by Annie Bellet
Áine contemplated carrying them herself, one after another, going a little ways and then returning for the second stone and repeating until she reached the cottage. But the deep ache in her healing leg warned her that such a feat might be more folly than sense. And her feet were swollen and bruised badly enough that her boots refused to settle onto them, even loosely laced.
The rocks weren’t so heavy that she couldn’t pull them if she had a way to make a sled that would work over meadow. She recalled the fishermen who sometimes used long poles with a basket strung between to bring fish up the shore from the sea.
Áine looked around. There was plenty of long grass she could weave into a crude platform, but she had no axe with which to make poles. She slid down to the beach and searched among the driftwood piled at the high-tide line until she found two sticks that she could use. They both had branches coming off them that Áine painstakingly removed with the edge of a broken rock. One pole was nearly perfect, the thickness of her arm and not too waterlogged. The other was only half as thick but Áine hoped that, since it was greener wood, the spring in it would lend it strength and prevent it from snapping.
She took her makeshift cutting tool up into the grass after laying the poles alongside her chosen stones. Áine took a deep breath, said a small prayer to whatever gods might hear her in Cymru-that-could-be, and started cutting lengths of the meadow grass.
The sun lit the waves aflame as Áine carried a final bundle of grass to her workspace. She stood and watched the water as she took a long drink from her waterskin and ate another apple. Áine washed her sore, chapped hands in the sea and then called her ball of light. She had a long night of weaving ahead of her.
The grass was tough and stubborn in her hands. Áine grit her teeth and continued braiding and twisting, braiding and twisting. She needed a platform with sides to hold the stones as well as rope to help her drag the poles. When her hands became so sore that tears leaked unbidden from her eyes, Áine rose and walked down to the ocean again. Tucking her skirt up in her belt, she bent and held her fingers beneath the cold water. Phosphorescence danced around her fingers, mirroring the strange stars filling the sky above.
Loneliness pressed in on her heart and Áine bit back a sob. She would not be so weak, not now. She’d found the stones, she only had to transport them. Idrys would not give up, but it wasn’t his haunted, determined dark eyes she recalled in that moment. Instead the memory of Emyr’s wide smile and kind touch warmed her. Her hands and feet numbed by the ocean, Áine turned from the waves with a half-smile and went back to her task.
“I can free them,” she whispered into the night wind as it curled off the sea.
* * *
Áine finished sometime in the night and fell asleep curled in her cloak until the yellow birds and a warm sun woke her for the second time. She quickly ate part of a loaf of bread before she returned to her work. The poles were now bound with the grass rope in what she hoped was a platform sturdy enough for the stones.
Áine half-lifted, half-dragged the first stone onto her sled and tied it in with the makeshift net she’d constructed. She tested the sled with only the one stone. The stone shifted in its bindings but nothing snapped and the two tips of the poles slid across the grass well enough when she tugged.
Shaking her head, Áine took a deep breath. With a little luck, this might work.
Her luck held. With the second stone secure in its netting and cushioned from the other stone with her excess rope, Áine pulled her own haphazard harness on. She made a pad with her cloak to help keep the coarse rope from hurting her chest too much as she strung the largest strands around her shoulders and across her breasts. With another muttered prayer, Áine set out toward Seren’s home.
Her journey to the sea had taken half a day. Burdened with the sled and stones, Áine’s return took far longer. Her poles seemed to find each and every irregularity in the meadow and every hill posed a new test of her will. Her back itched, her legs throbbed, her chest burned. Sticky wisps of red hair clung to her cheeks and annoyed her eyes with every breeze.
It was late afternoon by the time Áine spotted the dark line of the forest in the distance ahead of her. She fought down a premature cry of triumph and pushed forward.
The forest was open enough that her poles only caught every ten steps instead of three. Áine had stopped, cursing under her breath, to free her sled from a hawthorn bush when she heard a cry. The cries continued, off to her left and out of sight, sounding very much like a young boy in deep distress.
Áine hesitated, wondering if this might be some trick of the fey Lady. The cries continued, echoing into the growing gloom. If this is a trick, Áine thought, but if it isn’t? She knew she was bound by her wisewoman’s rank to help those in need if she was able.
With another muttered curse, Áine made up her mind and slipped out of her harness. She unfolded her cloak and flung it over the hawthorn to mark where her sled rested in case she wandered too far. Then she set out toward the cries.
Movement caught her eye before too long and Áine called a ball of light. It was not a child but a raven. A large thorn bush, its branches blue in the soft light, trapped the bird in its long black and purple thorns. The raven’s movements only entangled and injured it further.
Áine approached slowly, speaking soft reassurances. The bird twisted its head and looked at her with dark, distressed eyes, its beak hanging open as it panted.
“Shush raven, I’m going to help you. Good raven, easy now.” Áine knelt beside the bushes, careful of her own skin near the long thorns. The raven was a juvenile, judging from its size. Áine saw large purple berries growing full and ripe among the thorns and shook her head at the greedy creature.
She pulled her sleeves back to her sore shoulders and started to break the thorns and bend back the brambles. The raven resumed its pointless thrashing and Áine spoke to it sharply.
“You’re making it worse, silly bird. Hush now. Let me free you.”
To her surprise, the raven stopped its movements immediately and stayed still as she worked. Áine shook her head and decided she was the silly one to be surprised by anything in this Cymru-that-could-be. It was almost amusing how in this world she stood out for being too human, where in Cyrmu-that-is she was the oddity. Almost.
Áine pulled the raven free and carefully checked among its feathers for embedded thorns. “You’re a lucky one, these thorns are tough enough that they didn’t break and stick in you. I hope you’ve learned your lesson about this fruit.” She smiled at the raven as it hopped from one foot to the other, its beak ruffling its feathers as though searching for thorns as well.
She jerked back in shock as the raven’s coat swirled and faded and a young boy with glassy black eyes and richly dark skin the same blue-black as the raven’s feathers appeared in its place. He cocked his head at her and bent in a half-bow.
“You saved me, Lady,” he said, “I would give you a boon.”
Áine recovered enough to find her voice. “My name is Áine, and I’m a wisewoman. I am bound to help the living if I’m able. Your life and health are boon enough.”
The boy-raven laughed and the sound rang through the wood like the harsh cry of the bird he’d been until recently. “Áine. I greet you. I am Bran, king of the ravens, and your kindness will someday be repaid.”
Áine doubted very much that this inquisitive-looking child before her was any sort of king, but she’d some experience with children and thought there was little harm in holding her tongue on the matter.
“Thank you, King Bran. Could you point the path to the Lady Seren’s house for me? That would be quite a help, for the hour grows late and I’ve a task to finish.” Áine rose to her feet and pulled her sleeves down over her scratched arms.
Bran straightened up and pointed. A glittering strand extended from his hand and wove its way through the trees. “Seren’s home lies there; the wisping strand will guide you. Why does she task you? Have you angered her?”
/> Áine looked down into his black eyes and shrugged. Not yet, she thought, but said, “She has cursed the ones I love; I work now to free them.”
“Seren does not easily release what she has. Good luck, Áine, follow your heart.” With those words, Bran turned into a raven again and rose with a joyous cry through the trees and away into the darkening night.
Áine walked back to her sled, turning the boy-raven’s words over in her head. They echoed Blodeuedd’s advice. Follow her heart. She refolded her cloak and picked up the poles. The thin, silvery line of the wisping strand drifted ahead, leading the way toward Seren.
The aches in her body blended into one complaint and she’d lost track of how many times she’d had to stop and free her sled from branches or brush by the time the glowing windows of Seren’s home shone in front of her. Áine dragged the stones into the clearing. She pulled off the harness and stumbled down to the pool. The cool water was the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted and soothed her throat, hot face, and stinging hands.
Áine rose and looked around. It was full dark and likely deep into the night. Seren did not come out to greet her and Áine sighed. She was exhausted. The stones and Seren could wait until morning. Áine wrapped her cloak around herself and curled up next to her sled.
* * *
“Halfling.” Seren’s falsely sweet voice woke Áine.
She opened her eyes to full daylight and squinted up at the Lady. Seren wore a bright-green dress and tiny white flowers woven into the rippling cascade of her blood-red hair.
Áine self-consciously brought a hand to her own ragged and dirty locks, then pushed aside her feelings. She might look a mess, but unless she was mistaken, Seren’s expression looked most displeased.
Áine smiled and sat up. “I have brought you two white stones, exactly alike.” I hope.
“I see as much,” Seren said and Áine’s smile grew wider at her tone. “Let us find out if they are the stones I requested.”
Seren stood stiffly by while Áine rose and pulled the stones free of their netting. Áine motioned, not trusting her voice. The Lady walked around the stones and considered them from all angles. Then she stepped forward and rapped on the first rock.
The woods rang with the clear chiming tone of the purest bell Áine had ever heard. She shivered, gooseflesh rising along her arms and neck. The stone split neatly down the middle, cracking to reveal a small iridescent gem in its heart. Seren plucked the gem free and raised a perfect red eyebrow at Áine.
“The first stone is correct. Let us see if the second holds its match.”
Áine held her breath, thinking of the third stone she’d left near the beach. Would she have to go back for it? Would it still be there? She wrapped her arms around herself and prayed.
Áine couldn’t stop the cry of joy that escaped her throat as the second stone’s voice rang through the wood and it too split to reveal an iridescent gem at its heart.
Seren’s face looked pinched as she turned to Áine. She didn’t smile so much as pull her lips back from her perfect teeth. “You have completed the first task. I suppose you have no wish to rest before you start the second?”
Áine wanted to rest. She wanted to sleep for a fortnight, preferably in a soft bed with a hot meal or ten in her belly. But a task sooner started was one sooner finished, and she doubted there was a hot meal or soft bed to be had here. Seren might have offered such before, but her displeasure at Áine’s accomplishment had likely revoked such a thing, though Áine told herself she’d refuse it again in any case. She hoped.
She realized she’d been silently staring at the Lady. “Yes, Lady,” she said, licking dry lips. “What must I do?” No more rocks, she prayed.
Seren considered her for a moment and then her lips twisted into a far more genuine and unpleasant smile. “Very well, Áine, you must travel to see the fairy smith, Trahaearn and ask him to forge two clasps.”
“That is all?” Áine said and kicked herself for voicing it aloud. “I mean, any specific clasps? Must they also be exactly alike?”
Seren shrugged. “Tell him they are to break a curse, and he will know the clasps I want.” She turned away from Áine and started to disrobe. “Go on now,” she paused and looked over her shoulder, “unless you’d like to join me in a swim?”
Áine shook her head. “No, thank you. Which way is this smith?”
“Find the mountain to the east. Between two twining holly trees lies a door. It will lead you to Trahaearn.” The green dress slipped over Seren’s head, revealing her shapely hips and unblemished moon-pale skin.
Áine rubbed her hands with their cracked nails and numerous scratches against her dress, which was more grey and brown than white now. She muttered her thanks and fled into the woods, heading toward the rising sun.
Twenty
Áine stopped at the straggling edge of the trees and stared. Ahead of her, though the exact distance was hard to tell in the fading light, rose a towering expanse of stone. The forest died out around her and gave way to a rocky expanse that rose slowly to meet the base of the mountain.
Áine found a tree whose roots grew in a way so as to create a comfortable cradle for her tired body and sank down to eat her dinner. Her pack still contained apples and bread and she silently gave thanks for the kindness of Blodeuedd. Her belly full and her heart aching, Áine slid down until her head rested on her arms and slept.
Her dreams pulled her away toward the twins, close and real enough that she could smell the wood smoke and feel the cold autumn wind on her dreaming skin.
Emyr stood at the door of the great hall, holding it open for his brother to enter in hound form. The two went quickly into their room and Emyr started stripping out of his clothing, annoyance in every bone in his body.
“Can’t you feel it? You’re pushing the time too near, Idrys. What if you change while I’m not there? Or someone sees you? Or. . .” He had no time to finish as the change took him and his body flowed down into that of a hound while Idrys’s dark shape grew and turned to that of a man.
“I’m sorry, brother, but I had to stay out as long as I could. I had to keeping looking.” Idrys shook himself as though he were a hound still. Emyr stared up at him from the pile of his clothing for a long moment and then looked away. Idrys sighed and started to dress.
Autumn was turning to winter. Emyr’s duties kept him from the daily search for a sign or word of Áine, but Idrys as a hound had no such restrictions. Day after day he ran as far as he dared in every direction, though his hope at what he might find grew thin.
He barely touched his dinner, speaking little to Urien or Llew or Caron. They left him alone. The chief had grown more and more withdrawn as the months passed and there was no word of the wisewoman or her fate. During the day his eyes would wander from a familiar face and stare toward the trees or out across the moor. At night he was even more withdrawn, sitting on the low wall under a torch at the edge of the berm outside town, carving absently as he watched the path from Clun Cadair.
A white owl that rested sometimes in the eaves of the barn flew overhead and disappeared into the night. Idrys looked up from his carving and watched her ghostly flight. He rubbed the tiny horse taking shape in his hands and thought of the strong young foal that Áine had helped to save. He couldn’t bear to see the colt these days and Emyr had thankfully sent the mare and her foal off to be cared for by one of their herders.
Unbidden, the image of Áine’s smiling face danced before his mind. How alive she’d been that night with her green eyes warm and happy, her skin flushed with triumph. Her soft, pale skin. She’d given herself so freely into his arms, wanting nothing from him that he wouldn’t wish to give. Her gentle laugh had pushed away so much of the darkness that clung to his heart. The black night suddenly seemed warmer for the spark of his memory.
Idrys choked and stopped himself from crying out her name, just. For a moment she’d felt so near he could smell the clean scent of her hair, feel her breath on his cheek. He set
the mostly carved horse down on the burm and rose. There was no Áine there, nothing but the sounds of the settlement behind him and the wind playing in the foliage of the woods ahead.
“Áine, love. Come home.”
The owl swept down in a hush of white feathers and plucked the little horse from the stones beside him. Idrys watched as she disappeared again. He smiled and turned toward home to find Emyr.
Áine was out there, the owl was a sign. He would trust his heart and he hoped his brother would believe as well. They spoke so little to each other these days, the distance growing even as Áine’s presence had closed it. But Idrys would speak, and Emyr could listen and perhaps share his own thoughts come daylight.
The owl winged across the land, down through the dark forest and toward the dawn, carrying the little wooden horse.
* * *
Áine woke and wished she hadn’t. Her leg muscles had stiffened even more this night than the last and she groaned. Her neck hurt as well and her arms felt like wood. She’d slept with her head on them and her left hand had fallen asleep. She sat up slowly and stretched her toes out.
“Oh.” Áine uncurled her left hand, ignoring the needles of pain. There was something clutched within it.
She stared down at a little wooden carving of a horse. It wasn’t polished and its legs were mere suggestions in the wood; however, she recognized the style of it. For a moment she was frozen with surprise. Áine jumped to her feet, casting her eyes wildly about.
“Idrys!” she shouted, “Idrys. Please, Idrys.”
The woods stilled around her in answer for a moment and then the birdsong swelled again as a morning breeze ruffled the leaves. She turned and looked out toward the mountain, trying to remember her dreams. It was hopeless; she could only recall a forest canopy and a cold wind carrying something light and white upon it. Áine sighed. She wondered how her foal was doing. Did Idrys look on the colt and wonder how she was? He’d made this carving, that she was certain of. But how it came to her sleeping hand she could not fathom.