by H. Barnard
Taran looked at Brei, his eyebrows raised slightly.
Brei nodded. “About the Damnnones raiding south of the Great Wall.”
“Yes. Taran, my boy, what do you think of it all?”
Taran answered without hesitation. “I think it is an opportunity, Uncle, one we must act on quickly.”
“An opportunity… Perhaps, but at what cost? We must do it properly, Taran. These things cannot be done as swiftly as you would like.” Gartnait’s calm voice crackled with age, and yet his understated wisdom never failed to command Brei’s attention.
“We must call a meeting of all the warriors of Caledon, and then take it to Talorc,” Taran continued.
“Yes, of course, Taran.” Gartnait sighed. “We must raise this with the warriors. I’m not sure if it is what I would do, but Talorc will know best.”
“I understand, Uncle, and you are right. Talorc will know best.” Taran draped his arm around his uncle’s shoulders, and the king smiled up at him.
Thirteen
Winter, 367 C.E., Caledon
Sorsha squinted against the harsh natural light as she passed through the guarded wall separating the Sacred Forest and the city. The blizzard had finally broken, and she wondered if she would ever be able to step inside the oppressive tower again. Imprisoned for a week by snow, the damp walls of the shadowy stairwell had seemed to constrict and clutch around her neck. Often she wondered if the chamber from her nightmares lurked somewhere in the tower. As she ambled down the winding lane that divided Caercaled, the crisp scent of snow was cut with the earthy odours of horses, sewage, and smoke billowing from the roundhouses. Men and women cloaked in furs and tasselled shawls passed her, travelling in all directions, avoiding the piles of snow heaped on either side of the paths.
A sharp, rhythmic hammering of metal against metal echoed across the central lane. A blacksmith was working in a three-walled wooden building, and he knelt on the ground, hammering a long blade against an anvil. The metal clanged, and sparks flew as the hammer hit the searing red blade. The blacksmith was young, with black hair tied loose at his neck. A greasy film of sweat and soot covered his face and muscled arms.
“Do you like it?” he panted, as he put the blade into a bucket of water. The water sizzled and spat.
Sorsha stepped closer to get a better look at the iron blade. “It’s beautiful, but how does it work when it’s so thin?”
“It’s easier to protect yourself when you are further away from your opponent. The Romans like to use spears and hide behind their big shields, so we need a long reach.”
“How do you make the blade?”
He put the blade on the dirt floor and stood. “You have to make the iron first, that’s turning rock to metal, and then you melt the iron into a mould of a blade, or what have you. When it’s red hot and no longer a liquid, you hammer it into shape. And then you refine it even further against a wet stone.”
“Could you show me?”
He grinned. “I’d like to, lady, but my apprentice is not with me today and I need someone to work the bellows,” he said, pointing to what looked like a leather sack with a wooden handle that was attached to the furnace. “But come back another day, and perhaps I’ll show you.”
Sorsha turned at the sound of female voices floating down the lane behind her. Serenn’s apprentices, Eluned and Arian, wore thick black robes, and a wide leather band was strapped across their torsos, attaching brown leather satchels.
Sorsha stepped in front of them. “Where is Serenn?”
Arian smiled, her blonde hair flowing loose in the breeze. “We are going to see her now, she is at the Shining Lakes.”
Eluned’s auburn hair was braided, pulled tight on either side of her long face. She grimaced as she watched the blacksmith wipe sweat from his brow. Then she looked at Sorsha. “You may follow,” Eluned said in a dour voice, brushing past Sorsha as though she had smelt a nasty scent.
Sorsha spun back to the blacksmith. “I will visit again soon. I would like you to show me. What is your name?”
He smiled. “Gwyddion.”
Sorsha waved and walked with Arian as she limped behind Eluned. As they crossed into the centre circle, cleared of snow, market stalls had been set up for sellers of cloth, bread, vegetables, and meat.
Eluned paused in front of the Western Gate, turning to watch Sorsha and Arian catch up. “Can you two hurry? I hate keeping the Eldar Bandruwydd waiting.” She spun around and marched past the warriors on guard, her black robes unfurling behind her in the wind. Sorsha glanced at Arian, and they turned their faces away in silent laughter.
Outside the city walls, Sorsha and Arian had to wade knee-deep through the compacted snow, following Eluned’s brisk tracks. They trudged until they approached a shimmering lake bordered by distant, snow-covered mountains. Mist hovered above the lake like ice-cold breath. On the lake’s edge Sorsha could see a fire, the snaking flames outlining a figure swaddled in a cloak. Alerted by the collective crunching of their steps, the figure turned. It was Serenn, draped in a long, fiery-red cloak made from the russet pelts of foxes and squirrels.
“I am glad you have sought me,” Serenn said in a husky voice.
Sorsha stepped closer. “I’ve been wanting to ask you,” she paused, “some questions.”
“I know.” Serenn studied Sorsha through charcoaled eyes, and the sides of her mouth wrinkled into a smile. Time had been kinder to Serenn than to other inhabitants in Caercaled. The greying of the roots of her blue hair betrayed an advanced age, but the fine lines on her heart-shaped face were a mere shadow of what an ordinary person would carry after years of hard labour.
Serenn motioned for Sorsha, Arian, and Eluned to sit on furs laid out by the lake’s edge. The fire crackled in front of them, and Arian poured wine into wooden cups. An icy wind swept across the glittering surface of the lake, blowing Serenn’s scent of cinnamon, herbs, and wooded smoke.
The undiluted wine was bitter, but the Bandruwydds seemed content to finish it before the conversation could begin. The wine warmed her fingers, and her limbs became heavy.
Serenn reached forwards and took the goblet from Sorsha, the amber beads tied to the ends of her blue braids chinking together as she moved. “Now, tell me what you want to know.”
“I suppose you know how I came to be here?”
Serenn nodded. “You are a Healer? Descended from the Gallar, who dwell in Tirscath.”
“Well, my mother was.”
“And you are the firstborn daughter of one of her lives?” Serenn asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you know that the firstborn daughter of a life of a Healer is the only offspring from that life to become a Healer, if they accept the Gift.”
Sorsha nodded.
“And you have passed through Tirscath?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
Sorsha shifted into a cross-legged position. “Just once.”
“Once?” Serenn looked at Eluned and smirked. “Then I see why you have questions.”
“Yes, well, I didn’t really want to. My death was…not altogether consensual.”
Serenn raised her eyebrows. “Go on.”
“I didn’t want to accept the Gift. I refused. But my mother couldn’t accept that.” Sorsha swallowed. “This is her… I’m not sure, her ninth life, perhaps? She was born before the Romans first sailed to Britannia. All her other firstborn daughters had been ready to receive the Gift. But I was different. We fought so much about it, for years. And so, a week before I turned twenty-one, after which the Gift can no longer be accepted, my mother had Roman soldiers assassinate me in the standing stones near where I grew up.”
“Why didn’t you want to accept the Gift?”
“Is it a gift, though? To be forced to serve the Gods for all eternity sounds more like a burden. And I felt like I didn’t even know who I was or what I wanted to do with my life, let alone for one hundred lives or more. When I was a child, I wanted to experien
ce adventure with my father, on one of his voyages. But accepting the Gift is permanent, and I still don’t know… I still don’t know who I am. I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, does it, who I am?”
“Who you are?” Serenn leaned forwards and clasped her hands around Sorsha’s. “My dear, we do not care who you are, only what you are. Individuals perish, but the Ancient People survive.”
Arian and Eluned nodded and repeated, under their breath, “individuals perish, but the Ancient People survive.”
“We cannot help you if you seek meaning beyond the purpose that has been given you by the Gods. You must realise this?” Serenn pulled a sprig of mistletoe from her leather satchel, withered and crisping, as though it had been hiding in the bag for weeks. “You should know how thankful we are that you have come to us at last, we have been asking for some time,” Serenn said as she twirled the mistletoe in her fingers. “The Eldar Druwydd picked this on the sixth night of the last waning moon. He promised us we would have our wish before the life left the stem.” The crinkled leaves scratched between Serenn’s fingers, but it was not quite dead. A pale greenness clung to the stem. “You came too early…” Serenn whispered, as if to herself. “And we were not prepared. But no matter,” Serenn looked up and smiled. “I always make things go to plan in the end.”
“And the plan is what? My mother helped people in the city where we lived. Is that what I must do, too?” Sorsha asked. “Is that what you want me to do?”
Serenn tilted her head, the amber beads clinking. “Do you know how to do it?”
Sorsha frowned. “I’ve seen it done. But my mother said it wasn’t something that could be taught. She said I’d just know how when the time came.”
“Let me help you,” Serenn said and nodded to Arian.
Arian rummaged through the leather satchel and extracted a small blade with a white bone handle.
“Give me your arm, Arian,” Serenn said. Arian nodded and placed her arm on Serenn’s palm.
Sorsha’s heart pounded. Surely not. Serenn rolled up the sleeve of Arian’s tunic, exposing the pale flesh of her forearm. The shining lake reflected in Arian’s eyes, and she stared out as though there was nothing more fascinating in that moment than counting the distant mountains.
Sorsha’s gaze darted from Arian’s pale, ethereal face as Serenn lifted the dagger and sliced through Arian’s upturned skin from wrist to elbow. Arian inhaled, but her head did not turn away from the lake. Blood oozed from the wound, lingering in a pool on her arm, as if considering which way to go, and then dribbled over the edges, trickling along the skin, through the tiny hairs, until droplet after droplet fell onto the furs on which they sat.
“Heal her,” Serenn whispered.
Sorsha’s eyelids felt heavy, as though a cold fog had descended upon them. Serenn pushed Arian’s bloodied arm towards Sorsha. Blood dripped from the wound, relentlessly. Sorsha recoiled.
“She will die soon,” Serenn said.
But Serenn’s husky voice seemed far away, lost in the thick clouds swelling in Sorsha’s mind. She sensed Serenn grab her hand and place it on Arian’s wound. The warm blood was wet under her palm, and she stared, transfixed, into Arian’s silvery-blue eyes, their light fading. Please don’t die. Sorsha’s heart raced and a strange, intense heat pulsed from her chest. It spread down Sorsha’s arm and into her hand. The heat concentrated in her palm as Serenn guided her hand along Arian’s arm. Sorsha’s eyes never left the steely grey of Arian’s, and she was determined not to look down.
As sudden as it had come on, the fog lifted from Sorsha’s mind, and she was left, heart hammering, hand clasped around Arian’s arm. Arian had never wavered from her casual calmness, as though this had happened before. Serenn pried Sorsha’s hand off and Eluned poured water from a decorated jug over the girl’s bloodied arm. There was no wound. Nothing more than a thin white scar.
“What happened?” Sorsha asked, unable to keep the shake from her voice.
Serenn shrugged. “You healed her.”
Eluned took Sorsha’s hand and poured water over it. The liquid trickled red onto the furs beneath them.
Arian glanced at Sorsha over the lip of her goblet as she drank, her eyes sparkling in the waning white light.
“Do you have more questions?” Serenn asked.
“Would it be possible to see my mother?”
Arian fetched a wooden bowl from her satchel and mixed a dark powder with water.
“Where is she?” Serenn asked.
Sorsha watched as Arian took her arm and painted it blue in long, soothing strokes with her icy hands. “Ah…” Sorsha paused, disturbed by how relaxed Arian continued to appear. “Corinium Dobunnorum, south of the Great Wall. She knew the land before the Romans came… But I cannot explain this to the people here. They already think I am a spy.”
“Yes, I think it would be unwise.”
Flames whirred and fizzed as the wind picked up. Sorsha flexed her hands to crack the dried paint and peeled a long strip off, from her fingernail to her knuckle. “But I think it would be better if I went back south,” she whispered. “I want to see my mother… I need to go home.”
Without warning, Sorsha’s throat restricted painfully, as though someone had hit her, and she coughed. She searched for a culprit, but the Bandruwydds watched her without a sign that they had noticed anything amiss. Sorsha cleared her throat.
“You are not a captive here, but you understand that you are under the control of the king and his nephew, Taran,” Serenn said, and Sorsha felt her body sink into the furs.
“But Taran told me the ceremony was a mere formality, to save me.”
“He means, you are not bound like Brei and Anwen. Brei is bound to Anwen in protection and provision, he has promised the Gods he will protect her and provide for her along with any children he fathers. But you are bound in obligation.”
Sorsha frowned. “Then why am I under his control?”
“It depends on the intention. You were bound because someone needed to vouch for you. You were bound by the Gods in obligation, and Taran is responsible for your actions, your crimes. I, myself, am bound in obligation to Eluned and Arian. For as long as they are my apprentices we are bound, I am responsible for their actions, their crimes are my crimes.”
“So I must get Taran’s permission to leave? Or the king’s?”
“If either were to allow it, then yes, you could see your mother. I think it unlikely, though. The king knows your value, and if Taran does not, he will figure it out soon enough.”
Wind whistled and howled, filling her mind like slow drums in the depths of a cave. Sorsha walked along a dark stone passageway, her bent back occasionally scraping against the low roof. The air was thick with the smell of damp grass and the saltiness of the ocean. She followed a flickering light along the low passage to a square chamber where a lit torch lay on the ground. The wood crackled and spat. She bent to pick up the torch to get a better look at the chamber, but as her hands touched the wood, a gust of wind blew up the passageway, and the torch went out. Then the wind dropped, and she could hear footsteps. Someone was running along the passageway towards her. Her heart beat frantically as the footsteps drew closer.
Sorsha choked and opened her eyes. Sweat beaded across her forehead as she panted. The dying fire in the hearth cast long shadows across her room, and a strange howl, like wind, echoed in the stairwell. The muscles in her legs tensed and she lay still, listening to the dull crackle of the fire. Another low howl, like a wounded stag, reverberated against the stone once more. Edging herself off the bed, she crept to the door and peered into the empty corridor. The noise groaned again from behind the entrance to the staircase, and she tiptoed towards the landing door. Her hand hovered on the iron door handle. Maybe I should wake Taran and Naoise?
She grasped the handle and pulled it open. The torch on the landing had blown out, but she could still make out a strange, lumpy shadow lying across the entrance. The lump moaned. It must be an animal…or a de
mon. The lump raised its head, and she inhaled. It was a man, crunched over on his knees. He wheezed. A strange empathy, a tremor in her stomach, lured her forwards, and she bent down and put her hand on his shoulder. Tears smudged his cheeks as he looked up at her. A hideous odour wafted, and she wondered if he had shat himself.
She recoiled as recognition dawned on her. “King Gartnait… What is wrong?”
“My stomach,” he moaned. “I was trying to reach Serenn…but it is so far.” He doubled over his knees once more.
Perhaps I should find Serenn. She looked across the dim landing to the spiralling staircase that faded into black. The king’s breathing was rapid and his shoulder wet with sweat. An intense urge to help him rippled through her, like an itch, a blind compulsion. Reaching forwards, she pushed her hand into the space between his knees and his stomach. Agonised cries echoed around the stairwell as she pressed her hand against his wet robes, up into his abdomen.
“Shh,” Sorsha whispered.
Heat travelled from her heart, down her arm, and into her palm, and she pressed until his breathing returned to normal. He lifted himself onto his knees and gazed up at her, wide-eyed. She stroked the sweaty grey hair out of his eyes and pressed her palms across his forehead until his face relaxed. “Do you feel better?”
He nodded, looking up at her like a puppy rescued from a stream. “It is true, then, what Serenn said about you.”
The compulsion to heal faded from her body like waves pulling back from the shore.
King Gartnait clutched her hand, a sweet smile crinkling his eyes. “Thank the Gods you came to us.”
Fourteen
Winter, 367 C.E., Caledon
Brei followed Taran and King Gartnait under the ancient boughs of oak and yew, into the Sacred Forest. The warriors of Caledon waited for them beneath dark jagged clouds outlined by the creeping pale dawn. Brei’s stomach tensed as he practised the speech he had spent the night memorising, instead of sleeping. We have gathered to decide whether to avenge the deaths of our fathers and defend our lands, as our ancestors did from a greedy and persistent foe. Brei and Taran had spoken to every warrior in Caercaled of their plan to attack the Romans south of the Great Wall. Brei felt confident that no matter what he said, they had mustered enough support before the vote.