britain needs a miracle. The old Roman ways are crumbling. The Christian priests squabble with each other as much as with the pagans. Every petty lord dreams of being high king but none has the strength or wisdom for it."
"What if someone emerged who could unite them?" Bobby asked casually. "Someone unexpected."
"I've lived too long to believe in saviors," Wulfhild said dryly. "Though I admit, these are the times that create legends." She gave Bobby a shrewd look. "Is that why you're really here? Seeking the makings of legend?"
Bobby smiled enigmatically. "Perhaps I'm helping to create one."
Wulfhild laughed. "Bold words from a traveling scholar." She stood, adjusting the keys at her belt. "Whatever your true purpose, Merlin, you're welcome at my fair. Just remember—legends are born in blood as often as glory."
As she walked away, Bobby reflected on her words. She wasn't wrong—the path he was setting Art upon would inevitably involve bloodshed. The question was whether the girl had the stomach for it when the time came.
The following day brought new activities to the fair. Athletic contests dominated the morning—wrestling, archery, foot races. Art watched with rapt attention, especially the archery competition.
"I want to learn that," she declared as a particularly skilled archer split his previous arrow.
"You will," Bobby promised. "A queen should be proficient with multiple weapons."
"Queen?" Art's eyes widened. "You never said anything about being queen."
"What did you think 'uniting Britain' meant?" Bobby asked dryly. "Someone must wear the crown."
Art fell silent, contemplating this new dimension of her potential future.
As midday approached, a different sort of contest was announced—one of riddles and poetry, to be judged by a visiting bard. Bobby nudged Art forward.
"Participate," he instructed. "This is a chance to demonstrate intelligence rather than strength."
"But I don't know any poems," Art protested.
"Then create one," Bobby said simply. "Speak from your heart about something that moves you."
Despite her obvious nervousness, Art joined the small group of contestants. Most were significantly older—young men seeking to impress sweethearts or gain the bard's approval.
When Art's turn came, she stood straight, her boy's clothing and short hair causing some confusion among the audience.
"I am Art of Britain," she began, voice initially wavering but growing stronger. "My poem is called 'The Sword.'"
Bobby listened attentively as Art delivered a simple but heartfelt verse about a blade waiting in stone, dreaming of the hand that would one day wield it. The metaphors were basic, the structure unsophisticated, but there was an undeniable power to her delivery that captured attention.
When she finished, the crowd applauded politely, though several exchanged confused glances at the unusual subject matter.
The bard, a gray-bearded man with kind eyes, nodded approvingly. "Well spoken, young... person. An unusual theme, but delivered with conviction."
Art didn't win the contest—that honor went to a young man whose elaborate love poem drew sighs from the women present—but she returned to Bobby's side with flushed cheeks and bright eyes.
"I spoke in front of everyone," she said, sounding amazed at her own daring.
"The first of many such instances," Bobby assured her. "Public speaking is an essential skill for leadership."
As the afternoon progressed, they witnessed more competitions, including a display of horsemanship that left Art breathless with admiration.
"I need to learn to ride," she declared. "A leader on horseback would command more respect than one on foot."
"Indeed," Bobby agreed, pleased by her reasoning. "We'll add horsemanship to your education."
The fair's final event was a storytelling contest, with the village's elders recounting tales of Britain's past glories and myths. Bobby paid particular attention to the stories involving ancient heroes and kings, noting which elements drew the strongest reactions from the crowd.
One tale especially captured Art's imagination—the story of a legendary sword that granted sovereignty to its rightful wielder.
"That's like my sword," she whispered excitedly to Bobby.
"Perhaps not coincidentally," Bobby murmured back, smiling slightly.
As they prepared to depart the next morning, Bobby led Art and Elaine to the village square one last time. The fair was ending, merchants packing their unsold goods, travelers bidding farewell to new acquaintances.
"What did you learn?" Bobby asked Art.
The girl considered seriously before answering. "People respond to different kinds of power. The lord commands fear because of his guards. The headwoman commands respect because of her wisdom. The bard commands attention because of his stories."
"Excellent observations," Bobby approved. "And what kind of power will you cultivate?"
Art's brow furrowed thoughtfully. "All of them, if I can. But mostly... I think the best power comes from giving people hope."
Bobby raised an eyebrow, genuinely impressed. "Astute. Hope is indeed powerful—though dangerous if unfulfilled."
"Then I'll have to fulfill it," Art said simply.
As they left the village, Bobby noticed a small group of young people following at a distance—three boys and a girl, all around Art's age or slightly older. They maintained their pursuit for nearly a mile beyond the village boundaries.
Bobby intentionally slowed their pace, allowing the followers to catch up.
"You have admirers," he told Art quietly, inclining his head toward the approaching youths.
Art looked startled, then suspicious. "Why would anyone admire me?"
"Your poem, perhaps," Bobby suggested. "Or your unusual appearance and demeanor. Novelty attracts attention, especially among the young and restless."
The leader of the small group, a gangly boy of perhaps fourteen with a shock of red hair, stepped forward somewhat nervously.
"Excuse me," he called. "Are you the one they call Art? Who spoke of the sword in stone?"
Art glanced at Bobby, who nodded encouragingly.
"I am," she confirmed, straightening her posture instinctively.
The redheaded boy exchanged looks with his companions before continuing. "We... we wanted to know if it was true. If there really is such a sword."
"Why do you ask?" Bobby interjected smoothly.
The boy's companion, a stocky youth with close-cropped dark hair, spoke up. "Because if it is, we want to see it. Maybe... maybe even follow whoever wields it."
Bobby suppressed a smile. The first potential followers, drawn by nothing more than a poem and the promise of adventure. Youth was ever thus—eager for purpose and meaning beyond the mundane existence of village life.
"The sword exists," Art said carefully. "I've drawn it from stone. But why would you want to follow me? You don't even know me."
The lone girl in the group, perhaps thirteen with practical braids and a determined expression, stepped forward. "Because there's nothing for us in the village. Marten here is a blacksmith's apprentice who gets beaten daily. Tuck's father wants to marry him to a girl three villages over who he's never met. Bran's family died in a Saxon raid last winter, and he lives on charity." She lifted her chin. "And I'm Gwen. They want me to be a healer's assistant, but I'd rather learn to fight."
Bobby studied the group with newfound interest. Outcasts and misfits—perfect raw material for a revolutionary movement.
"Fighting isn't glorious," he said, testing them. "It's bloody, painful work that often ends in death."
"Better to die for something than live for nothing," the girl—Gwen—replied firmly.
Bobby glanced at Art, curious how she would handle this unexpected development. The girl looked momentarily overwhelmed before composure settled over her features.
"I can't promise glory or riches," Art said carefully. "I'm still learning myself. But I can promise purpose. I'm going to change Britain—make it stronger against those who would conquer us. If that's a cause you want to join, you're welcome."
The four youths exchanged excited glances, clearly not having expected such ready acceptance.
"What about him?" the stocky boy—Tuck—asked, gesturing toward Bobby. "Is he your father?"
"My teacher," Art corrected. "Merlin. He's teaching me how to lead."
The name caused a stir among the youths. "Merlin? Like in the old stories?" Marten asked, eyes wide.
"Stories often contain kernels of truth," Bobby said enigmatically, enjoying their reaction. The human tendency to attach significance to names amused him—as if a title somehow conferred special powers.
"What happens now?" Bran asked, the quietest of the group. "Do we... go with you?"
Bobby looked to Elaine, who had been watching the exchange with a mix of concern and resignation. "That depends partly on Art's mother," he said. "Adding four more mouths to feed is no small matter."
Elaine sighed. "It seems my daughter's path is set, with or without my approval." She eyed the youths skeptically. "Can any of you hunt? Cook? Make yourself useful beyond following starry-eyed dreams?"
All four immediately began listing skills and promising hard work. Bobby noted with approval that each appeared to have practical abilities that could benefit their growing band—Marten's blacksmithing knowledge, Tuck's experience with animal husbandry, Bran's hunting skills, and Gwen's knowledge of medicinal plants.
"Very well," Elaine relented. "But you follow my rules as well as my daughter's. I won't have undisciplined children running wild."
With that settled, their small group suddenly doubled in size. Bobby watched with distant amusement as the youths peppered Art with questions about the sword and her plans. She handled them with surprising poise, neither boasting nor diminishing her accomplishments.
As they walked, Bobby fell into step beside Elaine.
"Your daughter adapts quickly to leadership," he observed.
Elaine watched Art with the newcomers, a complicated emotion crossing her face. "She's always drawn others to her, even as a small child. Her father said she had an old soul." She glanced at Bobby. "I didn't expect this to happen so quickly."
"Movements begin with small steps," Bobby said. "Four followers today. Perhaps fourteen next month. A hundred by year's end."
"And then?" Elaine asked quietly.
Bobby smiled. "Then we see if your daughter truly has the makings of a queen."