A Novel

by Signe Pike

  I studied her a moment. “Ariane?”

  “Mmm.” She jotted a note in the ledger.

  “How does the wind speak?”

  She looked up as if she’d never considered this before. “It catches my attention, I suppose. Though it went first to you”—she gestured—“blowing about your neck. And then I saw it. An image of a man with hair like your own. He was sitting astride a dun-colored horse, approaching the gate.” She reached a delicate finger to tap her own heart. “I saw this, and I knew that this man was your father.”

  “Are you a Seer, then? Can you see everything?”

  “No,” she laughed. “I am no Seer. I hear only what the wind chooses to tell me. Now, go and greet your father. He has missed you, I am certain.”

  A hollow blow of the horn sounded from the guardhouse, announcing the return of our king. I set down my jar and took off running.

  In the courtyard our hounds lifted their black noses to the breeze, their tails thumping expectantly. Our man Arwel called out and the gates were thrust wide as Lailoken and the others came to join me. My heart took flight at the sight of Father, Gwenddolau, and Cathan trotting in astride their mounts. They were home. Safe. I felt as though I would nearly burst. Father dismounted on stiff legs and I raced to wrap my arms round his waist, breathing in the leather of his padded vest and the mud from the road.

  “Languoreth.” He pressed me to him as the hounds circled round, barking. “I should have been here, eh? I came as soon as I was able.” His horse shifted its weight beside him, eager to find bed and grain in the barn. He ruffled Lailoken’s hair.

  “Come, let us go inside and wash the road from our faces,” he said. “Then there will be time enough to tell our tales.”

  • • •

  Later that evening, Father addressed the people of Bryneich from his chair in the great room. “It is with a solemn heart I greet you and welcome you to Cadzow. Many of you have suffered the loss of loved ones and a harrowing journey to find sanctuary among us. We have sheltered you this past fortnight. Now any who wish to bide under my protection may present themselves. Any who wish to return and rebuild their homes may share in our feast on this night, and tomorrow we shall bid you farewell.”

  At the long pine table the warriors’ conversation resumed in a respectful hum to allow the newcomers to seek my father’s audience in private. Father smoothed the thick purple tunic that set off the burned copper threads of his hair, and the first woman in line approached, head bowed, and began to speak.

  “I’m a weaver,” she said in her east-country lilt. “I made wall hangings for warmth and rugs for the king himself. I can help with the shearing and dyeing—spinning, too. Vortigern’s queen always praised my work.”

  Ariane stood next to me, waiting her turn. She wore the same blue cloak she wore each day, regardless of weather, her black hair coiled neatly at the nape of her neck. She would come forth last, as Cathan must question her, and at present he was needed to bear witness to the oaths sworn by those who wished to come under Father’s care. One by one the people of Bryneich approached, some proud, some with tremors in their voices. In the end, oaths were taken by the weaver, two new grooms—brothers—a blacksmith’s apprentice, and a cowherd.

  I searched the room until my eyes fell upon the girl named Desdemona, who was not so much standing beside the wall as being held up by it. She’d combed her brown hair and washed her face. Her knuckles pearled white where they gripped her soiled doll. She looked to be my age, old enough to know that you should not bring your doll when you speak with a king. But as I looked at the stitched mouth of the doll with its straggles of yarn hair, it occurred to me it must have been made by her mother. A mother who would never come. Father would not turn her away, but when her time came, I spoke for her. We agreed to make a place for her with Agnes in the kitchens.

  At last Ariane stepped forward, and the room fell silent. She nodded to Father, but it was to Cathan she spoke.

  “Question me. I am a Keeper.”

  These were the old words spoken by any Wisdom Keepers seeking entry into a faraway court. Just as a smithy must dazzle with a sampling of his work, or a Song Keeper must impress with his or her knowledge of the epics, Wisdom Keepers must submit themselves to questioning and so prove their station. Cathan had turned away musicians who faltered at their strings. He had turned away inexperienced smiths who professed to be masters at their craft. But if Ariane could not prove her claim, she would not receive the mercy of being turned away. She would lose her life. Cathan looked Ariane over now with curiosity.

  “You come forth to pledge your oath to Morken?” he asked.

  “No. I come forth to pledge my oath to the king’s daughter, Languoreth.”

  Cathan and my father exchanged a glance.

  “Languoreth? The lady Languoreth has many protectors, of which I am only one,” Cathan said. “What benefit do you propose to bring to her service?”

  “I will act as her counsel,” Ariane answered. “And I will act as healer for the people of Morken until another can be sought.”

  “Languoreth is but a child, and I am her tutor. She has no need of counsel.” Cathan frowned. “Surely you must see the unconvention in this.”

  Ariane drew herself up, her willowy frame growing regal. “You may believe this to be unconventional. But I am a Keeper. Am I not free to pledge my services to whomever I please?”

  “You say you are a Keeper, yet you wear no robes.” Cathan’s voice held a note of warning. “You do not speak as if you hail from our lands. Here among the Britons, to pretend the title of Keeper is a crime punishable by death.”

  I broke my silence. “She wears no robes, but Ariane is as skilled a healer as Mother ever was. She knows the kennings and—”

  “Languoreth.” Father held up his hand to silence me. “If she is indeed proven to be a Keeper, would you accept this Ariane’s service?”

  Ariane looked at me without expectation, as if the fact she might stay or go was of little consequence. I envied her the freedom I would never have. I had already learned much from her in only a fortnight’s time. And she had promised to teach me the kennings.

  “Yes,” I said. “I would accept her service, Father.”

  Cathan’s face was grim. “Very well. Then we will see. Ariane, you will follow me.”

  They were absent for what seemed like hours. At last, when they returned, Ariane gave me a reassuring look as Cathan strode to speak with my father, murmuring something low in his ear.

  “My counsellor Cathan has questioned this Keeper and found her claim to be true,” Father said. “I would no more begrudge my people a healer than I would begrudge my daughter an advocate all her own. I trust you and my daughter have settled the terms?”

  Ariane looked to me.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Then it is settled. Whatever the terms may be, I will pay them. Welcome, Ariane, Wisdom Keeper. To my household and my chiefdom.”

  Father stood and reached to clasp Ariane’s arm as he would do a man’s.

  Ariane came to sit beside me. “It is done, then,” she said. “I am to be your counsellor.”

  “Are you to be like Cathan, then?” I asked.

  “No, not like Cathan.” She frowned. “I am always myself.”

  “I mean,” I said, “what will we do together? What will you teach me?”

  She studied me. “I will be your companion. I will talk, and you will listen. And it will go on like this until I decide that you are ready, that you need my service no longer.”

  “But when will that be?”

  “I cannot say.” Ariane gave a little smile as she looked to the shuttered window. “Perhaps we must ask the wind.”

  CHAPTER 6

  * * *

  Spring came in earnest, and with it lambing season.

  It was late afternoon, coming on evening, and the sweet char of roasted meat drifted from the kitchens high above the cliffs as Gwenddolau, Lailoken, and I squatted at the
river’s edge below, cleaning our catch from the day.

  “Languoreth caught the biggest brown. Well done, little sister.” Gwenddolau grinned at me. “Where’s your knife? Shall we see how it fares when put to a task?”

  I drew my blade from my hip. The leatherworker had stitched the tooled leather sheath to a soft belt stained to match. Fastening the buckles round my waist had become as natural as breathing.

  The trout’s eyes were lifeless, but Gwenddolau still drew it gently from the pail. “Have you thanked it?” he asked, as he always did.

  “Before I struck it,” I said. But now the sun shimmered off the yellow belly of the fish as if it had been dipped in gold, and I wished I could plunge it back into the river, where it could retreat under the shadow of a rock.

  Gwenddolau must have noticed my hesitation, because he asked, “Do you want me to clean it?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s my catch. I’ll clean it. That’s what we say.”

  “Yes.” He smiled. “That’s what we say.”

  I took the fish and slit its belly from tail to lip, the knife slicing as if through butter. As I scraped my finger along the slippery innards, Lail came to stand next to me.

  “I’ll wager you’re the only daughter of a chieftain who knows how to gut a fish,” Lail said, looking proud. But then, as he gazed at the trout, something shifted in his eyes and he blinked.

  “What is it?” Gwenddolau asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s nothing.” Lail looked up. “I’m hungry is all.”

  “Hurry up, then, Languoreth. Let’s make quick work of it. It’s nearly time for supper,” Gwenddolau said.

  I rinsed the fish in the river and placed it back in the pail. Gwenddolau stood and stretched, and Lailoken, eyeing him, did the same. I shook my head. If Lailoken had his choice, he’d be Gwenddolau’s very shadow.

  “Right. Get you up, then.” Gwenddolau gestured and I hopped onto his back, dangling my legs through the crooks of his arms. We had already neared the top of the cliff trail, when Father’s voice came, hollering for our return.

  “There you are,” he said as we emerged from the trees. He didn’t pause to admire our catch, and there was a grim set to his mouth. “I would speak with you. All of you.”

  We looked at one another as Gwenddolau eased me from his back, but followed Father obediently into the Hall. Once in the great room, Father exhaled. “Come. Sit.”

  I settled beside Lail on the pine bench that lined the table, my legs still wet from wading the river.

  “There is good news,” Father began. “Ceidio has sent word at last that he is alive and well.”

  “My father is well!” Gwenddolau’s face lit. “But where is he?”

  “He has joined his forces with Emrys Pendragon in the Borderlands.” Father’s voice grew thick and he cleared his throat. “He sends word now that his son and his sword are needed.”

  Across the table Gwenddolau bowed his head, his blue eyes fixed on the table. “If he wishes for me to join him, I must go.”

  “Yes. He is your father, after all. This is a day you’ve been hungry for,” Father said, as if to remind him.

  Gwenddolau looked up. “Do you think I am ready?”

  Never before had he looked so vulnerable. Gwenddolau was never afraid.

  Father settled his brown eyes on Gwenddolau. “I do. As much as I would have you stay. You may be fifteen winters at Beltane, but to me you are already a man. I have raised you as my flesh and blood these past seven years, and I have come to see a man whose character is beyond reproach. You are a fierce fighter with unbendable honor. You will grow to become as fine a warrior as Brant or Brodyn, I have no doubt in that. Ceidio would be fortunate to have you fight at his side.” It was a trick of the light, or Father’s eyes glistened with tears.

  “You have been more of a father to me than I had ever expected.” Gwenddolau reached to clasp Father’s hand upon the table. “I am grateful to you, Morken. I will be bonded to this family until the end of my days.”

  “You will always be a son to me,” Father said. “And a brother to my children.”

  I fixed my eyes on the pine whorls of the table, determined not to cry.

  “Gwenddolau must leave us,” Father continued. “And we will soon depart on a journey of our own. I must return to Partick and I’ll not leave the two of you behind. It was your mother’s wish that I keep you from the capital until you were grown, but that was a wish made in less troubled times. I will keep you close now. I have decided.”

  I blinked, waiting for a thrill, but the long-awaited visit to Partick went soggy beneath the weight of Gwenddolau’s leaving. Lailoken tilted his chin at Father, defiant.

  “I will not go to Partick,” Lail said. “I will to travel with Gwenddolau to join Ceidio and Emrys Pendragon. I wish to fight.”

  “Lailoken . . .” Father drew himself up in warning.

  “No.” Lail set his jaw. “You travel to Partick to lift your cup before the high king, safe behind Strathclyde’s borders, whilst our brother rides to fight for our land, the land of the Britons! You say Vortigern hides behind his walls whilst his countrymen are slaughtered, but you are no different!”

  Father pushed up, his chair clattering to the floor. “And what do you, a ten-year-old boy, know of war? War is not a game!” he shouted. “When Ceidio calls for my aid, I shall grant it. If Gwenddolau should call, I will ride out to war. Until that day, I will lay neither my life, nor the lives of my men, at the foot of the Gods for land that is not my own!”

  They stood, father and son, chests heaving and eyes locked, until Father blinked, his voice softened by disappointment.

  “A true king must know the weight of a human life, Lailoken. It is a lesson I fear you have not yet learnt.”

  Lail’s face reddened with the rebuke before he turned on his heel and ran out the door.

  Gwenddolau stood. “Shall I go after him?”

  “No,” Father said. “Let him go.”

  The fire in the hearth felt suddenly stifling, scalding the breath in my lungs. “I’ll go,” I said, and shoved my bench back hastily before Father could tell me otherwise.

  I found Lailoken pacing beside the apple tree in the courtyard, his nostrils flaring like a horse’s.

  “Lail . . .” My fingers went to his sleeve but he shook me off.

  “Leave me be!”

  I recoiled. The bitterness and self-pity in his voice twisted something inside me, and my blood ran hot with anger. How could he be so selfish? He would go off and get himself killed, leave me, and all because of his stupid pride!

  “Father is right,” I said. “This is not our battle. We must let Gwenddolau go.” At this my voice broke, but Lail could not hear me. His face tightened. Letting out a roar that made me jump, he ran at the apple tree, kicking the knotted trunk again and again.

  “Stop,” I shouted. “Stop—the apple! You mustn’t!”

  The apple tree was sacred, a symbol of the Summerlands. To harm it was a crime punishable by beating, and my brother would not be spared a whipping.

  “I don’t care!” he shouted. His breath came short, his chest rising in small heaves. “I hate kings and their summonings. When I am old enough, I swear it, I will ride to the Borderlands where men fight for freedom! When our warriors are mine to command, I will ride out to join my brother. I swear it on this day. Do you hear me? Do you hear?”

  I heard the dull crack of bone against wood and he cried out, clutching his foot. I watched as he sank to the ground, his eyes lit with a fury that shrank me to tears.

  “You are so pigheaded, Lailoken. You are so selfish!” I shouted. We had all lost. Mother was dead, and now Gwenddolau was leaving. Father and Lailoken were fighting. My vision blurred as I turned from him, feet pounding along the path beyond the inner rampart.

  I sprinted along the forest trail until I reached the trickling, muddy stream where Mother and I would sit beneath the thin shelter of birch trees. The damp wool of my trousers
made me shiver, and I pulled my knees to my chest.

  What was the sense in loving if all those you cared for were taken away?

  A chill wind stirred, gusting over the nearby pastures, turning my face clammy where tears yet clung. A feathery fern brushed against my forearm, and I reached to yank it from the ground, the uprooting of the tender shoot somehow nourishing the darkness that consumed me.

  That was where Cathan found me after some time, sitting on a half-rotten log by the trickling stream, a mound of tattered ferns at my feet.

  “You’re clogging up my head, child.” His knees creaked as he crouched beside me. His coarse gray hair had come loose from his braid, making him look more like a wildwood recluse than the lord of the White Isle.

  I can feel you thinking of me as surely as you are in the room, he’d once told me. And yet I could never sense it when Cathan thought of me.

  I looked up. “I think Lailoken has broken his foot.”

  “If he did, then he likely deserved it.”

  I bent once more to the streambed, my dirt-crusted fingers searching for more shoots to unearth. “Gwenddolau is going off to the Borderlands, where babies are dashed against rocks and whole villages are reduced to cinders.”

  Cathan eased down next to me, wrapping his long arms about his knees. He paused a moment before speaking.

  “Languoreth, the earth is very old. Tragedies will occur on nearly every patch of land, given enough time. But given enough time, miracles will unfold on every hillock and valley, too. Who are you to say a disastrous fate awaits your foster brother? Gwenddolau’s future is his own, and he has much to accomplish before the Ancestors call him home.”

  I stared at the soil, saying nothing.

  Cathan turned to me, his blue eyes calm. “I do not think it is only Gwenddolau’s leaving that troubles you.”

  He waited, but I could not find words for the shadows that had stirred since I’d woken from my dream. My mother’s voice. Her ghostly apparition standing in the winter river. The glistening wounds. The mud-caked boots of the little boy. And so I told him of the stag. Cathan listened keenly, the tips of his fingers pressed together until at last I fell silent.