by Signe Pike
Time became a slippery thing. I lay in that sea of grass and wildflowers gazing up at the sky for a moment.
For hours.
What magic had she woven when she let those flowers fall?
It was only when I felt Ariane’s cool fingers on my shoulder that I realized I was drifting someplace beyond myself, reluctant to return.
I blinked as she knit her slender fingers in mine, pulling me upright on heavy limbs.
“You must come away now; it is time to come away. There are dangers that come from lingering too long in a grove.”
“What dangers?” I wondered, my head yet floating.
“The Gods,” she warned, her eyes full of mischief. “They might decide to keep you.”
Then Ariane dug into the deerskin bag slung round her waist and withdrew a wide strip of blue cloth.
“Don’t be afraid,” she said, knotting the cloth to cover my eyes. “This part is not for seeing.”
She looped her arm through mine and guided me from the birch grove, deeper into the forest. Tree roots caught my toes as Ariane led me in what felt like a circle, guiding me this way and that, as if the path we walked were not man-made but serpentine. At last we stopped.
A hut, I thought, though I knew of no dwellings in these far fringes of Father’s wood. The earthy smell of peat smoke filled the air as Ariane helped me through a creaking door. Inside I felt the heat of a fire, which warmed my clothes, still soaked in dew.
Ariane lowered me to sit atop something soft—a sheepskin—that had been laid on the floor. I heard the trickle of liquid before the steam and heat of a full cup was lifted to my lips. The brew smelled of soil, the unmistakable woodiness of mushroom. Ariane’s voice came low by my ear.
“Drink now, daughter. Receive what wisdom She’ll grant you.”
There were mushrooms believed to grant a gateway into other worlds, I knew. Visions and mysterious happenings were the gifts they could bring—messages from the Gods. But such brews were forbidden to any but the Keepers who knew how to wield them, they who could travel between this world and that one at will. I might have known fear, but I trusted Ariane—she would not place me in danger. I parted my lips and took a deep draft, the warmth tracing a route down into my stomach.
Several moments passed with nothing but the quiet crackle of the fire. And then out of the quiet came a soft scrape, the shuffle of footsteps. From beyond the walls of the hut, I thought I heard the approaching murmur of women’s voices. And then, to my surprise, the door of the hut moaned on its hinges. I swallowed the emotion that rose in my throat as I realized Ariane must have summoned the women from the village to join in my initiation. I listened to the sweep of leather slippers over the floor as they moved without speaking around the hut. Soon the intoxicating scents of lavender and cedar enveloped me as hands with nimble fingers urged me to stand. Stripped away my damp clothing. Dried me with linens and massaged the soft oils into my skin.
Never, even as the daughter of a king, had I felt so tended to. Never had I felt more treasured.
As they combed the tangles from my hair, the women began to hum. Soft and low, their voices joined the fingers that deftly sought my thick hair as if working a loom, weaving and tugging it into delicate braids that they dropped like miniature ropes to mingle with the strands falling in waves below my shoulders. Last came the cloth: thick and soft and impossibly light, it cascaded over my raised arms like foam on water, hugging my breasts before falling loosely about my waist and hips. It fit as though it had been made for me. Made for this night.
And then I felt fingers working the knot of the blindfold at the back of my head. The cloth fell away from my eyes and I blinked, struggling to adjust my eyes to the light. I looked round the little hut in confusion. A fire, a sheepskin, a rough wooden table. A ceramic bowl and, beside it, a simple earthen cup.
“Where have they gone?” I asked.
Only Ariane stood before me, her blue eyes bright in the firelight.
“They?” She asked. “Of whom are you speaking?”
“The women.” I hadn’t heard the creak of the door, hadn’t gotten the chance to thank those who had so kindly tended me. Now they were nowhere to be seen.
Ariane smiled. “There were no women, Languoreth. None other than me.”
“But . . .”
Ariane put her finger to her lips and produced a small bronze mirror from her cloak.
“Look, Languoreth of Cadzow. See what you have become.”
I gazed at the woman before me, wondering what unearthly realm she had risen from. Her skin was too pure, pearly as a water sprite’s. Her auburn hair twisted like living flame in the firelight. Her breasts were too full, her eyes too wild. Could this truly be me?
A proud and feral beauty rose to fill the space within me where the little girl had once been. My heart slowed. A calm came over me.
“Yes,” Ariane said, stepping forward, her eyes taking my measure. “Now you are a woman. A Torch Bearer, unlike any other.”
I let my eyelids drift closed, then opened them, looking once more. In my own eyes I saw the shimmering reflection of the Gods. The woman who stood before me was untamable. Timeless. She was mother, crone, maiden, and beauty.
Ariane nodded and gave a little smile. She took the mirror gently from my fingers and tucked it back into the folds of her cloak.
“Now you are a woman,” she repeated. “Now you are ready.”
CHAPTER 18
* * *
The women of Cadzow gathered in the wood beyond the pasture just before sunset, greeting one another as the torches were passed, one to each maiden. Their eyes widened when they saw me, but my transformation was fitting: we were the Torch Bearers, the endless power of life that thrummed from the sun, from beneath the soil. Now was the time for women in vibrant twists of cloth that clung to their bodies, torches in hand. The fires were lit. We moved through the forest in a line of flickering light, not yet within earshot of the murmuring crowd.
This was the time before we were seen, when none knew of our presence save the spirits of the wood in their sunset kingdom. A stream trickled, giving voice to the wild as the vibrant pulse of Ariane’s tea still coursed through my body, igniting my senses. Leaves rustled in thickets as we passed. As we walked, I found that I could slip into their thin-veined bodies to watch our jeweled procession pass by. I could even become that crow, a smear of ink in the sky, winging my way toward the Midsummer pyre awaiting our torches in the middle of the field.
We arrived at the tree line, my heart fluttering against my ribs like a cage full of moths. Hundreds from our village and the surrounding countryside had gathered. In the crowd I spotted Forgal and his wife, the caretakers of our mill, standing with their children. Rogan the horse trader and Waylon the wool merchant were already jostling each other in good cheer, ale slapping over the brims of their drinking horns. And there, circling like hunters, stood the Men of Winter, waiting to block our attempt to light the Midsummer pyre. With their unbridled hair and soot-caked faces, they were no longer brothers or cousins, warriors of noble bearing, though I knew Lailoken and Gwenddolau stood somewhere among them. These men were a daunting human rampart rooted with their backs to the pyre, the rippling muscles of their stomachs bared to the setting Midsummer sun. The whites of their eyes were bright against the soot that disguised their faces; they had become something other: doom and decay. Destruction and blight. Seventeen maidens against seventeen men, pitted in a contest of darkness against light.
I took a shaky breath, reminding myself what I must do.
Race past the men and cast my torch on the pyre.
I brought my mother’s mask to my face and tied a knot over my tumble of hair. Keela, the horse trader’s daughter, stood before me, her fingers trembling as she fumbled to tie her own.
I closed my hand over hers. “Let me.”
Taking up her leathers, I secured the knot against her fair hair. “They look so fearsome, my lady,” she said.
&nbs
p; “They may seem frightening,” I said, “but where they are fearsome, Keela, we will be fast.”
Her lips curved into a smile and she turned, eyeing the grassy expanse before us. As we watched, the rhythmic hiss of rattles came like snakes through grass. The sound drifted over the field, prickling the hairs at the back of my neck. I looked to where Cathan stood on a wooden dais, his gray hair whipped by an eager gust of wind. He lifted his white-robed arms to the slowly sinking sun. I swallowed the thickness in my throat as a rumble sounded.
Dum, ta-dum.
The drums kicked in like the footfalls of giants. We watched the sun sink slowly below the horizon.
I took a breath and gripped my torch, praying it would not fail me.
And then Cathan’s arms swept down in the signal, and we were off, streaming from the forest like a band of savage beauties. A shout rose from the crowd as they spotted us, and I urged my legs to pump faster, until the gauze of my dress whipped wildly about my thighs, the drums thundering in my head. I was a deer, a fast-footed rabbit, my bare feet pounding against the hardened soil of the field, closer to the pyre where the warriors were now shifting, eyes hungry, their bodies hunched like wolves tracing the paths of their prey.
The game was afoot. If it was a hunt they were after, we would give them a chase.
The drums were deafening; the drums demanded. We were still a distance from the pyre when I tore away from the other Torch Bearers so any man would be forced to catch me out beyond the fringes of the circle. Even as we scattered, the Men of Winter sprang into motion and I ducked as a skulking figure lunged at me, my heart hammering its own frantic measure.
Was it Brant? Brodyn?
It did not matter. He was a streak, a blur as I spun, surefooted on the thick grass, racing and dodging the tussle of bodies. Screams pierced the night as Torch Bearers were snatched into the steely arms of their captors. I stood, singled out for a moment, frozen in a trembling game of cat and mouse with a Man of Winter as we both eyed the pyre. He rushed me and I twisted, rewarded by his curse and the scrape of fingernails against my arm. And then, eyeing the circle, I saw it: a space between the pairs that grappled on the outskirts of the pyre. Only a few paces more. Mother’s mask and my flame would not fail me. Taking a breath, I pivoted on my heel and raced toward the waiting tinder just as a shadow flickered from the corner of my vision.
It must be now.
Stretching my body long, I launched myself in an arc, thrusting my torch into the heart of the pyre. I felt the bone-clattering jolt of my body colliding with another as the flames licked and caught, igniting in a crackling gust of kindling.
An iron grip closed about my middle as the bonfire roared to life. He was too late! I threw back my head with a triumphant laugh.
“I’ve won.” I struggled against his grip. “You must release me.”
The crowd roared my victory even as I was dragged from the fire.
My captor’s breath was warm on my neck, and I was suddenly too conscious of the hard muscles of his thighs against the soft curve of my bottom. He tensed as if realizing it, too, before releasing me slowly, setting me before him.
“Fair enough, Torch Bearer.”
I turned, ready to lord my victory over him, but found myself breathless as my eyes met his.
Maelgwn.
The strong planes of his face were handsome even covered in soot, his green eyes flickering in the firelight with something primal that quickened my pulse in response.
He bowed as if about to speak, but just then, above the thundering beat of the drums, a chorus of voices rose. The Call to Summer had begun. As the singing swelled and picked up pace, the Men of Winter drew the Torch Bearers into the heart of the circle. Our dance. I had somehow forgotten.
Maelgwn hesitated, questioning. I bowed my head in consent and felt the rough skin of his hand against the sheer fabric of my dress as he guided me into the circle, his hand at the small of my back.
The sweat on my skin had cooled, and suddenly I felt clammy in the heat of the fire. I stood still with the other maidens as Maelgwn dropped his hand from my back and took his place at the edge of the fire. As the Men of Winter began to circle us in the fading light, their brawny legs shifting, rocking their bodies, I searched their soot-darkened faces. There was Gwenddolau, and Lord Emrys, his bare chest inked, I saw now, with a fierce and twisting dragon. The mark of Pendragon. There was Lailoken, eyes lit with mischief as the drums stormed, their vibration thrumming through my body.
Dum, ta-dum dum. The drums demanded and the warriors answered, pounding their feet against the earth as if they could stamp their memories into the crust of her body.
And then a shift came in the singing. Our turn.
I closed my eyes. Their keening was the heart of every song, a blaze that crackled and churned like the fire at the center of the earth. I felt my body give over as my sisters shifted and began to sway, soft against the insistent stomping of the warriors and their primal thunder. The drums asked and we answered, hips swaying, arms reaching, backs arching as we moved on the balls of our feet, twirling and spinning in the blazing heat before the molten and ancient spirit that lived in fire. I ran my fingers through my hair as the drums picked up tempo and a cheer rose from the crowd as they moved to join us, bodies that had been separate melding into one, faces lifted in abandon to the Midsummer sky.
When Maelgwn’s arms circled my waist, I knew him. I tilted my head back and leaned boldly into the hard plane of his torso, letting the breath of the Gods move through me. His hands slid possessively over the curves of my hips. Wrapping his corded arms more tightly about me, we knit our bodies to the wild pound of the music, mirroring each other’s movements instinctively. My blood raced through my veins like liquid fire as I came into my power. I turned to face him, my lips brushing close to the olive skin of his neck, where he smelled of pine needles and leather. I breathed him in, heady from Ariane’s brew and the chase, the thrill of my victory, and this new animal instinct that had awoken inside of me. For the first time, I wanted with a ferocity that would not be denied. It was Midsummer, a night of dark corners and passionate shadows. We were fulfilling our duty to honor the Gods, nothing more, I told myself from within my haze. He was intoxicated by me; I could feel it. We were two bodies buried in a throng that heaved in dance. Surely no one would notice if I let him kiss me?
I lifted my chin to meet Maelgwn’s eyes, then faltered. Only a moment ago I had felt his searing gaze, but now his eyes were trained over my shoulder. I watched a shuttered look come over him as he stilled our movement. It was as if he’d been entranced and were suddenly startled awake.
“Perhaps we should rest,” he said.
I stopped, but my head felt as though I were still swaying. I did not want to rest. I wanted to dance through the night. With him. Searching his face in confusion, I followed his gaze across the bonfire. Father stood at a distance, arms crossed over his broad chest, staring in our direction. Beside him, Crowan’s little face glowered.
My cheeks burned. I wanted to fly at them. We were doing nothing wrong!
But I had wanted Maelgwn to kiss me, hadn’t I?
I stiffened my spine against the weight of Father’s gaze as Maelgwn led me from the frenzied circle of dancers. Behind me the Torch Bearers and their partners wheeled round the blaze like moths in moonlight, their bodies locked in spirals that would last until they spun themselves out. Other couples wandered breathlessly from the fire, laughing and whooping in clusters as they followed the welcoming light of torches across the field toward the feasting tables beyond.
“You must be thirsty.” Maelgwn’s tone was chivalrous, but I nodded wordlessly, setting my jaw. I was shamed by my own desire and disappointed by his cowardice.
What warrior would dare defy a chieftain? a small voice asked.
But I withdrew my hand from the crook of his arm nonetheless, reaching to untie my mask. An uncomfortable silence hung between us as we moved across the grass until finally Maelg
wn cleared his throat.
“This was your first festival as Torch Bearer?”
“Yes.” I followed him to a sturdy table where heavy jugs of wine were lined up tidily beside double-stacked barrels of ale.
“You run fast. And you dance . . . well.” His mouth twitched as if he had been about to say more but thought better of it. I turned my head away in a gesture he mistook for thirst.
He remembered himself. “A drink—of course. What will you have? Ale? Wine?”
“Wine, thank you.”
He turned to fetch a jug but looked perplexed. “I’m afraid there are no drinking vessels.”
“No, you won’t find vessels here at Cadzow.” I couldn’t help but smile. “At least, not to serve hundreds. You’re meant to use your horn.” I nodded at the cattle horn slung at his belt. “I’ll drink from yours.”
Maelgwn lifted a brow as though surprised a lady would suggest such a thing.
“It is no great trespass, if that’s what you fear.” I rolled my eyes. “I drink from Brant’s and Brodyn’s often, I assure you.”
“But Brant and Brodyn are your kin, are they not? And I am a stranger.”
“There could be no stranger Gwenddolau would trust. And I, in turn, trust the judgment of my foster brother.”
“As you like.” Maelgwn’s dark hair fell across his face as he nodded and sat on a nearby bench with a warrior’s ease. He gestured to a place beside him, but I felt the watchful eyes of the village upon me and moved to sit at a distance.
He studied me in the torchlight, lifting the cumbersome jug as if it weighed nothing. “You are unlike most noblewomen I have met.”
“Why do you say so?”
His gaze was like the heat of a candle. I focused on the stream of wine as it spilled into the black pearl of the cattle horn, suddenly self-conscious.
“You train with some sort of weapon, foremost.”
I looked up in surprise. “How do you know?”
“Your dress in the courtyard. It was covered in target hay. Any man would notice.” A smile tugged at his lips.