by Signe Pike
It might have seemed impossible to anyone untouched by madness.
But as Maelgwn enjoyed saying, perhaps I possessed exactly the right amount. “It is an excellent riddle for your prodigious intelligence,” he said. “For it possesses sheer rock cliffs and a triple set of ramparts. The watchtower on the eastern crag can spot an approaching vessel leagues away. A death trap lies between the second and third rampart, and we are without arms, boats, or men enough to do it.”
Clyde Rock was a tidal fortress, commanding the salt waters of the Firth of Clyde. A symbol of Tutgual’s power, it had been the pride of the Britons since time out of memory. No traveler could enter the rivers Clyde or Leven without paying Tutgual richly. This meant it also possessed rich coffers.
Perhaps it was true—no enemy had managed to breach its ramparts in living memory.
But that only made it all the more enticing.
“Are you in agreement then, Maelgwn Pendragon?” I asked.
There had been a spark, but suddenly, Maelgwn was solemn. “And what of Languoreth?”
“I would never risk her! We will warn her, of course. She mustn’t be anywhere near. She or her children.”
“But you would make her a widow?”
I met his eyes. “If my sword should fly, who would still my hand?”
Maelgwn did not have a chance to answer, for Diarmid, who’d been eavesdropping, lifted his head. “Well, you aren’t going without me!”
“Lend your Sight if you’re so eager. For I’ve nearly figured out a way, but we are in need of an ally. One to provide arms, boats, and men.”
“I would’ve searched after it days ago. You never asked.”
The look I gave him was exasperated.
“Just you wait. We’ll have a look, then.” He took up the fire iron and rose stiffly to bank it, adding more fuel. “Fire scrying isn’t my favorite, but it does in a pinch, eh?”
Once the flames were roaring, he sat down and gestured at Maelgwn. “Bring me more ale.”
Maelgwn and I played at fidchell while Diarmid sat drinking, eyes half closed as he stared into the fire. Such a long time passed, I was certain he’d fallen asleep until he gave a loud “Hah!” and threw back his head with a laugh.
I glanced at Maelgwn. “I don’t know if I like the start of this.”
Diarmid recovered himself, wiping a tear from his eye. “Oh, it is perfect. But you shall never believe me.”
“Test me,” I said.
Diarmid put his hands upon his knees, leaning in. “Aedan mac Gabrahn.”
“Aedan the Scot?”
“Aye.”
Maelgwn considered it. “King of Mannau. Plenty of ships. Plenty of men—”
“The deadliest warriors I’ve ever seen!” Diarmid cut in.
“And when have you seen them?” I asked.
He waved a hand. “In tales, in tales, but it’s all the same.”
I had a friend in Rheged who I knew could get word to Aedan mac Gabrahn. Aedan’s kingdom of Mannau was just north of Partick, and neither I nor any of the others here dared venture through Strathclyde. But the Song Keeper Taliesin was the Song Keeper of Urien of Rheged, the man who had fathered Eira. Taliesin would know the Song Keeper of Aedan mac Gabrahn. Our bonds as Keepers were built to subvert the will of kings in times such as these. I would use the brotherhood of the Wisdom Keepers.
One of Archer’s men carried a message to Rheged.
And this was how, soon as the snow melted from the passes, and the rivers began to run high, turning the season to mud, Diarmid and I left the others at Black Mountain and went to find Taliesin upon his boat at Rheged’s quay.
“I never did ask what it was exactly that you saw in the fire,” I said to Diarmid as we left our hired horses at the stableman’s in Rheged and strode along the quay.
We were wearing dull cloaks with large hoods lent from two of Archer’s men, so that we might look like Selgovae. They used this port often, so we did not seem out of place.
Diarmid looked at me sidelong as we turned onto the docking. “What I saw in the fire? Whatever are you on about?”
“You were staring at the fire, then shouted, ‘Aedan mac Gabhran!’ ”
I must have spoken too loudly, for at the sound of the king’s name, people on the quay dropped their sacks and trunks, turning to the water in alarm.
“A jest, a jest,” I said in apology. I bowed my head to hide beneath my hood.
“And can’t a Seer have an idea, or is that only you?” Diarmid asked. “It was a good one, at that. You hadn’t thought of it. Look!” He pointed, eager to change the topic. “Here we are. He said the vessel had a red and white sail, did he not?”
Taliesin was speaking idly with other three men in the belly of the boat. He glanced up as we neared, but he did not call out my name. It was a busy passage, the Sea of Rheged, and I was dead or an exile. My scar made me readily recognized, and with his staring, milky eye, Diarmid the Diviner did not precisely blend in.
Taliesin gripped my arm as I stepped aboard the boat. “Well met, old friend. It is good to see you among the living. But you have grown thin.”
“And you have grown rich,” I quipped, nodding to his boat and his brooch—silver and garnet, with more jewels besides. He would have laughed in the days when he and I had first met, both of us traveling north to train as young Keepers. But his broad mouth did not smile, and his brown eyes were sad. He greeted Diarmid, helping him settle comfortably, then nodded to the men manning the boat.
“They are trustworthy and well compensated. They shan’t say a word. Come, brother. We shouldn’t tarry. I’d see you to Barsalloch before we endanger your head.”
We set sail along the coastline, west and then north round the point, taking some sustenance and talking of the war.
Aedan mac Gabrahn had agreed to meet. And Taliesin had offered his own sea fort as a middle place. Our allegiance to our kings might’ve seen us on opposite sides, when Urien came against Gwenddolau in the Battle of Arderydd, but there was little we would not do for a fellow Keeper in need. As a counsellor, I fought. As a Song Keeper, he’d borne witness, his principal task to mark the valor of his lord.
As the boat cut through water, we traded lines as we once did, this time composing our song of the war. It soothed us, I think, to return to shared habits. It helped us understand what had become.
“The slaughter was terrible, shields shattered and bloody,” he began.
I tried my own line. “Swiftly came Maelgwn’s men, warriors ready for battle, for slaughter armed…”
“A host of spears flew high, drawing blood from a host of strong warriors…”
“A host fleeing, a host wounded—a host bloody, retreating.” I stopped and fell quiet, looking out to sea.
We reached the cliffs of Barsalloch just before sundown, and I stepped from the vessel to help drag it ashore. High above the flat, pebbled beach, gorse sprouted from cliffs littered with fat, grazing sheep. Taliesin led the way as we mounted the steep path up to the fort, drawing ahead quickly as Diarmid puffed.
“Don’t walk so quickly,” he called from behind.
I glanced over my shoulder. “If you’re all out of wind, you need only say.”
“Me, out of wind? Ha.” He caught up, lowering his voice. “We shall see who runs the faster when Urien of Rheged sells us to Strathclyde.”
I shook my head. “Taliesin is a brother of the robe. He will not give us away.”
“That’s what you think.”
“And tell me, old friend, did you see this in fire?”
“Nay,” he said, solemn. “I saw it in the sea.”
We passed a midden pile of shellfish being picked over by shorebirds, then passed through the gate. Five little huts nestled within the rampart’s enclosure.
The fortress, I knew, had been a gift from the king. So perhaps it should not have surprised me to find Urien of Rheged sitting at the table when Taliesin ushered me in. Well, that and the fact that Diarmid had
warned me.
The king looked up as we entered, and Taliesin spoke low. “You must trust me, Lailoken. All will be well.”
“Urien, King.” I bowed my head deeply and Diarmid did the same, though he kicked at my heel when he straightened, making his point.
The king of Rheged was gray-haired with green eyes and dressed in rich, patterned cloth. The thick twist of his torque glinted beneath oil light. Urien of Rheged was an honorable man. I’d met him before, even counted him a friend. Now, when I saw him, I saw only Eira’s father. Yet the king did not know his daughter had lived. Then there was the fact that he’d come against us in war. I understood, out of necessity, why he had taken Rhydderch’s side. Our cause was futile. He could not refuse. But since being besieged by my sister’s own husband, I did not much trust in honorable men.
I threw a dark look at Taliesin, and Urien shook his head. “Save your anger, Lailoken. I intend you no harm. Come in, then, and sit.”
We did as he bade, taking a seat upon the bench.
“I heard Aedan mac Gabrahn has agreed to come meet. If two men of interest meet in the bounds of my kingdom, I will hear all they might say.”
“Only fair,” I allowed, looking round the hut. Only two men kept watchful eyes on the king. With Taliesin’s three, that made only five. Still, I was glad I’d asked Maelgwn to keep to Black Mountain. If anything should happen, I knew he’d carry on.
“So.” The king motioned, and a man brought us wine. “You are not dead. And neither am I. Aedan mac Gabrahn won’t arrive ’til the morrow. How, then, Lailoken, shall you and I pass our time?”
It was quite pleasant, in the end. We drank and we dined. Taliesin and I recounted stories from our youth. He stood up and performed a song, most affecting, called “Cad Goddeu.” The Battle of the Trees.
“I’d have a word, Urien King,” I said, before the night ended too soon.
He nodded and beckoned. The other men withdrew.
I was not certain how to tell him all that I knew. So I told Urien what mattered most for him: that his daughter, Gwendolen, had not in fact died. But that now I could not know if she yet lived.
“The details are a story not mine to tell,” I said. “But I would have you know I am enamored of your daughter. I am reclaiming my power, and I hope I might find her and make her my wife.”
Urien sat back, stunned. “How do you know that this servant is truly my daughter?”
“It doesn’t much matter to me whether she is your daughter or no. But I believe all she has told me is true. And should she tell you what has befallen her, I have little doubt you shall believe her, as well.”
“And you have no idea where she’s gone? Or what might have happened?”
“She promised to meet me in the Selgovian lands. My men and the Selgovae search for her still.”
I knew that I loved Eira. I knew that I missed her. But I hadn’t any idea how difficult this would be—sitting across from the man who had made her. Seeing, in him, the slope of her nose.
“I must get some rest,” I said, and stood.
“I must thank you, Lailoken,” Urien said. “It seems I relinquished my claim long ago, but if I should see her, I should like her to understand I never meant any harm to befall her.”
Urien drained his cup and looked down at his hands. Flexed them into fists, as if testing their strength. “Gwrgi of Ebrauc,” he said, looking up.
I nodded. I knew precisely what he meant.
Aedan mac Gabrahn was not a man who appreciated being surprised by the presence of another king.
But once all was settled—and blades put away—he clapped Urien on the back and sat down by his side. “You are counsellor to a shattered kingdom, Lailoken. You are lucky I’ve come.”
“And why did you agree?” I asked.
His hazel eyes were deep-set, his curly hair the color of dark leather. “Because I like you—though I cannot say I much know you.”
Aedan’s easy way of speaking belied his deeper machinations. Aedan the Wiley, he was called by the Britons. As a boy, he’d eaten his first meat off the tip of a knife. His ambition was insatiable. He spoke Goidelic and Latin. Brythonic, Pictish, and Greek. And if he saw reason, he’d just as soon cut off your head as he might grip your arm.
He was shorter than I imagined. Yet somehow more frightening.
“Aye,” I said. “My kingdom was shattered, and I would take my revenge. I wish to bring horror to the men of Clyde Rock.”
Aedan sat back, lifting his brows. “You wish me to aid you. You and what others?”
“Nay. I’ll not touch it,” Urien said.
“Seven men, plus him.” I nodded to Diarmid, who winked his milky eye, leaning in.
“Is it true as a lad, you had to spar for your supper?”
Aedan’s mouth twitched with amusement.
I pressed on. “I know the mount well. May I tell you my plan?”
The king of Mannau sat rapt as I detailed the way of it. I could see it enticed him—the impossible raid. I also knew how much Aedan disliked Tutgual. And how very much he liked booty.
“There will be white cattle wintering from my family’s own stock,” I said. “The granary and kitchen house will be weighted down with food. And the coffers will be heavy—they’ll just have collected spring rents. The booty will be yours. I’d only hire passage in.”
Aedan’s gaze was piercing. He turned and glanced back at the bench, where sat his three men. He’d not introduced them when he entered, and they’d moved to the wall to sit wordlessly behind him.
But now one of the men met Aedan’s eyes with a nod. His reddish-blond hair was curly and kept from his face by a thin strip of leather. His arms were muscled and covered in fine reddish hair. He possessed the same deep-set eyes as his father. Though not hazel. Blue.
“Artùr, my son,” Aedan said. Then he turned to Urien. “King of Rheged. You’d watch Britons die?”
Urien was unshaken. “That is a question better put to Lailoken.”
I could not see any judgment in his eyes, but it stirred my anger all the same. “Aye, I am most happy to watch Britons die. For it was these Britons, without cause, who brought war upon me. My brother, my cousin, my nephew, my warriors. All dead. And I—Strathclyde’s son? Tutgual and his sons believe their might indestructible. I will pile the walls of their fortress with their dead.”
Aedan mac Gabrahn was watching me with a measure of respect. “ ’Tis a shame you were not here for this meeting,” he said to Urien.
“It did not happen on my land.”
“You have been more than fair,” I said.
“On this occasion only,” Urien said. “Do not attempt such a thing again.”
Aedan mac Gabrahn gave a sniff of satisfaction. “We’ll do it,” he said. “The thirteenth of April. It’ll be a new moon. Dark on the reaches for landing the boats.”
We finalized our plan. And with that he was gone.
CHAPTER 30
Angharad
The White Fort
Glen Lyon, Kingdom of the Picts
28th of October, AD 573
They followed the road beneath a white autumn sky, where clouds bellied low over undulating hills. The horses plodded steadily around the western slope of Bridei’s fort to the ford on the river Lyon. On the far side of the grassy bank, a wood of elm and oak stretched, and nearer to the river, bony fingers of birch. A herd of tawny cattle with thickening winter coats grazed between the trees. But as they drew closer to a clearing ahead, the snowy mare beneath them tensed, and Angharad caught sight of a constellation of standing stones.
Eachna reached to stroke her horse’s neck. “She feels the spirits that lie sleeping. Tamed horses do not like such places. The spirits are strong and make them uneasy.”
The gray boulders were ancient and smooth, sloping like melted wax into the land. Something within the quality of the rock caused them to shimmer ever so slightly, even in the cloudy haze. Her hennain leaned forward in the saddle so she mi
ght better see Angharad’s face. “Do you remember this place? Your blood remembers.”
A place of threes, Angharad thought. For indeed there were three clusters of worn stones mysteriously placed in the clearing. Beneath them, Angharad could feel her ancestors dreaming.
Eachna urged her horse onward, nodding at the settlement up ahead. “Fortingall.”
Angharad craned her neck. Roundhouses with thatched roofs were nestled against a hill that arched like a whale’s back. There were bee houses, need-gardens, and healing gardens, too. Wicker pens held sheep for wool and goats for milking. But what drew Angharad’s eye was the round stone wall standing at the center of all else. A magnificent yew grew within the low stone enclosure, its graceful arms only beginning to thicken with age. Nearby, a simple rectangular temple stood with a peaked thatched roof.
“Brother Thomas spoke of this tree,” Angharad said.
“It was given by those whose ash bones rest in the field,” Eachna said.
“And the fortress?” Angharad pointed halfway up the eastern rise of the hill, where a rampart emerged out of the trees.
“White Fort, in your tongue. It has belonged to the priestesses of Fortingall for countless winters now. The high king provides men to keep it, men such as these.” She gestured to the men on horseback. “They are honored to protect us, but they keep to the fort lest we bid them come down, for we have little need of protection. No clann among the Cruithni would dare ravage this place.”
Angharad glanced back at Brother Thomas, and his blue eyes were reassuring. Muirenn had promised Eachna could help her find her way home. But her hennain had not yet spoken of this. She had wondered at Angharad’s journey but not asked after Angharad’s mother or father. She spoke only of Elufed, as if Angharad’s own parents were nothing at all. Now the sight of huts with warm fires stirred Angharad’s longing.
“Lady Eachna?”
“Yes, child?”
“I must send a message to my mother and father,” Angharad said. “They must know I am safe. They will send someone to fetch me.”