by Manda Scott
The race dissolved into chaos. Men flung themselves belly down on the bank, reaching out across the water. Dubornos’s friends shouted his name, achieving nothing. In the jumble of moving bodies, Bán saw a gilded head on the far bank rise and fall out of sight. Caradoc, true to his reputation, had chosen action instead of words. He was naked already and greased against the cold. Sleek as an otter, he dived. Breaca was a heartbeat behind him. Bán was pushed backwards as she dismounted. Her belt and tunic were thrust up into his hands. She said, “Don’t let the mare follow me,” and then she, too, dived in.
“Breaca, no!” Bán grabbed for the reins. The grey fought him, plunging for the bank. She had been trained to follow her rider and did not understand, or did not care, that to do so would kill her. The boy pulled her head round to her flank, sawing viciously on the bit, cursing. Blood flecked the spit that foamed from a mouth that had never known pain. He kept his grip and forced her head away from the river. Men jostled around him, still shouting. A dark head forged through them and stopped at his knee.
“Does it narrow anywhere else?”
It was said in Gaulish, too fast. The language swept past him. He gaped.
“The river’s too strong.” The Roman spoke again. “They’re under. We’re going to lose them. Does it narrow anywhere else?”
“Just above the sacred pool. They must not go in. It is death.” He could have wished his language better.
“Then we ride.” The man was a horseman before anything else. He could mount at the run, without help. Bán was pushed forward on the withers, as a child would be. Stronger hands than his took up the reins. The grey fought and met a grip that brooked no argument. She struck out once and settled. A foreign voice, full of humour, said, “Show me the way.”
The ride came from Bán’s worst nightmares; his ears were filled with the noise of the river, his mind with the echo of Breaca’s voice screaming his name, he saw her hair in every moon-cursed glint of the river. In his ear, the Roman said, “Is she doing this because her warrior’s oath would not let her race against Caradoc and she must find another way to test herself?”
It was what Bán had feared most since she plunged into the water. He said, “No. She would do it anyway. They think the same, those two,” and realized that it was true.
“Still, it may let them decide who is best without having to die for it.”
“We can pray so.” And he did, because that, too, was true.
They came to the bend in the track, where it entered the woods. The Roman pulled the horse to a halt. “Must we go through the trees? It will be slow.”
“No. There is another way. Very difficult.”
And very dangerous. He did not say that. They turned hard left and pushed the mare down a muddy slope and into the marsh on the far side. She slid and staggered and plunged through, hock deep, fighting the sucking bog as gamely as she had earlier fought the bit. They urged her on with voice and heels and, once, the flat of an open palm. On the far side, they pushed her harder. She had a great heart but she had run doubly laden for a long time now and she was tiring. Bán felt her falter and spoke to her in the voice Breaca had used, asking for more. At the back of his mind he remembered that she was pregnant and that the foal was promised to Airmid—if it lived, if it were not dropped early, if Airmid were still here to see it and had not already left for Mona by the time it was born.
It did not seem to him likely that all those things would happen. With increasing despair, he offered a prayer to Nemain for the life of an unborn foal because it seemed more likely to be answered than any prayer for his sister who was in the water that would soon fill the god’s pool. The mare heard his voice and found a way to run harder. The man at his back leaned forward to slacken the reins. Bán pressed his face to the streaming mane and prayed for speed. Beside him, the river roared.
“Give me your belt. And the reins.”
They pulled to a halt on the flat ground at the head of the waterfall. The mare stopped, spent. The Roman dismounted at the run and ran onto the rocks that overlooked it, assessing the flow of the water and the cleft that funnelled the power of it over the drop and into the pool. Bán slid to the ground and felt his legs crumple. The foreigner caught him. “I need your belt,” he said again.
Bán stripped off his belt. It was a good one, made for a warrior. The Roman bound it round his own waist; his own was mere string. Holding the mare, they unfastened the reins and made of them a rope, two spear lengths long.
“We can stop them here, do you see?” The man pointed. Below them, the rock of the riverbank pinched together to narrow the flow. Water poured through the cleft, creaming white. Bán said, “You mustn’t go into the pool.”
“I know. Caradoc told me before we raced.” The man knotted the free end of the reins through the belt and tied the other end firmly in the girth of the mare. “Keep the horse there. If she does not come forward and the reins do not break, we are safe.” He smiled, brilliantly. His teeth flashed as white as the water. “Can you do that?”
Bán’s heart lurched. He felt sick. He looked up into steady brown eyes. They did not seem to him reckless, as Breaca’s could be, or bitter, as Dubornos’s certainly were. He said again, because he had clearly not been understood the first time, “The dreamers will kill you if you enter the pool.”
“I know.”
“They may kill you anyway.”
“I know. And I may drown. The gods will see to it, mine as well as yours. If the reins hold and you keep the mare still, it may be that we will all live. Think of your sister and pray to whoever you think will listen.”
The man did not dive. He eased himself into the river, feeling his way with his feet. The weight of the water pressed him flat to the rock, foaming as it coursed around his chest and arms. He found a ledge he could stand on and edged sideways until he reached the gap. The leather rope stretched taut between man and horse. Bán ground his heels into the earth and put his back against the mare’s chest. He spoke to her, explaining what they were doing, buoying her spirits at the expense of his own. The man looked up. His breathing was short, crushed by the weight of water. “Tell me if you see them.”
“I will.” He peered into the darkness. A cloud slid over the moon, so that her light spread only from the edges, as sharp silver streaks. He thought it an omen and prayed for the cloud to move.
“Bán!”
He thought it was Breaca and turned too fast. The mare took a step forward to ease the pressure on her girth and the Roman swore, viciously. The boy pushed her back and looked round. Airmid stood at his side.
“Where is she?” Her eyes were terrible. He had never seen her truly angry. She was beyond that now, in the place where the gods spoke and she answered. He found it a wonder that Breaca could ever have argued against her.
“In the water. Dubornos fell in. Caradoc went in to rescue him and Breaca after. They were swept away.”
“What are you doing?” His mother was there behind Airmid, and Luain mac Calma. Curved knives gleamed dully at their belts. He did not want to think about the implications of that. Efnís hung back, an unwilling accomplice.
“The Roman is there.” He showed her the man in the water. “He is going to—” He broke off. A gilded head showed above the water, soaked to darkness as it had been on the headland but still lighter than any others. “Now!” He yelled it over the noise of the water. “Now! They’re here! A spear’s cast. Less—”
He threw his weight back against the mare’s chest and promised her death if she failed him. In truth he had seen only Caradoc. The warrior was battling the current, trying for the bank and failing. He swam with only one arm; the other was broken, or weighed under. Beyond him, towards the centre, a figure rose up. Bán saw fox-red hair, streaming water and an arm thrown high, as one drowning and calling for help.
“Breaca!”
His voice was lost in the surge of the river. Airmid’s, higher and more piercing, rose above it.
Both
were too late. The arm disappeared. For a moment, the red hair spread wide on the flowing current, then it dipped beneath the surface and was gone.
The water was cold, like liquid ice, and the power of it shocking. The first dive took her under, pressing her down until the breath burned in her lungs and bright lights flashed before her eyes. The gods did not come to her as they had in the dream of the shipwreck, but her father spoke in the voice of her childhood, teaching her to swim, reminding her not to fight against a current this fast, to let Nemain of the water lift her. She kicked, pushing up for the moon.
She broke the surface a long way downstream. The riverbank was deserted. Men called her name, distantly. It was impossible to see anything but water. She kicked up again, rising higher, and looked around. A flash of pale flesh spun past. She grabbed for it and hauled in. It twitched, pulling against her. A shock of gold-straw hair surfaced beside her, and the smooth skin of a youth, streaming wet. Grey eyes opened wide and recognized her. Caradoc spat water and fought for breath. “Not me. We can’t…rescue each other. Not…the point.” Absurdly, he grinned.
The current dragged them round a bend. Letting him go, she struck out sideways. The bank was within reach. Caradoc swam with her, strongly. His face emerged again, close to hers.
“Where is he? Where’s Dubornos?” She had to shout it, over the noise of the water.
“… don’t know. Can he swim?”
“I think so. Look out!” A branch swept past, striking them both. A numbing pain shot up her arm. She flailed, fighting to keep her head free. The current pulled her back into midstream. The bank was lost. “Caradoc!”
“Here…”
A hand flashed closer to the bank. Beyond it, a paler face broke the surface.
“Dubornos!”
She threw herself back against the flow. The limp body smashed into her, driving the breath from her lungs. She grabbed for it without thought, dragging at hair and flesh alike. Her fingers scored his skin. His head came free of the surface. She shook him by his hair. “Wake up, fool. Swim!” He made a choking noise and swore, pulling away from her. She released his head and kept hold of his arm. The water spun them together, like lovers.
“He’s alive.” She called it out, in case Caradoc was near.
“Good…” His voice came from behind her. His arm swept past hers and grabbed Dubornos and for a moment they both held the drowning youth, a trophy, evenly caught. Their eyes met and she felt a bubble of laughter that was swept away by the water before the current snatched at them afresh and Dubornos was torn from her grip.
Caradoc caught him as he spun away. They were dragged under and emerged further away, still together. His voice carried back to her. “…get him out…mustn’t go into the pool.”
She had forgotten the pool. Terror impaled her soul. Not for herself, but for the deaths piled upon deaths that Airmid had dreamed would happen should a body enter the god’s domain. It had been her dream of last night and they had argued in the wake of it, because it was unthinkable that anyone should fall into the pool and it was easier to argue over that than the other things that came between them. She would have wept now, had she the breath for it. She tried to see where she was but the crushing water held her down. Cold and the constant battering drained her strength. Her mind demanded action and her body replied late and poorly. Her limbs were of lead, worked too often; they folded and would not unfold. She kicked herself upwards to look ahead and found she was no longer alone. People gathered on the bank. She saw the grey battle mare and was grateful; Bán had ridden her well. She saw Airmid in silhouette against the moon and her heart bled. She saw the white creaming foam of the waterfall’s head, closer than she had thought possible. In the dream a man’s body had been swept into the pool and Nemain’s wrath fell on them for generations. It must not happen. Rising high above the surface, Breaca took a breath, doubled over and dived for the second time.
The water was her friend. It understood the meaning of sacrifice. For all time, her people had known that. Her lungs did not hurt. The current was warm now, as if in summer; the threads and strands of it wove around her, cushioning her from hurt. The power of it filled her, narrowing into a spearhead as it drove towards the cleft in the rocks. She felt no fear now, at the end. The water drummed an echo of her heart. She heard her mother’s voice, singing. She spread her arms wide, to catch the edges of the rock and not be swept through. Her body slammed, crushingly, into a wall where the cleft should have been, driving the last breath from her lungs. The world, already black, shattered into crimson, emblazoned with a thousand stars. Spinning, she fought for the rock, to hold it. Her knuckles smashed on stone. She wedged her arm against it and spread her feet, bracing, to make of herself a barrier. It was all she could do. It was up to Caradoc to get himself and Dubornos to the bank. A body crashed onto her back. She screamed and the river filled her. Her mother sang in the tongue of the ancestors. She let herself go.
“Breaca? Breaca, please, please, will you breathe…”
“She’s gone. I am sorry. I was too slow to lift her.”
“No. She can’t go now. I won’t let her. Her heart is still beating. She must be made to breathe.”
“Let me…”
There was a great deal of pain, but she had expected that. Periodically, it burst into her lungs, like raw fire poured into her throat. Other fires, slower and longer burning, ate at her feet and fingers. She ignored them and looked about. The gods, in their mercy, had taken on the faces of those she loved. Airmid leaned over her, weeping, and Macha. Bán held the grey battle mare, his face a study in grief; Hail could not comfort him. Caradoc knelt, streaming water, as he had when she first saw him, and the Roman stood close by. Luain mac Calma, whom she did not love but might have come to respect, gazed into her heart and rammed his fist for the second time into the soft space below her diaphragm. White pain exploded within her. She coughed and it became a paroxysm of choking. In agony, she swore, cursing them all. Many hands helped her rise, pulling her up to her knees. She retched and tasted the spent mud of the river. A solid palm clapped on her back and more water spilled out of her, and more; she retched for ever. At the end of it, breathing was easier, if no less painful. A hand gripped her jaw, holding her head still. Black hair, bound back with a dreamer’s thong, came into view. The face so framed was one she knew, but not Airmid’s. She frowned, trying to focus. A heron feather spun on the breeze, holding her attention. Luain mac Calma said, “Welcome back to the land, warrior. Will you stay amongst us now, or would you continue your journey?”
It was more than a question. Worlds hung in balance, awaiting her choice. Far away, the elder grandmother—her elder grandmother—laughed, pointedly. Closer, Airmid squeezed her hand. Bán released the grey mare; a soft muzzle lipped at her hair and a wash of warm breath enveloped her. She thought of a foal that was due and how much it had meant. The eyes in front of her cleared and were brown. They saw into her soul and through to the gods beyond. They did not allow for self-pity, or delusion. She pulled on the hands that held hers and sat up, properly. “Is the pool safe?” she asked. “Did anyone enter?”
Airmid said, “The pool is safe. The Roman had already put himself in the cleft. He caught you. Caradoc held Dubornos and brought him to the side. He will live, though his pride is dented. If you come back to us, no-one has died.” Her voice was steady, the voice of a dreamer who has dreamed the worst and whose vision has been averted. Her eyes said other things entirely. Breaca looked into the depths of them and smiled.
“I am already back,” she said. “I couldn’t leave now. If nothing else, I am needed to vote at the council tomorrow.”
She looked around for the Roman and saw him kneeling in the mud beyond mac Calma, watching her evenly. Caradoc was with him, one hand on his arm; there, too, a boundary had been crossed. She let her brows rise up in a question that was meant for him as much as for Macha. “If it is still necessary to hold the council after this?”
CHAPTER 11
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They still held the council. The elders had made the journey and it was not seemly to send them away without a gathering. Then again, there were those, particularly amongst Dubornos’s faction, who said that the Roman had engineered everything that had happened expressly with the council’s decision in mind. They were balanced by others, less foolhardy, who said that he had taken a good chance when he saw it and that the question was not whether he was a fine warrior with a sharp mind but a man who, if left alive, would return to the ranks of the enemy with his head full of detail and his heart full of the need for revenge. The memory of an invasion three generations old ran fresh in their minds and the Roman’s actions had done nothing to dispel the dread of it.
The day dawned bright and free of mist. Spring was fully upon them. Because it was a full council, people dressed for the gods. Breaca wore a new tunic that had been a gift from Airmid; a deep russet, one shade darker than her hair, with an edging of mossed green. Her hair had been rinsed clean of river mud and combed out and she wove into the braiding the single crow’s feather with the band of red on the haft for the man’s life she had taken. It was too early in the year to find a new hide for her shield, but the elder grandmother—the new elder grandmother—had given her the pigments to repaint the serpent-spear on the old one and it glistened now with the rich red of newly spilled oxblood that would not turn brown as it dried.
Not long after dawn, she sat on a bench outside the doorway to her father’s forge and worked a hank of sheep’s wool dipped in river sand up the length of her sword. Her whole body ached. Black, red-edged bruises flared across her shoulders and back, and her hand had stiffened and was causing cramp. Airmid had given her a drink before they slept that had served to ease the worst of the aches, but it had made her drowsy and unaccountably weepy and she did not want to risk it again on the day of a council. Accordingly, she sat in the sunlight and burnished her sword and did her best to ignore the pain.