by Signe Pike
“Nay. Rhydderch must trade them. They will fetch a good value.”
Tread carefully, Elufed’s gaze warned me. Morcant was a shadow at Tutgual’s shoulder, and one of the king’s men had come now to speak low in Morcant’s ear.
“Of course,” I said. “It is only I worry over our provisions at Partick. Winter will soon come, and three carts of slaves will surely be a strain on your food stores. We had a strong harvest at Cadzow. Allow me to take Rhydderch’s cart there. We are most eager to welcome Lord Rhydderch home, and Cadzow is nearer his return, if only by a day—”
Tutgual’s look silenced me. “I have only just returned, yet you come seeking spoils before the feast has yet begun?”
“Her heart bleeds for their rescue,” Morcant cut in. “I hear from my men she nearly caused a riot.”
“If my heart bleeds, it is for the fact that you carry home war trophies on pikes while you neglect to bring home the body of my son. I think only of our sacrifice,” I shot back.
“Enough of this bickering.” Tutgual looked between us.
I bowed, not daring to meet his eyes. “I mean only to mind the cart for my husband’s homecoming. As I say, I have provisions enough. And readying Cadzow for Rhydderch’s return would be a welcome diversion.”
“Which cart would you have?” the king asked.
“The middle, if it please you.”
“No, my king,” Morcant said quickly. “I would have the middle.”
“The first cart, then, if I must.” I tipped my chin as if I’d been defeated.
The king considered it. “Take it, then, and depart at your leisure,” he said at last. “But remain obedient to my summons, should I desire your return.”
“Of course, my king. Thank you. I am grateful.”
Tutgual waved two fingers dismissively, but his eyes did not leave me until I reached my seat. I sank down, worn through. But in a far chamber of my heart, I felt a flutter of hope. I’d done it—I had bested Morcant, the fool. And I was to take the survivors to Cadzow, away from the hawkish watch of Morcant and the king. I dared not believe it until I stepped over the threshold of my hall.
Aela came to stand beside me as the bards ceased their playing and the king’s sencha called for silence, for he had witnessed the battle and now must prove himself worthy of his keep in the recitation of his tale: the warriors lost and their battle-hardened prowess. The virtues and generosity of Tutgual, the king.
“Take the children to the courtyard so they might join others their age,” I bade Aela, and she whisked them away.
I sat motionless, imagining myself submerged in an icy burn as if it could numb my senses, for I could not yet leave. I must stay to honor my son. It seemed an eternity before, at last, it came.
“None was strong as Rhys, son of Rhydderch, defender of the faith. He made the ground red with Dragon blood before he found his end at the ramparts…”
I swallowed sickness as I saw Rhys on his back in battle mud, crying out my name. Suffering.
Mother.
He’d wanted me beside him, and I could not save him from his pain. I pressed back my tears, struggling to quiet my breathing.
Defender of the Faith.
Was this how my son was to be remembered? Rhys, who kept the Old Gods? Rhys, who had never chosen Christ? Rhys was a boy of the burn and the forest and beloved of Herne, just like his uncles. I looked to the doors, sickened by tales twisted by victors. If I did not leave soon, I would take a spear from the wall and ram it through Tutgual’s throat.
I stood. Across the room, Elufed’s profile was regal, but when her eyes caught the lamplight, I saw that they shone with unfallen tears.
Grief is a weakness and emotion a danger. Such is the burden of a woman with power, Elufed had said, tutoring me in how to survive. I crossed the room, my face smooth as a winter pasture, to bow before Elufed and the king. “I am quite tired. If you will permit me?”
Tutgual gave a nod but did not turn my way. I hurried from the great room, meeting Aela at my chamber door. “There is a woman in the prison carts who’s been badly beaten,” I told her. “She has dark hair—Torin will know her. The cart is now mine. Take one of your hooded cloaks and fetch her, please. Bring her the back way and draw up the cloak’s hood. I should like to avoid any trouble.”
“A prisoner from the Borderlands?” Aela asked.
“Yes.”
“But m’lady, do you know her? How can you be certain she is safe?”
“Please, Aela. Just do as I say.”
I paced in the stillness of my chamber, readying my healing supplies while the muffled sound of music echoed from the courtyard. Aela was right, I did not know this woman. I was pulling her from the prison carts and did not know what she might say or if I might trust it. But I could not turn from the desperation in her voice. And in return, I hoped she would tell me what she had seen the day of the battle.
At last the iron latch lifted with a clank, and Aela guided the woman into my room. She walked stiffly, leaning slightly on Aela’s arm, and was tall, I noticed. Nearly tall as I.
“Hello,” I said. “Please. Come sit.”
She bowed her head, face hidden in shadow. Now that we were in close quarters, she seemed hesitant to remove the cloak’s hood. I did not press her. “Aela, you may leave us.”
Aela glanced at my healing supplies. “I could stay, m’lady. We will need to clip her hair,” she said softly. The woman had nits, she meant.
“I will tend to her, thank you. But please bring water for washing and something to eat.”
Aela nodded, hurrying away as the woman sank gingerly into a chair. I took the chair opposite. “You may remove your cloak if you wish.”
She reached slowly to push back the hood, and her face came into the light. Her brown hair was oily and matted in tangles, but as she smoothed it back, I saw the telltale angry bites—lice—at the base of her neck. Her face was the work of boots and of fists, but her blue eyes were steady. She did not seek my pity.
“We will need to shear off your hair,” I said gently.
She touched it hesitantly, then nodded.
“I am Languoreth,” I said.
“Yes, I know.” She had a low-toned voice, like a woman of gentle blood.
“Here, you will be thirsty.” I passed her a cup from the table beside me, and the slim hands that accepted it shook, though from fear or exhaustion I could not tell. “I can see you have been treated abominably. I am sorry. You must know you are safe here. No more harm shall come to you.”
She nodded, but I saw from her eyes she could not believe me.
“You must believe I only wish to help. But I hoped you may be able to help me in return.” I swallowed the emotion clogging my throat and looked at her, beseeching. “It is only that I have loved ones who are missing, you see. And I wondered if you might know what has become of them.”
The woman closed her eyes. A tear slipped from beneath her lashes onto the swollen slope of her cheek.
“I am sorry, I do not mean to press you,” I said gently. “Perhaps you could begin by telling me your name.”
The woman took a breath, then opened her eyes. They were pale blue and deep as an ocean. “My name is Eira, but it was not always so,” she began. “I was once known as Gwendolen, daughter of Urien. And I am handfasted to your brother.”
CHAPTER 19
Lailoken
Hart Fell, the Black Mountain
Kingdom of the Selgovae
January, 574 AD
Lungs burning from the climb, I reached the trickle of the spring.
The water came from the heart of Black Mountain, bubbling from the hillside where the valley narrowed into a cleft. Black scree piled high above the burn here, trapping and exacerbating winter’s icy grip, and I stopped in the snow.
Outside the stifling closeness of the huts Archer had granted us at the foot of the mountain, winter had come in earnest, burying us in silence.
Come to me, Rhys. I am list
ening, I am here.
The air was heavy and smelled of metal, of blood.
Gwenddolau, my brother. Come to me, I am listening. Come and I will follow you…
I opened my eyes to a stark and barren world. Rock, snow, and the half-frozen burn. No dead men stirred today.
In the beginning, I’d taken sustenance from this holy place. Its iron waters felt like silver, brightening my body as I bent down to drink. But the days wore on. At my request, Archer sent scouts to Strathclyde, but they discovered no news of Angharad’s return. She was lost, and they had no better fortune discovering anything of Eira.
I dreamt of a man with dark, piercing eyes who wore a cloak of feathers.
I dreamt of battle and gore, of Angharad and Eira.
Across the leagues, a wound lay open between me and my twin sister. There was a time, when we were young, when we felt each other’s pain. Now it happened once more, in waves upon waves. My broken shoulder, my wrist, the muscle of my heart. Hers or my own? Perhaps this was the drowning; each of us carrying the suffering of the other until we both sank. I felt my blood going bitter.
Tutgual and Rhydderch will answer for what they have done, only show me the way. The thought of revenge consumed me.
The spring no longer spoke. Still I climbed the icy path each day, regardless of weather, shouldering a fool’s hope that refuge dwelled here.
High above the valley, the crows were flocking; they would not cease. They glided on silent wings, black as ink, their caws rasping through the deep winter valley in rain and in snow. Death birds.
I gathered my mucus and spat upon the ground, loathing the gods who had spared me. “Come and finish me,” I shouted. “For I have turned my back on you. Lailoken is no longer your son. Lailoken is no longer your slave!”
But it was not I who had turned my back upon the gods. It was the gods who’d turned their backs upon me. Upon all of us.
I heard a murmur, a voice, and whipped round to scour the hillside, heart racing. Was that Gwenddolau who called out? I could have sworn I saw the flash of his yellow hair. Had I not just heard him laughing?
Come! Come and follow me, brother… The crunch of footsteps sounded in snow, and I straightened. But it was a visitor from the land of the living. I brushed the snow from a boulder to sit as Maelgwn appeared in his heavy fur-lined cloak.
“Rhiwallon told me you’d come here,” he said.
“Aye.”
He took out the empty bladder he’d brought, and I heard the gentle creak of his knees as he bent to fill it with spring water.
Maelgwn did not know the truth of it: that he’d lost a son he’d never come to know.
I’d seen his face the day he’d set eyes upon Rhys, scarcely two summers ago. They shared the same dark hair and green eyes. Yet where Maelgwn’s skin was olive, Rhys possessed my sister’s fairness—skin white as fleece. Seventeen winters had passed since Maelgwn had first lain with my sister. He must have known.
And yet.
Languoreth had not told him, and the knowledge was not mine to give. Now, here in the mountains, I sat beside Rhys’s own father, yet I carried the weight of his death alone.
Maelgwn broke the silence. “I have been watching you these past weeks, my brother. You do not seem yourself.”
I glanced at him. “Is that so? And who among us is unaltered now? I hear you cry out in your sleep.”
“Aye, I am scarred, Lailoken. Each man on the battlefield is merely a boy trying to silence the loud rage of war. But there are empty stomachs in the huts down below, and today we must hunt.”
I’d worn the mantle of leadership for so long it felt burdensome now, dragging about my neck, but I stood, following him down the icy path, for the men needed meat. We’d parceled out the oats Archer had given us for porridge and bread so we might stretch them until spring, but we could not survive on oats and barley alone. Game was ours to catch.
Outside the huts Rhiwallon stood waiting beside Old Man Archer, and the chieftain glanced up as we neared, giving a wave of his bow.
I nodded. “Lord Archer. You would join us?”
“Aye, for a portion of meat,” he answered. In truth, he had no need of it, he had his own provisions. But Archer was kind. The deer would be skittish and thin this deep into winter. It’d been weeks since any had been spotted. Only he knew the places they’d likely be foraging in search of tender bark. He knew we were proud, and he did not wish us to go hungry.
I ducked into the hut to gather my bedroll and take up a spear, but as I passed through the fence of sharpened stakes into the forest, Archer caught my arm, raising a brow. “No prayer from our Keeper? Ill luck, Lailoken.”
Archer was devout in his worship. I and the gods may have been quarrelling, but he need not know.
“A prayer for the hunt,” I answered. The men bowed their heads, and I called out to Herne, though my heart was not in it. “Who leads a man to his quarry? Herne, Cernunnos. He is the pulsing of blood through the veins of all beasts. Without him, no gift of death can be given. Grant us meat this day, that we might thrive through the winter. Bless the pierce of our weapons and guide our aim strong. Keep these men safe from the dangers of your wood.”
Archer nodded and we took up our weapons, venturing into the bleak.
Snow muted all sound save the creak of pines in the wind. The winter woods felt watchful, and a shiver traced my neck. The Romans who built the Wall lived in fear of this forest. They knew of the wildcats and brown bears, the wolves and wild boar. But what frightened them most were the tales brought back by the scouts they sent into the Deep. Most never returned. Those who did spoke of skull fences and night shades, of groves strewn with human limbs. You never knew what might happen in the Caledonian Wood. My mother often said the very trees were home to the dead. Not those who dwelled in the Summerlands. The lost ones, the Forgotten, who lingered unseen.
“Tell us a tale, Lord Archer?” Rhiwallon asked, for he must have been feeling much the same.
The old man glanced at him. “Well enough. A quick tale, so as not to scare off our prey.” He shifted the bow on his back, gazing up at the trees. “A temple once stood, long ago, at the foot of a waterfall,” he began. “The temple lay within the walls of a fortress, ringed by a ditch and a rampart of stone. The waterfall was holy, and high as a mountain. It coursed snowy and white, spilling over the cleft of the hills like the hair of the Goddess herself. Great rites were worked there. Rites of power. And the Keepers of that temple were revered among the most learned in our land.
“Then one day, a Keeper of the temple slept and dreamt. He woke in a madness, believing he could fly. His people tried to warn him, but their words fell upon deaf ears. He fell into a frenzy, toiling night and day to craft a cloak made of feathers. On the day it was finished, he climbed to the height of the falls and leapt to the air. But he did not soar. The Wisdom Keeper fell to his death. After that, his spirit would not rest. The temple was cursed. The Selgovae abandoned the fort. A settlement was built on a crannog instead, in the waters of the twin lochs. They say the Mad Keeper’s shade still dwells in the glen.”
A cloak made of feathers. A memory stirred from a dream.
“Cursed, you say?” I asked Archer.
“Aye.” He nodded. “No one has dared to inhabit the old temple since.”
“Curious,” I said. “I might wish to travel there.”
“Surely we needn’t awaken any foul curses,” Fendwin spoke up. But I did not answer.
The cold air tightened our faces as we made our way deeper into the wood. Bears would be slumbering in their dens. It was the wolves I worried over—five men to a pack of fifteen. Then Rhiwallon’s stomach grumbled, and Archer frowned.
“If your gut startles a hind, it’ll be your bollocks we’ll bring home to roast,” he scolded, and the men broke out laughing. The first true medicine we’d had all winter.
We stopped to take some dried beef. The day wore on, and still we hunted. I missed the help of our dogs, but ou
r dogs were dead. Soon the light would grow weak. The men’s faces turned grim as we began to consider a night shivering in our bedrolls rather than sitting beside a blazing hearth with meat over the fire. But then we heard the garble and croak of a bird. Stopping midstride, I looked to the naked trees overhead, where a pair of ravens were perched, their figures huddled against the darkening hibernal sky.
“Wolf birds,” I said. The raven closest to me bent its inky head as I observed him, scrubbing his beak against the branch as if sharpening a sword. The birds, too, hungered. They were no strangers to hunters in the Caledonian Deep, and they meant to get their raven’s share. They meant to lead us to game.
“Move on,” Archer said. “Let us see if they’ll fly.”
The birds flapped eagerly from their roost and began to beat their way west. They’d seen something, then, perhaps a wounded animal. The trees were taller here, their thick branches casting the snowpack in dim light as we picked up our pace, trying to keep our scent downwind as we tracked the ravens’ silhouettes through the sky. Leagues passed beneath our feet and the light began to wane. And then, suddenly, the ravens vanished.
Fendwin cursed. We stood upon a rocky outcropping. Down below, a shallow burn rushed, and beyond its banks were hollows and fissures in rock, offering safe haven for any manner of creatures.
“We’ll be near enough now. This way,” Archer said.
We scaled the rocks and waited, sensing the forest. Then a flap of wings sounded, and the ravens reappeared, settling on the ground a short distance away. A carcass, it seemed, but it was hidden by brush. Signaling the men to wait, I crossed the stream, gripping my spear. The ravens took wing with a throaty rattle of discontent as I neared the spot where blood had congealed on the pebbled streambed. Peering into the foliage, I caught a glimpse of reddish hair and stumbled. Oh, gods, no. No, no. It could not be.
And then I had to see her, had to go to her. “Angharad…”
I crashed into the bushes only to find myself standing before the carcass of a wolf. I blinked. Male. Gray and white. Not a child’s hair; it was the tawny flash of fur lining the underbelly that I had seen. Sadness eddied in the stream of my relief as I knelt beside the fallen creature to study his wounds. Mauled? Gored, more like it. Two piercing wounds had slashed deep across his ribs. A beautiful creature and not to be wasted. We’d take the pelt for warmth. But it seemed strange the ravens would lead us here. What need had they of us? They’d feast fine enough on the carcass themselves.