by Signe Pike
“As do you.”
She did look every bit Strathclyde’s high queen this night, with her fair hair plaited and piled to reveal her slender neck, and her garnet brooch fastened at her breast. Snow-white ermine lined the hood of her cloak, setting off the winter gray of her eyes.
“Tell me again of the priestesses from Isle Cailleach,” Gladys said, taking my hand.
“Well.” I bowed my head. “Long ago, it was said they were weather workers. That, through fasting and suffering and prayer, they could move fog with their hands and draw rain in dry weather. On their isle in the loch, they live in utter seclusion. Neither man nor woman may trespass without invitation from the priestesses themselves. They leave their island only once, at Samhain, the turning of the year, to light the need-fire from the torches they kindle on the Cailleach’s own isle.”
“More likely, they kindle it from the inn down the lane,” Cyan said.
“Nay, Cyan, it isn’t so,” I said. “They keep it close in oil lamps as they travel over the rough gray waters, bringing it in their caravan to this very site.”
On the eve of Samhain, Britons snuffed out their hearths. Once the Cailleach lit the pyre, the people of Partick would touch their own tapers to it, carrying it home to relight their fires so their hearth might blaze through winter with the Cailleach’s blessing.
“And is it true the priestesses must take turns playing the part of the Cailleach so they mightn’t go mad?” Gladys asked.
I’d thought Elufed was not listening, but now she turned to Gladys with a frown. “They play at nothing,” she said. “The Cailleach is winter and storm, death and blight. She destroys to create. She is not readily held in any woman’s body, no matter how holy she may be.”
“I understand,” Gladys said, inclining her head.
I wondered, not for the first time, what long-buried memories these rites evoked for the queen. I wondered, but had learned better than to trespass.
The beat of the bodhrans thundered to crescendo, then stopped.
We stood, waiting for the processional of the Cailleach to begin.
The ancestors appeared at the crest of the hill, young initiates in tunics and bratts, their eerie white faces mirroring those of our ancestral dead. Their song was low and full of heartbreak. Haunting.
“They are recalling their time among us,” I said.
Upon their heels came the harbingers of the dark time, of death. They lurched along the processional, naked chests painted black and hungry eyes scouring the crowd. Cyan edged closer on the bench as they stuck out their tongues and pulled frightening faces, making children cling to their mothers’ skirts.
“Never fear,” I whispered. “Now the Keepers shall come.”
Their robes were the white of a swan’s wing and glowed in the dim as they strode, banging their drums with purpose, sending death into the shadows to wait for its mistress. The crowd held its breath. And then they appeared.
The priestesses of Isle Cailleach.
Their robes were not the white of other Wisdom Keepers but a shade of dark blue. Their hair was hidden beneath the hoods of their cloaks, and their kohled eyes looked feral, the way a wildcat’s appear just before it strikes. Two torchbearers guarded the need-fire in their covered lamps.
The horns sounded, discordant.
The priestesses parted to reveal the Cailleach.
She did not walk. Rather, she seemed to float, like wind over water. Her face was painted the hue of a storm cloud, her hair plastered in a snow-white paste so that it clumped and tangled over her shoulders, a wild woman of the highest peaks. The Cailleach did not wear a cloak. Hers was a heavy dress of gray wool with a bratt overtop. The last sheath of the grain crop decked her headdress, a thin linen veil coming down, concealing her face. One could feel the might of her with blinded eyes. But unlike her consorts of winter, the Cailleach did not pay the crowd any notice. She was to be gazed upon. She did not gaze back.
As the Cailleach neared the place where we stood, she stopped. The singing ceased. The faces of the priestesses flickered with surprise. And then the Cailleach turned her head.
I could not make out her face beneath the veil, but the power of her gaze struck like an adder. Was she looking at me?
I stood, unable to move, so heavy was the weight of her stare. Then she lifted her hand to beckon, and my throat tightened. There could be no question.
Me.
The priestess nearest the Cailleach spoke. “You. Come. The Cailleach wishes to see you.”
The revelers parted in awe as I moved to do her bidding.
I’d only ever seen the Cailleach on procession. Now I stood before her.
In her veil, she was faceless. Woman or god? I could not quite say. Her storm-painted skin smelled of holy oils. When the Cailleach tilted her head to whisper in the ear of the priestess beside her, her voice was the hiss of ice on a fire.
“You will light the need-fire,” the priestess said.
A gasp came from the crowd.
Me, light the need-fire? The blaze was lit by the Cailleach—it had always been so. What if the winter should bring bitter snows and starvation? I would be to blame. I could only imagine this was some sort of trick, a test of my devotion.
“I am no Wisdom Keeper. Nor am I a priestess. It is not my place. It is not my right,” I said.
But the Cailleach only waited with an air of expectation. The priestess came forward, offering her lamp. There was nothing to do but accept the flame.
I stepped into the processional, following the Cailleach with the flame. As we reached the unlit pyre, the priestess turned. “You must speak,” she said.
I was not trained to give the need-fire blessing. Searching, I looked out over the field of faces. Beyond the crowd was the rise of a distant hill, a sleeping blue shadow in the coming night.
You might tell them to remember, the old man had said. Now I understood. But was memory enough? I lifted my voice, hoping it would carry through the dark.
“There was a time when our need-fire was lit on the mount of Bright Hill,” I began. “Where the old grove of oaks was tended by our Keepers, the memories of our people nestled in their roots. Our hearths extinguished, our kingdom waiting in darkness, the fire lit on Bright Hill was a beacon of light, of hope and blessings, of protection for our herds and our fields, our families and our flocks. Keepers from Strathclyde and beyond would wait for this signal to light their own blazes. Briton, Pict, or Scot—on Samhain, it matters not which kingdom we claim. On Samhain, the need-fire unites us all in one purpose. Honoring our ancestors and our gods.” I searched the faces in the crowd. “Now Bright Hill is a tomb for those of a new way. Now we mourn loved ones sent off to war. And yet here we gather. Here we remain. This night we shall see that the fire of our ancestors cannot be so readily extinguished. Let our fire blaze on, let it carry our message to the hilltops of every land. The people of Strathclyde stand firm in our age-old tradition. The gods and goddesses of our land will yet reign.”
I saw the light on their faces, yet the air was full of waiting.
The priestess brought me before the Cailleach, and I bowed my head to receive her blessing.
I felt the graze of her fingers on my temples. And then, as they met my skin, a pulsing like the clench of a heartbeat or the kick of an infant muffled by the depth of a mother’s womb. It filled my ears with a rush as the crowd beyond fell away.
For a moment it seemed I stood on the top of a mountain, looking out far beyond the gray-green waters of the loch. I felt the thrum and churn of soil far beneath me and the gathering wet clouds as wind raced over the water. My body was stone. Wind and weather gathered at my head. My feet stretched their roots down through the mountain, connecting my tendrils across great distances, until I became every mountain that rose in our land.
Every cave and hollow was known to me then. I felt the curl of a bear as it bedded in a pile of winter leaves, the scratching of goat hooves upon salt-sprayed cliffs. I felt the whole of
our vast island, thrumming from its core at the bottom of the sea.
And then she released me.
I stood, head spinning and senses overcome. Somehow I bent, uncovering the lamp, and touched the flame of the need-fire to the pyre.
The Cailleach lifted her arms, and for a moment it seemed as if she held all the great world between her two hands. The fire caught in a roar of orange flame.
It was done.
Drums struck up, and voices rang out in celebration. The Cailleach turned, her priestesses following as she retreated into the tent. Onlookers made way as I moved, light-headed, back to my seat.
Elufed reached out a hand to steady me. “The Cailleach has given you her blessing,” she said.
“Yes.”
She lowered her voice. “And before all the people. Soon the news will carry through the capital into Strathclyde and beyond. If Rhydderch has not proved his place, you have now secured it. But what you said to the people, Languoreth—you must not say such things.”
“Nay, Elufed,” I said, “I will keep silent no more. Bright Hill, and all we have lost, deserve the honor of our memory.”
“You shall be little more than a memory should you speak like that again.”
She might say as much, but the crowd had shifted. The people stood straighter. The fire burned in earnest now, and as I looked into the darkness, I saw jewels of distant fires lighting up the night. The skin of my temples yet buzzed where I’d felt the Cailleach’s touch.
Later, as we rode home by cart, Gladys leaned in from the shadows. “Mother?”
“Yes, my love.”
“When the Cailleach summoned you, were you not afraid?”
“I was not so much afraid. Awe was what I felt.”
“Did you see her face?”
“Nay, I could not see beneath the veil. It did not seem… respectful to look.”
She dropped her voice to a whisper. “What did it feel like when she blessed you?”
I thought a moment. “Like a thousand winters and a thousand summers all passed in one moment.”
Gladys sat back. “I wonder if Angharad has ever felt such a thing.”
At the mention of her name, we fell silent. It was a bottomless, wicked pain, the loss of a child. And it was such a very thin night. For a moment, across the distance, it was almost as if I could feel her, lost and alone.
I closed my eyes. Keep her safe, I begged the Cailleach, queen of death.
Rhydderch would be searching. I had to believe Angharad would yet be found.
The cart jolted to a stop in the courtyard. As we climbed down I heard the men bolt the gate behind us. It felt as if I were being sealed in a tomb.
But this night was not yet finished. Across the courtyard, Torin met my eyes, then turned from the gate to stride back toward his post at the pits.
Samhain would work its mysteries yet.
CHAPTER 15
Angharad
Battle of Arderydd
Kingdom of the Pendragons
October, AD 573
The dark-haired woman had led her astray.
The dark-haired woman had led them into a terrible trap.
Why, oh why, had she trusted her vision? The spearman had called Eira a horrible thing. Lord Gwrgi now rode at the head of the scouting party. Angharad looked over her shoulder, but Eira did not look back. The soldier gripping Eira’s rope was giving no slack, she had to nearly run to keep from dragging behind his horse, and her breath was coming fast, her face red with exertion. Tears welled in Angharad’s eyes. She wanted to beat at their captors with her fists. This was all her fault, she thought. She could stay silent no longer.
“Unbind her at once!” Angharad shouted. “You cannot treat her so. I swear to you, you shall pay when I tell my father!”
The spearman did not look at her, only yanked the line, and Eira fell hard upon her knees, plummeting forward as he kicked his horse into a trot. She cried out as her arms jerked at the shoulders, her body dragging along the forest floor.
“Stop, stop!” Angharad screamed. Pulling his mount unhurriedly to a halt, the spearman turned at last.
“Go on, then,” he said. “Give me another order.”
Eira scrambled to her feet, reaching gingerly to explore her face. Pebbles and sticks had left her already swollen features scraped and bleeding. “Angharad, please. Say nothing more, I beg you,” she said.
Angharad swallowed, forcing herself to look away. Satisfied, the soldier urged his mount into a walk.
Lailoken had taught Angharad to be faithful to the urgings that rose within her, but since the battle, everything Angharad heeded had been wrong. She could not trust her own senses. Now, as they moved through the forest, Angharad struggled to gain her bearings, but the woods felt like a stranger. By day’s end, they’d begun to climb. The track took them into the hills and through a lofty pass. She heard Gwrgi’s camp before they reached it—the clumsy plucking of a cruit came through the trees along with men’s voices and the fatty smell of roasted meat. Gwrgi had said he meant to summon her father, and she believed that to be true. She and Eira must only bide their time. Her father would set things right. He would make that spearman pay.
A score of tents was pitched on the high ground beyond the forest. Warriors milled the grounds, some sharpening their blades, some sitting round gaming boards, while watchmen strode the perimeter with a satisfaction only victors wore. Up ahead, Gwrgi dismounted, and the warrior bearing Angharad drew up on his horse.
“My lord. Where do you want the girl?”
“Put her in my tent.”
“And the other?”
“See that she minds the girl twice daily. Otherwise, take her. I have no taste for mutton.”
Angharad looked to Eira in panic as the spearman dropped from his horse and began to pull Eira away. All Angharad could think to do was scream. She opened her mouth and let out an ear-splitting cry. The horse that held her reared up as Angharad let out another scream and another. The warrior wrenched the reins to settle his mount as Gwrgi reached for Angharad and grabbed the length of her hair, yanking her from the horse. Her neck twisted, and her cry was of a different sort as she slammed to the ground.
“Silence!” Gwrgi shouted, smothering her mouth with his fist, but Angharad’s fury burned hotter than her fear, and she bit down on the fleshy part of his fist and spat, tasting blood. He wrenched his hand away in pain and surprise, and she kicked and thrashed away from him, screaming and screaming even as she stood. The lord of Ebrauc’s face contorted with rage and his arm flew back. Angharad winced, but no blow came. Angharad opened her eyes and stilled her mouth. Gwrgi stood within a hair’s breadth of her, a strange look on his face.
His hand wept blood as he lifted his palms to cup her face. Beyond them, the camp was silent, the eyes of Gwrgi’s men upon them. Gwrgi only sighed and traced his thumb along her cheekbone, smearing his own blood like battle paint. “Look what you have done.” He pressed closer.
Angharad did not understand. “I want my nursemaid!” she said.
“And you shall shriek until you have her, is that it? I should almost like to hear it. The sound of your cries as you scream yourself raw. Rhydderch’s daughter or no, you mistake yourself if you imagine I do not thrill to a little girl’s cries. But you irritate my men, and you startle our horses.”
Gwrgi’s breath was hot on Angharad’s cheek. She did not move. Then he blinked, looking round as if recovering himself. He stood, smoothing the lower portion of his tunic. “Take them both. We are wasting good light. I would see if we can catch more Dragons before nightfall.”
Eira clutched Angharad as the two were escorted to Lord Gwrgi’s tent. Inside, it was dim, more cramped than the sorts of tents Angharad had bedded in before, the spacious chambered tents at Lughnasa. There was a rude sheepskin pallet laid upon the ground. A trunk that likely contained Gwrgi’s clothes. A tincture that wafted fennel sat beside a wooden comb on a rickety pine table. It was the same scent that clung to th
e wretched man, and to distract herself, Angharad searched her memory for its purpose. The seeds came from across the sea at some expense; the plant did not favor the clime of the Britons. Yes, that was right. Mother had prepared it to aid stomach pains.
“He’s ill,” Angharad said. “There is a rot in his stomach. Perhaps his wickedness shall eat him from the inside out.”
But Eira was not listening. Eira was not well. Her swollen face was drawn with the fear of a child as she paced the confines of the tent, her breathing shallow. “I cannot be here, I mustn’t be here…” Her voice was a panicked whisper as she looked about as if in search of escape. It was as if she were going mad. “I cannot be here, I cannot—”
“Eira!” Angharad grabbed her, beseeching, and Eira startled as if struck, wrenching away from her.
“Oh, Angharad,” she said, her voice a whisper. “You do not understand.” Eira sank down, bound hands cradling her own head.
Angharad could feel Eira’s fear as if it were a creature and it beckoned—it wanted to show Angharad its secret. Eira’s secret. But Angharad did not like the feel of it—there was a clever sort of wickedness, like that of a water spirit that lured fishermen to their death. And she had sworn she would not seek after it. She sat down instead beside Eira and did as Lailoken had taught her. She was a flower, drawing her petals closed against night. Nothing came when Angharad was enfolded like this. From outside the tent came the sound of horses galloping away.
Eira lifted her head slowly, speaking softly so the guards beyond the tent could not hear. “We cannot stay here, Angharad. You are not safe. I imagined Gwrgi could abide by his vows, but I fear he is not his own master. It is not only his stomach that harbors a sickness. You are young. You cannot understand. But you must trust me. We must leave this night.”
Angharad leaned her head to Eira’s. For a moment, even though it had been Gwrgi who’d discovered them, it had seemed so close—that Angharad might go home. “But my father?” she asked, her voice small.
“We must find our own way.”
They startled as the tent opening slapped and a warrior came bearing a platter of food. He set it down upon the trunk along with a jug of drink. “Eat,” he said, and left.