The Forgotten Kingdom

by Signe Pike

  “Go on, then,” I said. “Extinguish my fire. It has been many long years since I have been fearful of the dark.”

  The night cell felt watchful. My mind roamed, tireless, my face burning with cold. I tucked my head beneath the fleece where my breath clouded warm, but the air soon went stale. It was many hours before sleep found me. When it did, at last, I dreamed of a stranger. A girl who was searching. It seemed she dwelled in some distant time. Her longing was vast as the mountains. I cannot explain it, but I knew what she sought. She sought to remember.

  There were temples once, I told her. They dotted the land like pinpricks into veins, tapping in to power that thrummed beneath the land of the living: the land of the dead. There, would you sleep in a cell, dreaming in darkness, and when you woke, the Keeper would ponder and tell you its meaning. There were star trackers once, who lifted their eyes to skies within circles of stone that thrummed into veins. They sang songs of summoning, and through the long, hollow halls, the ancestors came to be honored and held close. They came to be remembered.

  The girl sat beside me, but it was as if I were not there.

  She walked a land vacant as a desert, a land of shades and blowing grasses. She walked and sought the places where temples once stood, but for too long they had lain altered, neglected. For too long the ancestors of the girl had been sleeping.

  I was weeping for them, then. All the lost children. Rocking beneath the wave of their sorrow. And then I woke.

  I lay blinking, my face wet with tears. It was the blue hour before morning, and I had been weeping in my sleep. But there was a sensation, too, that had brought me awake. A nudge in the ribs, as if by a boot.

  I searched the cell, eyes straining in the semi-dark.

  A man stood looking down upon me, half hunched beneath the tapered stone roof. His hair was shorn in a crescent above his forehead, his eyes kohled in the manner of a diviner, of a priest. He shifted ever so slightly, and the cloak about his shoulders trembled. The cloak was made from cloth, or so it seemed, yet there was an unusual texture, something mounded high upon his shoulders that made him appear hunched, like a wood troll. The cloak was sewn with feathers. Layers upon layers.

  He cocked his head, studying me with the black-eyed intelligence of a crow.

  “What is it you want? Why have you drawn me here?” I asked.

  The man did not speak. But as I watched, his eyes shifted to the scar upon my cheek.

  I must have blinked, for then he was gone.

  Was I truly awake? Or had I been dreaming? I stood and went to the place where the man had loomed only a moment ago, searching the ground.

  Fool, Lailoken. What are you hoping to find?

  And then I saw it. Perhaps it was the purple light playing tricks, but I thought I discerned the slightest imprint, the shape of two boots denting the brown winter grass.

  I sat back upon my bedroll, dragging a hand over my face. This was why I had come, on the eve of the Wolf Moon, the moon before Imbolc. At the far edge of the cell, the wolf pelt sat in a heap. Follow me, it said.

  Aye, I would follow. But could I return?

  That I could drop myself into the world below ground was a matter of fact. I had done so before. The traveling was deep, the pathways frequented only by those who could find their way home. That was what I’d feared when I’d dragged Angharad from the stones. The body rouses, but the spirit is yet roaming, lost in between.

  Perhaps that was the fate that had befallen the Keeper. The Keeper of the Falls had summoned me here. The cursed Keeper of the Falls had stirred me from a dream. Soon I hoped to discover why. But the Sleep must be done in darkness, under the strength of the moon.

  So I stepped out into the morning, eerie with white. A good measure of snow had fallen in the night, transforming the falls into a craggy magnificence of towering ice. The burn beside the fort was frozen solid. I headed out in search of more fuel.

  An uphill climb was nothing, but I was weak from fasting and my wounds were yet mending. There would be scant wood on the desolate slopes, yet I still found myself climbing the steep path that led up past the fort. Soon I stood where the water spilled over the cliff. It was barren here—dark rock and dead grasses jutting up from the snow. As I picked my way higher up the burn’s course, the grasses gave way to dead moss and thick brown tufts of heather. The blood in my legs pulsed and pounded, threatening to seep, and I stopped where I stood, breathing. In the place in between breaths, memories of my loved ones came rushing back to claim me.

  Memory is a danger. It unlocks the door to madness.

  A shiver traced my arms beneath my furs, and then something skittered on the steep slope above, sending a scattering of rocks below. I looked up the hill and spied a lone goat standing, white as the snow. Its winter coat was shagged with fur, its horns were black as night. Its bright eyes were yellow, piercing with a strangeness that belonged to no mortal creature.

  The names of my god came unbidden. Herne Horned One Cernunnos.

  But Herne had forsaken me. He’d given no warning of the men who had marched to kill us. I’d asked him for sustenance on our hunt, and he’d sent a living demon instead.

  I looked at the goat. “Now you come. What is it you would tell me?” I demanded. “Show me. Show me! What must I do?”

  The only sound was the barking of a raven as an icy rain began to fall. The wind rushed up the valley, tugging at my hair. The raven sounded with the sharpness of a pin being driven into my head. The goat looked down at me, watching.

  Perhaps I could not blame my god for the beast. Perhaps he could not keep it away. But I could no longer sense the origins of my own thoughts. Such things happened from hunger. Frustration mounted, and I suddenly wanted to beat at my own head.

  I stared up at the goat as if my eyes alone could spear it. Nothing, nothing, again and again! I threw back my head with a scream—long and half-human, a cry born of rage. It startled my own ears, sending the animal bounding, disappearing from sight.

  I cursed and balled my fists. My beard was soaked, the hairs bristling to ice upon my cheek. Down in the valley, any fuel would soon be wet.

  There were no messages for me here.

  I fasted through the day, gathering what dry wood I could from the strip of forest that followed the frozen burn down below, bundling it to carry back to the cell upon my shoulders. My nose ran from cold by the time I returned, stacking the kindling to dry beside the fire.

  It lit, at least, and did not go out. Night neared. I unrolled my bedding and fed the flames. It would die while I lay sleeping. When I woke, I’d be near frozen, if I woke from the Sleep at all. I felt the same pit in my stomach that churned before battle, but I took the packet from my satchel, setting my cook pot over the fire to heat the old brew. Roots, mushrooms, and plants, elements for dreaming. I bent my head over the pot, inhaling the steam, earthy and sharp. It smelled like revelation. I sat and waited as it steeped, watching the fire.

  Who would aid me now? I closed my eyes, summoning the bloodline of those who had come before. Morken, Morydd, Mor. Cathan, my teacher.

  “Idell, Mother,” I said. “Bless my dreaming. Keep your son safe.”

  I struck a small split of wood against the pot in a slow, steady rhythm.

  The drink was a bitter, welcome heat. I drank it down and pulled out my rope, binding my feet. I knotted my blindfold, fumbling in blackness to bind my own hands. Stretching out, I pulled the wolf pelt to cover me, then took the dried boar skin, biting between my teeth. There was a repellent bristling—as if the elements of the two animals yet carried the memory of their feud—but I required both for the rite, and I hoped the wolf might aid me where the black boar would not. I caught sight of them, standing, and then they both began to run.

  My body was hollow, insides scraped clean. Beneath the blindfold, I closed my eyes, following the creatures into the dark. Soon the blackness was swirling, spinning swiftly into what felt like a pool. I felt the rise of vomit and turned to my side, but t
he medicine was quick. The cell dropped away. I fell out of my body and into the earth.

  There were passages there, down in the deep. Tunnels that cut through earth and through stone. I traveled them, one moment as if winged and the next moment inching through suffocating gaps, over and between boulders. Before me, the tunnel narrowed into a chute. Here I could not pass unless pressed upon my stomach. I dragged myself forward using the strength of my fingers. Beneath me, the rock went for leagues, down into the earth. Above me pressed the weight of passing eons.

  Others had traveled here. I could see the scrape of their fingers in sediment, hear their tormented cries echoing in the stone. Men and women, trapped since time out of memory.

  Help me. Help. I can no longer breathe.

  The air had grown heavy. The tunnel had gone stale. And then I began to realize it was not rock that pressed up from leagues down below but a pile of bodies. Bone upon bone. I sensed them beneath me, not only Keepers but line upon line of wanderers, those who’d attempted to travel this hidden world since man had first been born from the Gods.

  They are not real. They are not here, I told myself. This is the path of my journey alone.

  From somewhere in the distance came the warning that my chest was scarcely rising. The only way up was to discover a way through.

  I blinked in the darkness, searching for light. And then I saw it. A flicker, a crack. It was so simple—see it. And then I was through.

  I stumbled from the suffocation of the cave into the light. The hollow into the deep yawned at my back, its entrance unassuming, a craggy overhang where an animal might shelter from the cold. The forest before me was oak and ash, and beyond it was a loch. A gentle sweep of wind made ripples in the water. Birds called. The air smelled of leaf mold. The sky was gray, warning of rain.

  Your body lies bound, dreaming in snow.

  It was a trick, a quality of light, but this was not the world owned by men. This was a twin place, one far beneath. I could not linger here, I knew. I must keep alert. For this place was not like the world of men.

  In this place, things were not always as they seemed.

  CHAPTER 23

  Languoreth

  Cadzow Fortress

  Kingdom of Strathclyde

  November, AD 573

  Through the pasture where I once threw my blade at targets. Though the sturdy gates of the outer rampart where I stood to watch so many leave. Past the dormant wych elm that scattered the earth in snowy petals in spring, and into a nestled world of trees high above the Avon water. Here oak and pine remembered those I most loved. My children. My father and mother. Gwenddolau and Lailoken. Ariane and Cathan, Wisdom Keepers. Crowan, my old nursewoman.

  Maelgwn.

  My power was here. And now I had returned.

  The white cattle were home from their summer steading for winter’s keep, and they lifted their heads as the carts rolled by. Their warm coats had come in, their shaggy underbellies black with mud. As I nodded to the warriors minding the innermost gate, a tear escaped, and Cyan turned to me.

  “Mother, why do you cry?”

  “It is only I am so happy to be home,” I said.

  The old timber hall stood unchanged. I had last visited near summer’s end, at Lughnasa, when Rhys and I had overseen the harvest. Since that day, so much had been taken from me. I suppose I had feared nothing of Cadzow could remain.

  Droplets of rain clung to the gnarled branches of the apple tree in the courtyard. As we stepped down from the cart, my hallwoman Olwenna rushed to greet us, her hand over her heart.

  I’d sent a messenger ahead with news of Angharad and Rhys, along with instructions for our arrival, for I could not bear any questions. But the look upon her heart-shaped face spoke tomes. “You are here now, m’lady. All will be well.”

  “Thank you, Olwenna.”

  Her eyes traveled the faces looking back from the wooden slats of the prison cart as it trailed in behind us.

  “The messenger did not say how many, m’lady.”

  “We will make do. Thank you for your preparations, you had so little time.”

  “Aye, m’lady, and we were all more than willing. The stable is ready, it is all as you asked.’Tis not the first time we’ve welcomed those in need, and I’m certain it won’t be the last.”

  Olwenna spoke of the Britons who’d been wounded in the Angle massacre. They’d flooded Cadzow’s gates when I was but a girl. Olwenna had come to us years after that, but it was a tale none in our land could ever forget.

  “Let us open the cart and get them settled quickly. I will be in to aid shortly,” I said.

  The prisoners were frigid and starving; some would have wounds. Their leader, Gwenddolau, had been fostered here at Cadzow, and was much beloved. My servants at Cadzow would provide Gwenddolau’s people excellent care.

  I motioned Eira, Aela, and the children into the hall. The rain had soaked Torin and his men on the half-day’s journey by cart.

  “Come,” I said. “I will show you to your quarters.”

  “You needn’t in the rain,” Torin objected.

  “Not so. I am your host.”

  Soon they would sleep in the hall by the hearth, as befitted my guard, but two of Torin’s men were yet strangers, and I did not wish them so close.

  They followed me through the courtyard, but as I lifted the latch to the hut kept for our guests, my breath caught. For a moment Maelgwn sat at the table, hunched over a map by candlelight, dark hair falling over his eyes. I blinked, and the room was empty once more.

  “Is something the matter?” Torin asked.

  “No. Only a ghost.” I stepped into room. “They will come directly to light the hearth and bring some tapers. As you can see, there are very few warriors left here—we’ve little need under Tutgual’s protection, but you shall meet all those at Cadzow in the stables, if you will aid us there?”

  “In tending the prisoners?” asked one of Torin’s men, astounded.

  “Of course, m’lady. We are at your command.” Torin pinned him with his eyes.

  “Good, then.” I smiled. “I shall see you there shortly.”

  I met Aela and Eira in the stables. Cyan and Gladys, too, wished to help. If only my husband could see them.

  Look, Rhydderch. See how your children tend the victims of your war.

  It was true, what I had said to the king. Cadzow was bare bones.

  In the years since I’d wed Rhydderch, our presence at my childhood hall had dwindled. Strathclyde’s borders were kept by men unafraid to bloody their swords, and no lord or chieftain from within dared raid the wife of Tutgual’s son. But my servants here were loyal beyond compare. There could be no better place to shelter Gwenddolau’s people. And here at Cadzow, I could await word from my brother. Until then, I could only pray that he and Maelgwn yet lived.

  I buried Brant’s head at the foot of an oak. It towered just beyond the rampart, where he and Brodyn had so often stood guard when I was a child. As I packed the last of the earth and straightened my back, I could have sworn the branches of the leafless tree rustled in the wind, as if with a sigh.

  CHAPTER 24

  Angharad

  Kingdom of the Picts

  25th of October, 573 AD

  The fleet sailed north, or so Thomas said. Angharad’s bandages had fallen away, but she had no more need of them. The days passed like water. With each approaching vessel, the eyes of the Picts traveled to their weapons.

  Brother Thomas studied the stars. “It seems the fleet means to keep a wide berth from shore. Likely to avoid Angle vessels as they travel up the coast,” he said.

  On that first eve, before sleep, the Pictish commander with the fish upon his brow cut short the arms of a thick woolen tunic and offered it to Angharad. It gaped at the neck but fell neatly to her wrists and dropped down to her ankles, keeping her warm. The next day, upon seeing her stumble in its bulk, he unbound the rope at her wrists to use as a belt, then perched on the oar bench beside her. His
eyes were the blue of a northern sea, and they were fixed upon Brother Thomas.

  “Tell me. Is that priest your father?” he asked.

  “You do speak my tongue!” Angharad exclaimed, rushing on in relief. “Sweet Gods, what a blessing! My name is Angharad, daughter of Rhydderch. Elufed is my nain. Surely you know that the queen of Strathclyde herself is a Pict. There was an unspeakable battle, and I was lost from my uncle, who was training me to be a Wisdom Keeper, and my father did not trade for me—”

  The commander frowned. “I asked you of the priest.”

  “He is not a priest, he is a culdee,” Angharad said. “He has been my protector, and he is a friend.”

  “That may be, but I do not keep with priests.”

  He sat in silence a long while, considering Brother Thomas, who sat bound at the stern, arms wrapped round his knees. Then the commander turned, rattling something in Pictish to his men. Angharad could not understand, but there was an unsettling change in his tone. The mood on the boat shifted, and two oarsmen stood, striding toward Thomas.

  “What’s happening?” Angharad cried. “What is it you would do?”

  “I told you, I do not keep with priests.” The commander’s face was grim.

  Panic surged as the Picts yanked Brother Thomas to his feet, dragging him to the gunwale of the boat.

  Angharad ran to the commander, gripping his arm, but he shook her off, drawing his dirk. “A gift to the sea. When your priest meets Manannan, he will know a true god.”

  “No! Please, do not hurt him!” she cried.

  “Do not watch. Look away,” Brother Thomas said.

  Angharad could not bear it, not one more death. Tears sprang as she clutched the commander’s tunic, dropping to her knees. “Please. He is all that I have!”

  The commander looked down at her. The hard line of his jaw softened. “You should be thankful I do not strike him dead where he stands. But I am not unmoved.” Angharad dared not hope, but perhaps the Pict was not absent of a heart. He sheathed his dirk with a gallant gesture. “He may swim if he likes. Let Manannan choose his fate.”