by Signe Pike
“I cannot maneuver my heart open and shut with the pulling of a lever. Even if I should follow my heart, I cannot see how—”
“There are ways,” she said. “Ways to allow the things that belong to you to find you. Can you not see? The people and things that belong to you are not yours to decide in any case. Such things are decided long before we are born.”
I stiffened. “I will not do any conjuring on him.”
“Do not insult me,” she scoffed. “And do not insult yourself. You have no need for witchery. This is something other. This is protection.” Ariane observed my confusion with a sigh. “You and Maelgwn will be given the gift of time. If you desire it, I can arrange it so that no one will know you are missing. If he should desire you as you desire him, time will be yours to do what you will.”
My heart beat in my throat. “You can do this?”
She gave a slight shrug. “I do only things I know are right. And this is right.”
I blinked at the weight of it. “But what would the purpose be?” I asked. “It would all be for nothing.”
Ariane blinked at the sorrow in my voice and reached to press my hand in hers. “Who are you to say what it will come to, what it will be? Do not deny yourself what little happiness you might find. For there are bound to be days in every lifetime dark enough to drown what little light we might gather.” Ariane’s clever eyes shone in the firelight. “You must trust me, Languoreth. You must trust in the Gods.”
CHAPTER 29
* * *
I could hear the music beyond the skin of our tent. Whoops and hollers of delight echoed over the racing of the flute and the insistent pounding of the drum, filling me with a wild anticipation and the feeling I was missing all the fun. It was Lughnasa, and beyond the tents the celebration had begun. I wanted to be among them. And yet I had been plunked down on a wooden stool and told not to fidget as Crowan fussed over my hair.
“Stay still, won’t you?” She poked at me playfully with a bony finger. “If this is the last time I’ll be tending to your tangles, I shan’t miss it, I can promise you that.”
Crowan’s tone was sharp, but I knew that behind me her small eyes were wistful.
She had readied me for Lughnasa each year since I was a babe, and this was to be the last. The task was to be Desdemona’s now. Crowan’s reminder brought a little swell of emotion and I bowed my head, acknowledging the familiar comfort of her bony fingers against my scalp.
“You see, Desdemona? This is how it’s done.” Crowan’s hands trembled a little with age as she worked the delicate white bells of heather into the thick twists of my hair.
Desdemona looked up from mending the seam of my favorite green dress.
“Aye, m’lady looks fine indeed,” she said politely. With Desdemona there was always a distance. It only made me dread Crowan’s relinquishment of her old duties all the more.
Father’s tent was vast—four furnished compartments separated by heavy bolts of stitched skin—and our servants had seen to it we had every amenity. Small tables were set about, piled with hazelnuts and cheese to nibble upon between feasting. At night dozens of oil lamps washed the tent walls with the soft glow of light, and garlands strung with sprays of wildflowers and colorful strips of fabric fluttered over our beds. I shifted on my stool as three haunting bellows sounded: the horn, announcing the beginning of the contests. Lail would be throwing his spear. He and Father had left some time ago. Ariane had gone off, too, to browse the traveling market that ran in the fields far from the tents. She meant to gather some supplies for a talisman, I knew. But I had little faith it might work.
“Are we nearly finished?” I asked. “I cannot miss Lailoken’s toss.”
“Yes, ready at last!” Crowan handed me the small mirror. As her gaze met mine in the bronzed reflection, she touched my hair lovingly. My cheeks were flushed with berry stain and my eyes were shining. Her eyes misted over as she reached to adjust my torque. “Not so terrible at all, my dove,” she said.
“It’s marvelous, Crowan.” I pressed her hand to my cheek, then stood. “Thank you.”
She swiped at her eyes impatiently. “Off we go,” she said, “or we’ll soon miss the contests altogether!”
Desdemona stood. “Are you wantin’ my company, m’lady?”
“No, you needn’t come.” I turned. “Not if there’s somewhere else you’d like to go.”
“If you’re certain?” she paused.
“Of course.” I smiled. “It’s Lughnasa. Enjoy yourself. I will see you back here before supper.”
Desdemona ducked in thanks and retreated into the fray.
Outside it was a rare hot day, the sun pounding down upon the grateful upturned faces gathered for the festival. My pulse quickened as we moved through the crowd, following the sounds of shouts and the clash of metal to the contest site. Tables were scattered across the grounds laden with stout barrels of ale and mead, each chieftain having contributed dozens of barrels from their private stores. The smell of buttered crust and stewed gravy made my stomach tug in protest as we passed a banquet tray of meat pies, and I swiped one, delighting in the creamy decadence of flavor as I devoured it in three bites.
“You seem in fair enough spirits,” Crowan observed.
“And why shouldn’t I be?” I said. “I’m tired of moping about, worrying over things to come. Can’t I just enjoy myself? It is Lughnasa, after all.”
“It’s always been our favorite festival, hasn’t it?” The creases of her face folded into a smile, but even her watchful gaze could not prevent me from scanning the endless rows of tents for the banner of the dragon.
Surely Emrys and his men would be camped nearby. Outside the spacious tents the banners of boar, ox, bear, and lion flapped gallantly in the afternoon breeze. And at a distance from them all an impossibly white tent stood, grander than all the rest, marked by the figure of a swan.
Tutgual’s camp.
The wind caught his banner in a way that made it look as though the great swan were striking out, hissing, and I turned my head, leading Crowan away.
It was only a matter of time before I spotted Rhydderch or a member of his family. Certainly Rhydderch would be looking for me here. But at least we had no worries about Mungo. The bishop and his most devout followers were spending Lughnasa in fasting and prayer in an effort to beat back the influence of our dark Gods, our blood sacrifices, and our barbaric rites, no doubt.
As festivalgoers in the crowd caught sight of me, they smiled and waved, called out my name, or reached to touch my shoulder.
“Lady Languoreth, come! Come and have a drink!” they shouted. I glanced at Crowan.
“Perhaps a drink is not a terrible idea,” I said.
“Go on, then.” She grinned. “Swipe me a cup.”
I smiled and accepted two wooden cups from a toothless old man. The dark ale coursed down my throat, filling the hollow of my stomach.
“A fine spirit,” I laughed. “No wonder our men drink so much ale before they ride off to raid.” Around me a cheer rose up—a toast to Morken’s daughter—and I smiled, wiping my lips with the back of my hand. The ale left me cool and spinning. My arms were bare in my light summer dress, and the sun had begun to feel hot on my skin.
“Let’s hurry, now,” I urged Crowan. “They’ll be starting.”
I gave a parting wave and we moved past the wicker fences that quartered off large tracts for the footrace and boulder toss, out along the edge of the racing path where muscled horses were being groomed, tossing their strong necks against their tethers. At last we came to the grassy meadow where the spear targets were laid out. Warriors milled in the expanse, testing the weight of their weapons or stretching the taut muscles of their throwing arms as they eyed the stretch of targets, each set farther than the next. I spotted Cathan moving amid a cluster of white-robed Wisdom Keepers set to officiate, and there Father sat upon the benches for the noble families, lined up within a spear’s reach of the gaming fence. He’d kept an op
en seat for me, but I could not bring myself to sit among the crowd of painted women.
Crowan and I found a patch of shade instead, beneath a towering beech at the edge of the meadow. There was a mound at its trunk that offered an elevated view of the field. Crowan leaned back against the tree with a weary sigh as my eyes swept the crowd.
“Look! There he is—there’s Lailoken. Can you see?”
Crowan raised her hand to shield her eyes from the surrounding glare. “He’s just up,” she exclaimed, and I helped her stand with some effort as Lailoken took his place at the center of the field.
My brother’s wavy hair was tied back and he was shirtless like the other men, the only thing marking him as a noble being the flash of sunlight as it glinted off his heavy golden torque. Setting his spear on the ground, he gave an easy swing of his arm in practice, his handsome face intent on the targets.
At the sight of him, a tittering rose from a group of girls nearby, and they shot to their feet, craning their necks and nudging one another in a flutter of excitement.
“There he is,” I heard one of them whisper. “Just look at his strong shoulders!”
“A warrior and a Wisdom Keeper,” another said in a conspiring tone. “It’s not often you find a man with so many . . . gifts.” She widened her eyes with a seductive smile.
“That’s my brother,” I called to them. “I’ll thank you to keep such talk to yourselves.”
They whipped round and one had the courtesy to look embarrassed.
“Apologies, my lady.” She bowed her head. “We did not see you.”
I gave a slight smile. “It’s all right. But you’d best watch now, or you’re going to miss Lailoken’s throw.”
It was no secret my brother did not lack for female company. Willowy blondes, exotic brunettes, and curvy redheads came and went. I watched as the pattern unfurled before me: the coquettish looks that soon turned familiar and knowing would, inevitably, become cold and affronted, given time. My brother had not found his match. Truth be told, he wasn’t at all looking.
I focused on the meadow as the crowd fell silent. Lail gave a light shrug of his shoulders as if to shake off the weight of the countless watchful eyes. He’s nervous, I thought as he bent smoothly to retrieve his spear. I sent him my calm as he slowly drew back his arm, and then in a flash, his body plummeted forward as he sent the spear whipping toward the targets. It sank with a confident thwack at a very respectable distance indeed.
“Well done, Lailoken. Well done!” I shouted, though he was well out of earshot. Lail made a slow turn before his admirers, arms lifted, his face bright with triumph.
The farthest target remained untouched, its distance from the mark nearly too far to fathom. Few warriors had ever managed to strike it. But Lail had thrown exceedingly well, and Father’s face was proud. The girls giggled and raced down the slope to the edge of the wicker fence, hoping to catch my brother’s eye.
“Poor Lail,” I said. “He’ll never be rid of them now.”
“Aye,” Crowan said dryly. “And I’m sure he’ll be troubled. Who approaches now?”
I stood on my toes to try to catch sight of the next warrior taking Lail’s position at the mark. “I can’t see.”
Then the crowd shifted and I caught my breath.
Maelgwn strode forward, his dark brows drawn in concentration. A roar of applause rose so loud, it was nearly deafening. He was shirtless, and his breeches hung a little too loosely against his hips, as if he hadn’t been eating quite as well as he should have been. His dark hair was shorter now, falling just clear of his powerful shoulders, and he’d pushed it back from his face with a rough leather strip he wore like a headband. My heart still hammered at the sight of him. But even in my state of distraction, I could not miss the way some of the chieftains and their lords in the crowd had stiffened at the roar of applause.
“It’s as if they didn’t know how beloved Pendragon and his men are to the people,” I said.
Crowan eyed the nobles shrewdly. “That young man had best be careful. Those lords wear the look of envy.”
“Perhaps, if they’re envious, they should send their own men to guard the eastern border.”
“As you say,” Crowan said.
But Crowan was right: envy was a danger. Thankfully, Maelgwn was clever enough to know that popularity and pride made dangerous bedfellows. I watched as he nodded in respect to the noblemen on the benches, his eyes lingering for a moment on my father. Or was he searching the empty seat beside him?
I stared, willing Maelgwn to turn and see me standing beneath the beech tree. But he only flexed his shoulders as he moved toward the mark with his spear in hand, pausing to clap my brother on the shoulder.
How quickly the mood on the contest field had shifted. Crowan steadied herself on my arm, straining to see. The crowd had cast wagers. But this was no matter of gaming for Maelgwn; it was a matter of honor. Pendragon’s title of “lord” was hard-won; it was not his birthright. In the eyes of too many nobles, Lord Emrys was a pretender. To lose at these contests and disgrace Pendragon’s banner was a defeat no Dragon Warrior could suffer.
And here stood Pendragon’s own young general, spear in hand.
My mouth tasted metal as Maelgwn took a breath and, on the exhale, drew his left arm back to throw. His muscles stretched as taut as a bow. He was just about to fling his arm forward and send the spear hurtling home, when a sudden jeer shattered the silence. The crowd gasped in collective shock, but if it fazed Maelgwn, he did not show it.
I searched the audience to pinpoint the sound and spotted none other than Gwrgi, son of Eliffer, leaning casually against the fence. Gwrgi bore the same eager look upon his face that he’d worn that awful day I’d encountered him in the market, the day he’d savaged that sweet bird and we had all left covered in blood.
“Gwrgi,” I hissed. “No doubt it was he.”
His brother Peredur stood beside him, his dark eyes slippery as eels.
Maelgwn lifted a hand to reassure the crowd and reset his stance.
I should have expected Gwrgi and Peredur would not miss the games, especially if they had heard that the Dragon Warriors would surely be in attendance. Their father had since died upon his stolen throne. What was ill-begotten ill begets. Ceidio, too, might have been gone, but now that Gwrgi and Peredur ruled the kingdom of Ebrauc, the war between brothers lived on through their sons.
I watched as Gwrgi gave a whistle, his eyes locked on Maelgwn’s in a gleeful sort of challenge. Peredur leaned in to murmur in his brother’s ear and Gwrgi laughed, picking at something in his teeth.
Maelgwn turned to face the brothers, his green eyes calm. “Have you something to say, lords of Ebrauc?”
I hoped for their sake they knew well enough to fear this tone in Maelgwn’s voice. But Peredur only looked at him, running a hand through his long, thinning hair.
“I only wondered if perhaps your spear was too heavy,” Peredur said, “for we have been standing here long beneath the sun and you have yet to throw it.”
“Too heavy. I see.” Maelgwn nodded. “I’d test its weight on you, but you stand far too close. Perhaps you would oblige me and go stand beside the farthest target.”
Peredur raised his brows, smoothing his tunic. “The farthest target? You must be feeling the luck of the Gods. Perhaps you would make a wager.”
“And what would you wager, Lord Peredur?”
“Your spear against my coin. Three hundred silver pieces.”
I gasped. That was half my bride price! No warrior possessed that much coin. Maelgwn opened his mouth to answer just as a deep voice called out from the crowd.
“Are you certain you would not rather place a wager upon your lands?”
I looked up to see Gwenddolau swinging his long legs easily over the top of the fence, entering the field of contest.
“Gwenddolau.” Peredur’s voice was scolding. “I do not believe it’s your turn.”
Gwenddolau’s comely face was framed
by a pale beard, his light summer cloak pinned at the shoulder by a magnificent silver brooch. As he reached to touch the hilt of his sword, his linen shirt gaped open and the image of a dragon flashed beneath the fabric. Emrys bore the same mark; I’d seen it at Midsummer. It had been needled with skin dye upon his chest and could mean only one thing: Emrys had named Gwenddolau his successor.
Gone was the boy who had taught me how to tickle the bellies of trout. In his place stood a seasoned and warlike man, fit to defend a kingdom all his own. And his piercing blue eyes were fixed upon Peredur and Gwrgi with a fiery vengeance.
“Your lands,” Gwenddolau repeated, moving to stand before Peredur. “Perhaps Maelgwn could win those back for you as well. Since I hear the Angles are pressing, and you and your squat brother seem so incapable of holding them yourselves.”
There was a flash of metal and every man moved at once. Peredur mounted the fence, sword drawn, with the swiftness of a cat, Gwrgi at his heels, as Gwenddolau swung his sword to meet his cousin’s. The clash of iron rang across the grounds, followed by a splintering crack. I rushed forward, but the struggle on the field of contest had been stalled. Something had kept them from fighting. It was Maelgwn’s spear, the death-dealing tip of it within a hairsbreadth of Peredur’s throat. The wooden shaft had fractured, but it held.
“Enough!” Cathan’s roar sounded across the field as he shot to his feet. “Cease this at once!”
The men stood, eyes locked, each unwilling to be the first to cast down his weapon.
“You know well the consequence of breaking the peace at a festival,” Cathan warned. “Lower your weapons. I’ll not ask you again.”
Gwenddolau took a step back and bowed respectfully to Cathan. But Maelgwn did not move a muscle until Peredur had lowered his sword.
Cathan raised his hands to quiet the boiling crowd. “It’s over, then. We may proceed. Maelgwn, Dragon Warrior,” he called out. “You may select an uncompromised spear. Unless, that is, you wish to forfeit your throw.”