by Signe Pike
Brant drew up his horse, his brown eyes touching on Angharad with concern. “The ring will make a good enough boundary for the horses,” my cousin said. “They’ll not stray beyond it.”
“Aye,” Gwenddolau agreed at last, signaling for the men to dismount. “They’re ill at ease, as I am, round places of the dead.”
In truth, I knew rest would suit Gwenddolau as well, whether he cared for it or not. His old battle wound was on the mend, with thanks to Languoreth’s remedy, but he needed to recover his strength. Thirteen leagues in a day or half that, what did it matter? Angharad was ours now—all of ours—and I meant to tend to her as best as I could.
The thought seemed to weigh upon Gwenddolau, too, for as I watched, he placed his sunbrowned hands round Angharad’s waist, lifting her from my horse with a smile at last. “Well enough, Angharad. Come, then. Let’s find a suitable place to make camp.”
I dismounted, following behind. “It’s bound to be boggy. I’ll fashion a bed so Angharad might sleep in the cart.”
Next to me, the old warrior Dreon chuckled.
“Oh, go on, then, Dreon. Let’s have it,” I said.
“Well. I have naught to say but this: a handsome lord, in his prime at thirty-two winters—a Wisdom Keeper to boot—already become staid and matronly as an old mother hen.”
“An old mother hen?” I said. “You should mind you don’t choke on a chicken bone.”
Dreon lifted his hands. “Eh, now! There’s no need for bandying curses about.”
“When I curse you, you shall know it.”
“I believe you.” The warrior clapped me upon the shoulder. “Whatever you may do, you mustn’t fret, Lailoken. I have bairns of my own, and I’ll lend you some wisdom—children are like wolves. They can smell your fear.”
I’d met Dreon’s offspring. A wild pack of stoats, more like.
“Well,” I said, “seeing as you’re such a master of your own fine progeny, perhaps you’d like to try a hand at fostering mine.”
“Nay.” He frowned. “And rob you of the joy?”
I waved him off and found Gwenddolau and Angharad crouched at the water’s edge, looking upstream.
“We call this water Wildburn,” Gwenddolau said, bending to splash his face. Droplets clung to his golden beard, and when he stood, he shook the water from his head like a dog, smiling at his niece.
“Wildburn.” Angharad looked about. She’d drawn the black feathers from her cloak and clutched them like a doll. “Uncle.” She turned to me. “Is it true there’s a ring of stones nearby?”
“Aye. Just beyond that rise.”
Her face brightened, a joy to see. “May we go there? May we go now?”
“Indeed,” I said. “I’m to train you as a Keeper, am I not? Here you are, eight winters, and you haven’t yet stepped foot in your first ring of stones. Come now, and we shall see them.”
“The midges will be upon us,” Gwenddolau called after us. “Mind that Angharad has some salve.”
“Seems I’m not the only mother hen,” I said beneath my breath. Stopping at my horse to take the ointment from my saddlebag, I smiled at Angharad and dropped it into my satchel.
The Dragon Warriors were moving through the rhythm of setting up camp: laying out bedrolls, watering the horses, and rinsing in the burn, while the youngest men gathered fuel for the fire and unpacked the cook pots. My twin sister had sent us away with great flats of dried beef and a bounty of summer crops, perfect for a stew of wild game, but her face had been ashen as we said farewell that morning. And as we’d ridden off through Cadzow’s gates—I with her youngest child before me in the saddle—I’d looked over my shoulder to see Languoreth standing on the platform of the rampart, watching us depart. It was enough to wound her that I was taking Angharad away. But her lover, too, traveled in my company.
“No ale before supper,” Malegwn called to the men. His jaw was tight as he joined Gwenddolau beside the stream. Each of us had left Cadzow carrying our burdens, it seemed.
Yet Angharad was no burden. Languoreth and I had been so very close when we were children, before our fates had compelled us to live kingdoms apart. Now, with her daughter at my side, I felt the rift somehow mended. Angharad threaded her fingers in mine as she so often had upon my visits, when she and I would walk the woods together, naming things. She had my sister’s tawny-red hair and the winter-gray eyes of her father, Rhydderch.
It felt right, in that moment, that she should be with me. That I should be training her in the way of Wisdom Keeping, raising her as my own. I felt my confidence return, pointing as we drew close. “See it there? The ring of stones lies just beyond that rise.”
But Angharad had already spotted them. “Oh,” she breathed. I wondered if the ring was quite what she’d expected.
Far to the north, I’d visited the ancient, imposing stones of Pictland—towering behemoths that brooded against molten silver skies. I’d sat within vast circles of sixty stones or more that rose amid thick sprays of heather. I’d walked, enthralled and nearly seduced within intimate stones, places where the rocks had been weathered so round that their curves resembled the finest bits of a woman’s body.
Each circle felt different, and rightly so. For buried deep at the root of the stones were the ashes of men and women who had come before, awake and then sleeping with the shifting of stars and the rise of the moon. Though flesh had failed them, rock had become their new earthly body. Now their spirits were ever present. I could feel them regarding us now, as if the stones themselves were breathing.
These stones were not set in a circle. They formed instead the shape of an egg, sunk into the moor in perpetual slumber, rimmed protectively by a gently sloping dyke. The tallest among them was scarcely the height of a man, while the others stooped, irregular and hobbled. Still, they beckoned with their own particular enchantment, and Angharad made to enter swiftly before I caught her hand.
“It is ill luck to enter without seeking permission,” I said. “These stones are guardians—men and women of old. They do not take kindly to trespassers and can cause all sort of maladies if they wish.”
Surely your mother has taught you as much, I nearly said. But Languoreth was no Wisdom Keeper. There was a time when she’d wished more than anything to train, as our own mother had. As I was Chosen to do. But Languoreth was not Chosen. The gift had fallen instead to her youngest daughter. Languoreth had known Angharad was marked. That the child possessed gifts was evident—a thought that stirred excitement in me even as it raised protectiveness in my sister.
But I, too, had seen things as a child. Things that frightened me. Things I could not understand. It was enough to make old spirits out of young ones. Perhaps this was the reason I felt so compelled to teach Angharad how to wield her gifts—so they would not become a burden. So they could not break her.
“Some Wisdom Keepers are showmen,” I told her now. “They would have our people believe that spirit speaks in great booms, like thunder. But spirit speaks in whispers. The best Keepers understand this and keep quiet so they might hear. Close your eyes and be still.”
Through the joining of our hands I could sense her, alert as a rabbit. A little fearful. And beneath the surface, sorrow issuing in a foul and muddy water. I could take it from her if I wished. Draw it into myself, and she might experience some relief. But the source of such wellsprings ran deep. Water will find its way—it would only rise up again. Better to let her come to it in her own time. Her own way.
“Be still,” I repeated. Angharad’s eyes flared with frustration, but she closed them, her cinnamon-colored lashes settling against her freckled cheeks.
I waited until her face began to soften. She had found her way to the quiet, the place where deeper meaning could reside.
“I will teach you the blessing Cathan once gave me,” I said. “Commit it to memory. The words will serve you well.” I moved through the old chant twice, then once more for good measure. “Tomorrow we will return, and those words will be y
ours to speak. Yes?” Angharad nodded and I released her hands. “You may enter now. Touch the stones if you like.”
“Sunwise?” she asked.
“Aye. Isn’t that the way of it all?”
A summer wind played, flapping at the corner of Angharad’s gray cloak as she stepped into the stones—a gentle sort of greeting. As she began to explore the circle, I told her what I knew of their story.
“This ring was built by your ancestors, those who came to this great island and first dwelled in the north. I speak of a time long ago—time out of memory. What you see are not only stones. They are your people, your clann. Their alignments track the course of moon and sun. The sunrise at Midwinter, the movements that mark the quarter year, too. In this way they are Time Keepers. Cathan brought me here—to this very circle—when I was but a boy. I saw for myself how this stone pairs with yonder hill.” I pointed to the slope that rose in the distance. “If you stand just here on Midwinter sunset, there is a cairn upon the summit that marks the grave of an ancient king. You can watch the evening sun slip down its curve like the yolk of an egg, until it disappears into the earth.”
I turned back to find that Angharad was not listening and fought the compulsion to throw up my hands. Such inattention from a novice was inexcusable. But Angharad was my kin, and the girl had never before visited a circle. I held my tongue and watched her explore, fingers tracing the pale lichen that bloomed from the speckled skin of a stone.
But then.
It was as if the air around us had gone cold. I looked up, expecting to see a swift-moving storm, but the sky was cerulean, dotted with fat, friendly clouds. Strange. Yet there could be no question—the atmosphere had shifted. I could scarcely focus on Angharad’s form, my sight gone blurry.
Stones had a particular fondness for the attention of children. But with Angharad in the stones, this was something more. Ill at ease, I closed my eyes and turned inward, searching for the cause of such a shift, and felt suddenly as if I were being observed.
Nay, not observed.
Stalked.
My blood beat against my temples. These stones were born of my own kin. Never before had I felt such malevolence. What dared stalk me now? What dared stalk my niece?
Angharad stood with her palms pressed flat against a stone. I strode into the ring, but she did not notice my presence. The wind shifted again, but now the smell that met my nose was rank, like flesh gone rotten. I did not wish to speak, fearful of lending more power to this unnamable thing, yet I could sense it, a shadow approaching, traveling across the ages. Ancient. Such power stirred I nearly reeled.
A strange look had come over Angharad’s face.
“Angharad, step back.” I spoke evenly, not wishing to cause her alarm. But the child did not hear me. It was as if she were entranced. “Angharad. Step back, I said.”
Pulling her from the rock was a danger, too abrupt. She had clearly joined some part of herself with the stone. There was risk in tearing her away that all of her might not return. But I could not wait. Reaching out, I yanked Angharad’s hands from the granite and drew back, startled, as she rounded on me, crying out as if wounded.
“It is coming for you! It comes for my mother!” she cried, then slumped against me, boneless. I caught her limp body in my arms. She weighed little more than a sack of feathers. Her freckled skin had gone waxen.
“Angharad. Speak to me. Are you all right?”
Even as I held her, even as I questioned, I knew what had taken place. Angharad had experienced a Knowing.
My tutor Cathan was wont to have them, but he’d held such mastery over himself, his utterances were more akin to a common suggestion than a vision arrived from beyond the veil. Few Keepers I’d known had possessed sight equal to his. For me, divinity spoke through nature. Augury and rhetoric were my skills. Book learnings and king lists. Strategic maneuverings. I was a counsellor—an advisor—not a priest as such. Yet I knew some Seers suffered exertion from their visions, and I imagined the effect could be more taxing on someone young, one who did not yet know how to wield it.
The girl was far too open. Angharad had opened herself and something had come, something unbidden. And I had unwittingly placed her in danger.
I should not have brought her here, I thought. Not without yet understanding her. Then she stirred in my arms and my shoulders dropped with relief. Angharad looked up at me, blinking.
“I’m all right, Uncle. Truly.”
I studied her. “Nay, not quite. But do you think you might stand?”
Angharad nodded and I placed her down gently, searching her eyes. Her gray eyes were stormy, but thank the Gods, wherever her vision had taken her, it seemed all of her had returned.
“Angharad. You must tell me what happened,” I said.
“What happened…” She spoke slowly, as if only just remembering the use of her mouth.
“Aye,” I encouraged, and her gaze turned distant.
“The stone felt soft. Soft as a sea sponge. And empty. Hollow. As if I might push it. As if I might push it and fall right through.”
“And did you? Did you… fall through?” I watched her intently.
“No, for there was something else then. Something coming as if through a tunnel deep in the earth. It rushed toward me like a wind, fast as a thousand galloping horses.”
“And then? Angharad, I do not wish to press you, but I must know the entirety of what happened so I know you are now truly safe. This spirit. Did it feel an evil thing? A… beast of some kind? What did you see?”
She frowned, frustration mounting. “I saw nothing, Uncle! It was a feeling, that’s all.” She struggled to find the words to explain it. “It was… a Thing.”
“A Thing.” I drew her to me. “I should not have brought you here. Not so soon. There are things I must teach you. I made an error, one I shall not make again. I am sorry you were frightened.”
“But I was not frightened.”
I could not hold back my surprise. “Were you not?”
“Nay. The Thing did not come for me,” she said simply. “It came for you.”
A shiver traced my arms, and I pressed her more tightly. Then quite suddenly Angharad’s face shifted and she drew away, laughing. “What is it, Uncle? Why do you embrace me so?”
“I—I wish to comfort you.” I blinked.
“Comfort me? Whatever for?” She smiled. “I am sorry, Uncle, for I must not have been listening. I cannot recall what you did say! Tell me again what such stone rings were built for. I do so wish to explore.”
The child had no memory of the events that had taken place only moments ago.
“Nay, Angharad.” I reached for her. “Perhaps tomorrow. But the stones are before you. Now you have seen them! You will be hungry. Come, let us return to camp. The air grows chill. It will soon be time for supper.”
She furrowed her brow but followed nonetheless. As we picked our way back over the grassy tufts of moor, I puzzled over what had taken place. I had spent time in shadow. In caves and underground pathways. In ancient stone chambers built for the dead. I’d faced my own darkness and my share of shades—in this world and the other. Yet never had I encountered such a… Thing.
At our camp beside Wildburn, the night fire was crackling. We slathered on ointment to fend off the midges that swarmed with a vengeance. Dreon whittled a shaft of ash with his blade, shaping a new spear. We filled our stomachs with hot stew, and the men took turns recounting tales of the woods until Angharad’s lids dropped and she slept where she sat. I picked her up and laid her gently on her bedding in the cart, tucking the sheepskin round her face, so peaceful now in sleep.
But I did not close my eyes that night for fear that the Thing, whatever it might be, should return, that Angharad would somehow be lost to me. I sat awake the long night, spine slumped against the wheel of the wagon, watching the shadows cast from the fire as they flickered and shifted, growing in the dark.
CHAPTER 2
Lailoken
&nbs
p; “Uncle, why is it you have no wife?”
Angharad twisted in the saddle before me, searching my face in earnest.
We’d broken camp at sunrise, determined to reach the fort before evening. It was our third day on horseback and overcast—the air threatened rain. We had traveled scarcely a league, and it occurred to me now that the day would be interminable if this were to be Angharad’s line of questioning.
“Ask me another question. Something clever. That’s poor use of our time.”
Angharad only waited.
“Perhaps you should like to hear the tale once more about the birth of our great island?”
“You are quite handsome, even with your scar,” she said.
“I thank you,” I said. “You are not the first lady to tell me so.”
Angharad looked skyward with a laugh, but despite my jest, I did not suffer from vanity. I’d studied my own countenance reflected in bronze. I had a fine nose. Two rather widely spaced blue eyes, graceful brows, and sandy hair I wore long, shaved in the front from ear to ear in the manner of a Keeper. My beard was full, but I kept it neatly trimmed. If I turned my face to one side, the puckering scar dealt me at fifteen winters became a trick of the mind, a vanishing act. That I was handsome I knew, and women agreed. There had been a time when I found ease in the bounty of their affection. But with time I’d learned the body was only a shell built to house the spirit.
“Go on, then, Lailoken,” my cousin Brant said. “Tell wee Angharad why you’ve not wed.”
“I suppose I’ve not yet encountered the right lady.”
Brant scoffed, for this was not exactly true. I’d encountered many ladies and had found them all exceedingly pleasing. It was precisely my joy of encountering women that left me with little interest in tethering myself to any one in particular.
“Nay, Angharad, don’t be led astray,” Gwenddolau said from his saddle. “The truth is your uncle may well have encountered the right lady, but she wanted nothing to do with the likes of him. Is that not right, Lailoken?”