by Signe Pike
A silence fell between us and we leaned against the Hall to watch the snowflakes fall. After a moment Cathan turned to me.
“Have you considered where the child will be born?” It was the way he asked, hushed in the snow; there was something beneath it.
“Rhydderch has asked he be born with the aid of a priest, and I have agreed,” I said.
“A priest.” Cathan said. “But he is his father’s son. As such, should he not be born under the Old Way?”
“As his father’s son . . .”
“Come now, Languoreth. Do you take me for a fool?” His voice was gentle but his gaze piercing. I looked at him.
“Of course.” He bowed his head. “We shall not speak of it here. But I do not ask out of mere dalliance. It’s the child.”
I eyed him warily. “What about the child?”
“You must know I look after you, even when we may be apart,” Cathan began. “I did not wish to speak of this. I had hoped we could make arrangements without such discussion . . .”
My mouth suddenly went dry. “Cathan, speak, I beg you.”
He closed his eyes a moment, the lines etching his face making him appear suddenly quite tired. “I have had a dark Knowing, Languoreth. If we are to try to prevent what may come, your child must be born on White Isle.”
“White Isle?” I straightened. I had never even set foot upon the sacred isle. Now I was to travel there to bear my child? I shook my head. “This is impossible. I have sworn Rhydderch an oath. The child is to be born under the care of priests. I cannot risk his displeasure in this.”
“An oath. I had hoped some such thing would not be the case.” Cathan fixed his eyes on the snow, thinking. “You will have to break it.”
He spoke as if it were the simplest thing, like drawing breath. “Languoreth, you know I would not ask it of you if I believed there was another way.”
I blinked a moment, my world spinning. “Even if I acted against Rhydderch’s wishes, they would come searching for me. They would send soldiers . . .”
“To White Isle?” Cathan stepped back. “I’d like to see them try. I don’t know a man in Tutgual’s guard fool enough to trespass on my land. No,” he assured me, “once you are arrived safely, there would be no more trouble to be had. You’ll bear the child, and what is done is done.”
“So you may think, but you are wrong. Tutgual would not forgive such an act. Nor could my husband. Rhydderch is a man of his word, and I have given mine. I have already abused his trust once.”
Cathan studied me. “I hear fear in your voice. I know Tutgual is frightful. I know you are loyal to your husband. But I must ask you, Languoreth. Do you love this child?”
My hands again cradled my stomach. Did I love my babe? This child that now tossed and kicked inside of me was all that bound my heart together. More than a living memory, this babe was made of me and of Maelgwn, and the ferocity with which I felt its presence nearly took away my breath.
“I love this child more than any living thing. But what you ask is too much. If I must risk this—if I must agree to risk everything—you must tell me, Cathan. What did you see?”
He turned to me, his eyes shadowed in evening snow light.
“It was my hope that you could take me at my word. Once told, such visions can be haunting. They can be . . . impossible to forget.”
I looked at him expectantly, and the Wisdom Keeper looked down, rubbing the dry skin of his knuckles. “Very well. As you wish it.
“I sought the fortune of the child you now carry. But where I had hoped to find blessings, the Gods showed me a vision of a fortress in flames. Men were shouting. Bodies were piled. Rivers of blood soaked the soil. In the midst of it all, I saw your son drowning in fire.”
I clutched for the porch post.
“Ho, now.” Cathan reached to steady me. “Not everything I see takes root in this world. If you bear him on White Isle, the Gods may protect him. That is my hope. It is a place between worlds, sacred ground, steeped in the rituals of the ages. If he is born there, I can beseech the Gods’ blessing.” Cathan covered my hand with his. “If he is born there, it is possible the event I have foreseen may never come to pass.”
“Possible?” I shook my head. “All this for possible? No. There must have been some error. You say you saw my son. But we do not even know if this child I bear will be a son or a daughter.” I spoke out of desperation, as if I could wave it away. But Cathan turned my face to his, his blue eyes intent.
“The child you carry in your womb is a boy,” he said. “The son of a Dragon Warrior. And if he is not born on White Isle, I fear he will not live long enough to become a man.”
CHAPTER 37
* * *
I did not speak of what Cathan had told me to anyone. I moved through the evening and the following day with my head full of fire and the haunting memory of the crow’s call. The thought that the bird had come that day to warn me of my child’s death made me suddenly sick, and I leaned over the washbowl in my chamber, retching until there was nothing left to purge.
As I wiped my mouth with the edge of a linen, I knew I had no choice. I must go to White Isle. For if I did not, and my child suffered the death Cathan had foreseen, how could I carry on breathing?
I glanced at the bed where I lay each night beside Rhydderch. I had sworn him an oath, and promised to come to him first should I ever be in need.
Perhaps I had not seen proof enough of miracles to risk the betrayal this would be to my husband. But had I not walked the slopes of a mountain on Lughnasa, seemingly unseen, a talisman at my breast? Who was the specter those at the festival saw that day, laughing and drinking, while I lay beneath a canopy of trees with Maelgwn?
The babe in my belly was proof of the Gods’ magic.
Yet Rhydderch would never give way when it came to the Christian birthing of our child; he’d made that much clear. What if I told him of Cathan’s vision and he forbade me to go? I could not risk it. This warning was a gift. If the Gods had seen fit to send Cathan a Knowing, how could I fail to protect my child?
No. It did not matter what punishment Tutgual would exact, or what Rhydderch might do. Beat me, imprison me. Take away my life. In an instant everything had changed. So long as my child should live, it no longer mattered. That my child would not suffer—I would sacrifice anything for that.
But my journey would need to be timed down to the moment. Leave too soon and I would be discovered before the child was born. Too late and I would not make the journey through the forest and onto the boat in time to bear the child on sacred land. Cathan would need to escort me, and Crowan . . . Tutgual knew I cared for her. I could not bring her with me, but I could send her on some errand. Ensure she knew nothing and was occupied or safe. I would not tell her of Cathan’s Knowing; she’d fight me tooth and nail for fear of my health. Brodyn, likewise, would fear too much for my safety.
I would need someone to send word to Cathan when the time came, and there was only one person I could rely upon to do my bidding. I found her in my chamber and she looked up from her mending with a flicker of annoyance.
“Desdemona, I would speak with you.”
“M’lady?” She finished her stitches and set down her work. “Are you needin’ me to stitch another frock?”
“No.” I lowered my voice. “I fear I must ask you something much more dire. I must ask you to do something for me. There is none other I can trust.”
Her eyes shifted, but then she said, “Aye, m’lady. Tell me wha’ I might do.”
“I need you to get a message to someone when the time comes, no matter how dangerous. Can you do that?”
“If it be dangerous . . .” She swallowed in hesitation. Or perhaps it was in fear. “Might’n I know wha’ it’s to do with?”
“I’m sorry, Desdemona, but I cannot yet say. Please, I beg you. You are the only person I might trust.”
She looked at the ground but dipped her head nonetheless. “Aye, then, m’lady. I’ll do it.”
“And you must swear you will not speak a word of this to anyone. Not to Crowan, not to anyone.”
“Aye.” She fixed her dark eyes on me. “I swear it.”
“Thank you.” I touched her shoulder and bowed my head. “Desdemona. I am grateful to you indeed.”
• • •
The snows melted and tender shoots of fern began to spike up through the soggy springtime ground. Nearly nine moons had passed since I’d lain with Maelgwn. From my chair under the shelter of the eaves I watched the rain fall in thin sheets of mist and prayed he was keeping warm. Word came that Emrys had brokered a peace with the new Angle king, and since then there had been an eerie sort of peace in the Borderlands. But not knowing if and when I should ever see Maelgwn again left a feeling in my bones like a fracture that ached before a storm.
I had taken to sitting outside regardless of weather. Inside the hall the air was cloying and Elufed’s eyes scarcely left me. Inside, I had to be careful not to sink my hand into my pocket where I could close my fingers around the soothing metal of Maelgwn’s ring.
“Why have you always got your hand in your pocket?” Elufed had asked one dreary afternoon as we sat weaving in the front room.
“Habit, I suppose.” I didn’t look up. “I like dresses with pockets. It gives them a purpose.”
She had shaken her head, but her eyes had rested on me a moment too long. Since then I had been more careful to keep my secret close. It was not beneath Elufed to send a servant rummaging through my things. I had thought that, being shut indoors together for the last months of winter, we would come to know each other; but in all the hours we’d spent in Partick, she hadn’t breathed a word of much significance. Nothing of her past, nothing of her people. Nothing of Mungo or the Old Way. She spoke of fabrics and fashion, and delighted in hosting elaborate feasts featuring spices from the Orient and dates from the sun-drenched shores of the Mediterranean that were so sweet, they made my cheeks pucker.
I let out a sigh as a shuffle sounded from over my shoulder. The door swung open and I turned to see Desdemona peering at me like a mouse.
“Hello, Desdemona.” My voice sounded tired. “What is it?”
“The queen, m’lady.” She squared her shoulders. “She says your husband and the king’ll be here. She’s wantin’ you to come in an’ dress.”
I glanced out into the yard where Tutgual’s men stood stiffly at their posts, blinking in the rain.
“Dress. Of course,” I sighed, and pushed myself up with some effort.
“You must be bright an’ glad to see Lord Rhydderch again,” she said as I shuffled reluctantly inside. “If you like, I’ll fix a fetchin’ plait in your hair.”
“To what end?” I was well aware I had let my appearance go to seed, but I did not need reminding of this from her.
She shifted uncomfortably. “What wi’ you bein’ with child and all, m’lady, an’ your husband travelin’ so oft—”
“My husband has no taste for strange women,” I said sharply.
What business was it of hers? Rhydderch cared for me. He was loyal to me. The pounding of my husband’s pulse was reserved for politics. He kept me safe, and when he was home he sought to teach me about the maneuverings of the world beyond Strathclyde’s borders. He thought well of my intelligence and treated me as his equal. For that reason alone, I owed him my fealty and—I supposed—the respect of appearing presentable when his father and his retinue arrived to take up summer residence in the hall.
I turned to Desdemona. “My apologies. I did not mean to be so harsh.”
“It’s no bother, m’lady. You’ve much weighin’ on your mind of late.”
“It’s no excuse for ill behavior.”
Desdemona smiled gratefully as I gestured for her to lead the way down the corridor. I had scarcely reached the stair when the call came up from the guard.
Desdemona’s eyes widened. “Sweet Gods, is tha’ they, come so early?” She rushed back to the door, peering through the crack. “Stay back, m’lady,” she said when I tried to look. “We mustn’a let ’em see you in such a state!”
“Very well,” I sighed. “Who is it, then?”
I watched as she squinted, then frowned. “Not the king. It’s only a single rider.” She drew in a breath. “It’s . . . a Wisdom Keeper! I—I canna see his face; he’s got a hood up ’gainst the weather . . .”
“Oh, this is foolishness. Let me see,” I insisted, opening the door. I stepped out onto the porch to see a white-robed figure lift a hand in greeting to the soldiers. I would recognize his outline anywhere, but the sight of him in crisp white cloth, his brown and golden-streaked hair shaved into a tonsure at the forehead and plaited neatly away from his face, made me wonder if he wasn’t some sort of apparition.
“Lailoken.”
My brother’s handsome face creased into a smile at the sound of my voice. He ducked under the eaves and out of the rain, knocking a clump of mud from his boots. His wound was a deep red gash that traced the curve of his cheek, mottled and angry, but it was healing. I was so relieved to see that the glint of good humor had returned to his eyes that I nearly forgot to congratulate him.
“You’ve been given your robes!” I exclaimed, rushing to embrace him. “You look so well!”
I held him at arm’s length. “So this is it, then? You’re to begin your training in earnest?”
“Aye.” He grinned.
“And when will you depart for White Isle?” My pulse raced with hope: that Lailoken would be there to greet me; that I could bear my child among family there.
But his face shifted. “I depart even now, sister.”
“Now? You leave for White Isle now?”
“No, not for White Isle. There is a master in the north, deep in the mountains, whom Cathan greatly admires. He has sent word to arrange it. He expects me even now.”
I stared at him. “Up north? But Cathan has said nothing of this. Why would he send you away?”
“Each Keeper must find his own master. Cathan has been a teacher to me these many years, but he cannot take me any further. The man I travel to see—he is the one I must train with now.”
I swallowed. “But . . . you will miss the birth of your nephew.”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes. “I do not want you to go.”
“Eh?” Lail said. “But wasn’t it my own sister who said I must complete my training?”
I looked at him standing there, so proud and strong in his robes, and gave a sad smile. “I know you must. And I am proud of you, brother. It is only that I shall miss you so.”
Lailoken met my eyes. “Then we will not say good-bye. We shall only say farewell for now. When my training is complete, I will return home and find my calling in the land of the Britons. We will be close to each other again. And I shall meet my nephew.” He smiled at the curve of my belly.
“Then this is how it shall be,” I said.
“This is how it must be.” Lail looked up, offering me his hand, and I took it.
“But there may yet be a spot of sun in my departure,” he said.
“Nay, there is not.”
“Indeed. For I will first travel south, to set sail from Rheged. There is a student there called Taliesin. We are to travel together. I will rest a few days at Emrys’s camp before traveling on to Rheged. Surely there will be those among Emrys’s retinue who will be glad to have some news of you.” Lailoken’s eyes locked on mine so I could not miss his meaning. He would carry a message to Maelgwn.
I glanced over Lail’s shoulder. One of Tutgual’s men stood with his back to us, his eyes set on the road but his ears pricked like a hound’s on the hunt.
“Then you must tell our brother Gwenddolau that not a day passes that I do not think of him. Tell him I think of him every time I look out to sea,” I said carefully. “Tell him I keep our memory of the forest tucked away in the safety of my pocket.”
Lail’s eyes questioned but he nodded all the same. “Very wel
l. This I will tell him.”
“Thank you.” I looked at his face as if I could press it into my memory.
“Don’t look at me so,” he scolded.
“How?”
“Like I am either an earthbound god or some condemned mortal. Men have sought their souls in the mountains since time out of memory.”
I forced a laugh. “Well, you are certainly no god.”
“So you might say, but I know many a fair woman who might disagree.”
“Incorrigible.” I managed a laugh, but my brother’s eyes were fixed on Tutgual’s hall. Our smiles faded.
“It’s dreadful in there,” he said. “It is the only reason I hesitate to leave.”
“Yes. And the high king will return now for the season.”
Lailoken’s face was grim. “Sister, you must promise me something.”
“I would promise you anything.”
“Whilst I am gone, you must not forget who you are.”
“Oh? And who am I?” I asked, in an effort to make light.
“You are Languoreth.” He gripped my hands, squeezing them almost ’til they hurt. “You are daughter of the great chief Morken and the Wisdom Keeper Idell. The Old Way flows through your body; it lives in your very veins. There is power in that. You must never doubt it. When it comes to these people, you must never give way.”
I drew back. “You think that of me? That I could set aside my family, my blood, all my learning?”
“I do not think that. I fear it. I have visited this court of merchants and priests. I know Tutgual rules by the strength of his sword. You are no longer with us, and now I am leaving. If the tide should turn—”
“I am no fair-weather seaman, Lailoken.”
I wanted to tell him of the baby and White Isle, but Tutgual’s man was listening. And perhaps I didn’t wish to know which my brother valued more: my life, or that my child be born of the Gods of the Old Way. My eyes went to the welt on his cheek, and Lailoken bent his head in acknowledgment.
“You were right, sister. They meant to take away my power, yet they have only made me stronger,” Lail whispered. “When I return to Strathclyde, I will be a Wisdom Keeper the likes of which Mungo has never known. Let him try to rise to me then. I will crush him where he stands.”