A Novel

by Signe Pike

  Her eyes searched mine in the reflection. “Aye. Don’t you believe it?”

  I glanced away. There was a time when our warriors boasted of the bottomless horns of ale they’d drink in the land of the Gods, the fair women they’d bed, the riches they’d have. Once we were a people who held no fear of death. But that was before the Romans came. Before our warriors were cut down and our fields watered with blood.

  Cathan—Father’s counsellor—had taught us the histories. How the Romans had slain entire villages, entire tribes, men, women, and children alike falling to the sword. They outlawed our Wisdom Keepers and put them to slaughter. Those who survived were sent to work in the mines. They set fire to our fields and then sowed them with salt.

  They created a wasteland and called it peace, Cathan had said.

  Now our warriors watched warily from our high hills and fortresses.

  Did I believe in Summerlands when such things could happen? Did I dare believe a world of spirits and Gods could be real at all?

  “I want to believe,” I said at last.

  “Well. I’ll tell you what I know.” Crowan smiled. “The Ancestors keep their vigil at the edge of the worlds, waitin’ to bring their children home. It was them that taught us the plants that heal, the fire that burns, how to work our metal, and how to keep our stories. It was them that could shift their shapes to any animal of the forest in the blink of an eye.” She sighed and pressed her face beside mine in the mirror.

  “Such times are hard on all of us, and on none harder than the young. But you’re the lady of this hall now. Gods be true, you’ll make your mother proud.” Crowan straightened, and her hands resumed their work.

  “I’ll tell you what else I know. Your mother lived well on this land. She was kind and generous, always tending to the people. The Ancestors wouldn’a miss guiding her home. The lady Idell suffers no more. I can promise you that.”

  I nodded, but I couldn’t keep my eyes from welling at the mention of my mother.

  Nor at the memory of her standing knee-deep in the half-frozen river, pale and silent, like a stranger.

  Like a ghost.

  • • •

  Father’s chair sat empty at breakfast. The servants had set out plates with salt pork and cheese, warm bread and fresh-churned butter. Lail and I ate dutifully before pushing back our chairs to find Cathan beyond the courtyard. The Wisdom Keeper’s hut sat just inside the inner rampart, beside a thorn tree and a small stand of crab apple. When Cathan and my father weren’t traveling to collect the food rents or summoned to the capital by the high king, Tutgual, we visited Cathan daily for instruction. Smoke emanated from the thatching of the little hut, telling me he’d just thrown a fresh block of peat on the hearth. I pushed open the door to find the coverlet pulled neatly over his bed, the usual clutter of fossils and parchment cleared from the table in anticipation of our visit. Cathan was seated on the floor in silence, his white sleeves pushed up past his elbows and hands clasped in his lap.

  I’d been frightened of Cathan as a babe, difficult as it might be to remember now. He was a sturdy man, tall, and must have seemed towering as a standing stone in his billowy white robe and stormy wilderness of hair. His blue eyes were clear as a forest pool and as chilly, too, until some fair humor struck him—for as stern as he might appear, Cathan the Wisdom Keeper was quick to laugh.

  The floor creaked beneath our feet and Cathan opened his eyes. Standing slowly on stiff legs, he assessed us.

  “No sleep, I see. At least, not for you,” he said, gesturing at Lail. Lail shrugged as we took our seats on the little bench beside the hearth.

  “And you, Languoreth? How do you fare?”

  The tenderness in his voice summoned the swift sting of tears, and I bit my lip against the wave that threatened to drown me.

  “Eh, now?” Cathan bent, clasping his weathered hand in mine. “There, there. No sense in battling tears. We all weep. Sometimes it’s best to let them fall.”

  I blinked their hotness onto my cheeks, and Cathan sighed and straightened, looking at the two of us.

  “It is good we are here.” He bowed his head. “The lady Idell would not want you to miss any more instruction.” The Wisdom Keeper’s eyes trailed out the unshuttered window, where our shaggy white cattle were roaming the bleak winter pastures of Cadzow, the fields sprawling hay-colored against a smoky morning sky.

  “Death is no easy thing,” Cathan said. “There is always the missing. But the dead never leave us. Lady Idell watches over us all. Someday you shall understand the truth of what I mean.”

  I wanted to tell Cathan what we’d seen, to ask him why Mother had looked as she did and what she might have to do with the great stag; but Lailoken was watching, and he fixed me with a hard look. Why didn’t Lail wish me to speak of it? It was Cathan who was teaching Lailoken all he knew of augury. Signs and omens in nature, messages that came from the spirits of the woods.

  Besides, no good ever came from keeping secrets from Cathan.

  Cathan, unnoticing, only flexed his fingers, clearing his throat.

  “So. Today we shall learn about the laws that govern our people. Why must we have laws?”

  I fought to still my racing mind as his instruction began.

  “Why must we have laws?” he echoed. “It is a rhetorical question. To attempt any organized society without them would be an exercise in futility. Laws do not simply dictate right from wrong. They provide measures of balance. In this way, laws are not only laws, they are Spirit. Laws become our guardians. They help men and women keep the course between right and wrong when they cannot do so themselves. A law broken results in a punishment, most often payment—the aim of which is to encourage correct action in the future.”

  “But what about raiding?” Lailoken asked. “If raiding cattle is stealing from others, why are no fines paid by warriors or kings?” My brother thrived on instruction, and it cheered me a little to hear him sounding more like himself.

  “Because when raiding’s done right, it’s all in good sport. Proper kings don’t go to war over stolen cattle!” Cathan grinned. “They learn instead to guard them better the next time. It is when the laws built to protect men and women are broken that raiding turns to war. Lords and chieftains take their revenge. Blood feuds begin. Always a messy business.” He waved his hand dismissively.

  “But how can laws be Spirit, you may wonder?” he continued. “Well. Our laws were divined by the Wisdom Keepers from the earliest of days. In keeping to the law, we are obeying instructions on how people should walk the earth, sent from the highest authority—that of the All Knowing, the forces we call Gods. Laws prevent bloodshed. They provide care for the sick. They bind a warrior to his king. And they keep a king close to his gods.”

  A gust of frosty air blew in through the open window, meant to keep us alert, but I leaned closer to the hearth as it crackled and spit, warming my back. Cathan’s deep voice soothed as he went on about the fines owed—for land disputes, failure to contribute goods for rents, mistreatment of a tenant farmer or a wife, and, worst of all, murder. Perhaps Cathan was right. Even in the pit of our sadness, there was room for instruction. Some thought it tedious, but Lailoken and I had a mind for it. After all, our father was a petty king, one of the thirteen kings in the north. As his children, we were expected to commit such laws to memory.

  The overseeing of our laws fell to our council of jurists: Wisdom Keepers, the most respected of whom were chosen to uphold them. Cathan, in our kingdom, was such a man, though he was an expert, too, in philosophy, augury, star knowledge, and the wonders of the earth. It was Cathan who’d noticed the pair of sparrows beating their wings outside my mother’s window in the days before our birth. It was he who foretold the twins that shared her womb.

  “The Gods are watching,” he’d said. “There will be two, and there is magic in them.”

  Magic . . .

  There were tales of Wisdom Keepers from long ago who could call forth a tempest from the bluest
of skies, or lay a curse upon a man with a murmur of breath. But this was the stuff of Midwinter tales. If there was any magic in us, it dwelled in my brother. This was why he’d been chosen by Cathan to train as a Keeper. When I dreamt, I dreamt only of the forest. It was the place I loved best, so why should I question it? I could not shift the weather or foresee events. I was no message taker between our land and the land of our gods, and I was thankful for it.

  Until now. There was a gnawing in my chest I’d never felt before. First the dream, and then the shock of seeing my mother, no longer living and yet so real I could almost touch the strands of her dark, silky hair. If I had rushed into the wintry freeze of the river, could I have wrapped my arms around her and tethered her to the earth?

  Over and over I heard her voice, and her warning.

  Suddenly a rap on the door sounded, and Cathan looked up, smoothing his robes in annoyance. “Why is it they insist on interrupting?”

  My cheeks flushed as I realized I hadn’t been listening for quite some time.

  “Enter,” Cathan sighed.

  “Your pardon, Master Cathan”—my father’s man bowed—“but a rider has come.”

  Lailoken’s eyes caught mine.

  “Yes, yes. We all heard the horn, didn’t we?” Cathan said. Truth be told, Cathan became so enraptured in lessons that he would scarcely have noticed if the building caught flame. But he nodded to our guard nonetheless, motioning for us to follow.

  “Come on, then. I suppose we shall have to continue our lesson later.” He bent to collect his leather satchel, grumbling somewhat mockingly, “A rider has come.”

  Lailoken ducked through the door, but not before Cathan fixed him with a shrewd gaze, giving his head a playful swat.

  “Couldn’t have warned me, eh, Lailoken?”

  • • •

  Father stood in the courtyard in the same woolen tunic he’d been wearing for days, his beard sprouting down his neck and his wavy auburn hair hanging about his shoulders. My father was a warrior first and a king second, but my mother had always minded he dress in the robes befitting a lord. Now he was beginning to look as wild as a Pict. Still, his brown eyes brightened at the sight of us. The weak afternoon sun did little to warm the air, and I leaned into the bulk of him as he drew me close, hungry for his warmth. The Song Keepers sang that my father’s clan was descended from giants. He stood a full three heads taller than most men, and broader, too, which had only made my mother—slight and small-boned—appear more like a bird. Would that I were half as graceful as she was. Instead, my limbs had grown lanky alongside my brother’s. I had taken to slouching so I might not appear so tall. Now as the sound of hoofbeats came closer, I stood straight—for her—as the guards shouted something I could not hear.

  Father scanned the courtyard and realized someone was missing.

  “Gwenddolau!” he called.

  A moment passed and my foster brother appeared in the courtyard, out of breath and running with sweat, his beloved falcon still tethered to his arm. Our cousin Brodyn, Brant’s younger brother, jogged easily by Gwenddolau’s side.

  “She nearly caught an otter,” Gwenddolau said, stroking his bird, but where there might have been joy his voice fell flat. He pushed his golden hair from his face. “Apologies, Father. We came as soon as we heard the horn.”

  “And just in time,” Father said, but not unkindly.

  Gwenddolau and Brodyn had been falconing again. It seemed all Gwenddolau did these days was hunt with his falcon or swing his sword, as if he could beat back Mother’s death with the quarries of his bird or the hacking of his blade.

  I’d heard Mother tell Gwenddolau that he, too, was her own. Fostering might be a tradition meant to strengthen alliances between families, but Gwenddolau was as much a brother to me as Lailoken was. He taught me to catch and carry his bird; he taught Lail to grip his first sword. He pointed out wolf tracks in the forest and the best fishing holes for trout. Even though he was fourteen winters, he still took time to play with us. Gwenddolau’s falcon shifted her wings, smoothing her brown feathers, and he came to stand at my side, his eyes fixed anxiously on the tall courtyard gate. I hadn’t even thought of it. What if this rider bore ill news of Gwenddolau’s father? After all, Ceidio was at war. Ceidio had been rightful king in the eastern lands of Ebruac before he was betrayed by his brother and forced into exile.

  Now Gwenddolau’s uncle ruled, and Father said his name as if it had a bitter taste.

  Eliffer.

  The timber gate groaned on its hinges and issued a rider into the courtyard, his cloak caked in dirt and the flanks of his horse frothing with sweat. He swung easily from the saddle, passing his horse off to our groom, and a fragment of light caught the brooch pinned at his chest. A noble stag gleamed from a thicket of silver interlace. Brant and Brodyn wore the same: a mark of fealty sworn to my father, a talisman that gave proof of King Morken’s protection.

  Father strode forward to clasp the messenger’s arm.

  “Oren, you are most welcome. Come. Dust yourself off and come into the warm.”

  “Morken, King,” Oren gripped his arm in return. “I was sorry to hear news of our lady Idell.”

  “I thank you,” Father said, glancing away. “Please. Come inside.”

  Oren bowed to Cathan and unfastened his muddy cloak to follow us through the courtyard.

  Even if Oren bore no ill news of Gwenddolau’s father on this day, it would be only a matter of time before Gwenddolau left us. He’d been sent to my father to be raised up out of harm’s way, and next summer he would turn fifteen—when a boy became a man. Though Gwenddolau loved us, he was the rightful heir to a fiefdom and his father had been wronged. When the time came, Gwenddolau would ride off to make war. He had many reasons, it seemed, to hack with his sword.

  Inside Cadzow Fortress the oil lamps had been lit and the high beams and dark timber walls flickered with light. Lailoken and I took our seats at the end of the sprawling table, where we were meant to watch but not speak, as Father raised his hand, signaling for ale to be brought. Oren drank deeply, but there was an air of impatience about him that left my stomach twisting beneath my ribs. Cathan drummed the pads of his fingers on the table, his blue eyes dark.

  “What news, then?” Father asked. “You arrived in much haste.”

  “Yes, my king. I rode out as soon as I heard. There has been an uprising. Ida the Angle has taken Vortigern’s kingdom.”

  Father slammed his fist on his chair, and I jumped. “Vortigern, the fool! To invite them behind his ramparts, give them silver to protect his kingdom. To bed that bastard Ida’s daughter. Brutish men. Landless,” he shouted. “Happy to settle on even the most unfit plot of soil and so gain a foothold in our country.”

  “And so it would seem they have gained much more than a foothold now,” Cathan stood. “Had we not foretold this? Consumed by greed, controlled by fear. It was a deafened ear Vortigern turned to our warning.”

  “I fear no amount of prophecy will aid us now,” Father said. “The old ways are lost to him. He cares only for women, riches, and his own sallow hide.” He turned to the messenger. “Tell me, Oren. What is the state of things?”

  “Vortigern has left Bryneich and retreated to his fortification on the Liddel Water that lies heavily guarded. His people were left to fend for themselves. Angle warriors swarmed the land, burning houses and watchtowers, rendering villages to ash. Vortigern’s lords have fled from their lands—some go to Gaul, others seek shelter in Partick, or King Tutgual’s fortress at Clyde Rock. In their wake these Angles leave nothing but fire. Pooled blood and body parts. Women and young children are cut down by the sword. Babies, even, are dashed against rocks.”

  I shrank in my seat and Father stiffened, inclining his head toward us.

  “Apologies”—Oren dipped his head—“but I mean to say they do not spare a single innocent. People flee. Some, being taken in the mountains, are murdered in great numbers. Those seeking shelter at Vortigern’s fortress ar
e turned away. Without warmth or livestock, they are left to freeze. To starve.”

  “Vortigern hides behind his walls whilst his countrymen are slaughtered,” Father said. His gaze flicked to Gwenddolau and back. “Tell me. What path have the Angles sought?”

  “From Vortigern’s fortress at Bryneich straight through the Borderlands, ’til they wet their boots in the western sea,” Oren said.

  A shadow fell across Gwenddolau’s face. His father, Ceidio, had taken refuge in the Borders.

  “Our countryside is yet filled with fierce men who are ready to fight.” Father cast Gwenddolau a steadying look. “My friend Ceidio is such a one.”

  “It seems that is so,” Oren said, his voice taking on a new tone, one of excitement, perhaps even belief. “Even now, I hear tales of such brave men who have gathered in the wild places. They wait in the glades, caves, and by the coast, eating no more than sea kelp and shivering in the damp. They wait for a worthier man to lead them.”

  My heart skittered in my chest to hear it. Lailoken stood.

  “Can we not ride out to challenge them, Father?”

  “Do not be in such a rush to claim your glory, Lailoken.” Father turned to him, tapped a finger upon the thick white scar that marked him from temple to chin. “Such scars of war may come. But for now a king of the north cowers in hiding. His son and lords have fled. The Angles raid the countryside in much greater numbers than our own. This is not yet our war. You will have many battles yet to fight without luring the enemy to our door.”

  Lail sank back in his chair with a frown.

  “And what of King Ceidio?” Father asked. “Is there any news of our friend?”

  Oren looked to my foster brother. “I am sorry. I have heard nothing of your father’s whereabouts.”

  “We will have news; give it time.” Father gripped Gwenddolau’s shoulder. “Ceidio is a sound warrior with good men yet by his side.”

  “Tutgual will call a Gathering. We must prepare our belongings,” Cathan said, then turned to Oren. “You say there are yet men who lie in wait for a leader. Is there talk of such a man?”