by H. Barnard
They spent the night in the wooden hall with Talorc and his younger brother, Drest, drinking mead flavoured with heather. Talorc leaned across the long wooden table towards Taran, who sat opposite him. “You spoke with the Damnnones?”
Taran nodded. “And King Nechtan at Caermhèad. We saw Cantigerna, she’d probably have asked us to send you her regards, but we tried not to talk about you.”
Talorc jerked forwards, and Taran recoiled, then smiled.
“Did you speak to King Alwyn?”
Brei shook his head. “No, we didn’t go to Altclud. We only spoke to the warriors at Gowan.”
Talorc gulped more ale and belched. “Apparently old Alwyn is near death. His son, Coel, is positioning himself to take the throne.”
Naoise frowned. “How can he take the throne, he’s not a Prince of the Blood?”
Talorc pulled a face. “Don’t be thick, Neesh, they do it differently there.”
“How do you know all this?” Brei asked.
“I have spies everywhere. I know everything.”
Taran snorted. “And yet you don’t know the plots that grow beneath your nose.” He winked at Naoise.
Naoise’s cheeks flushed, and he mouthed “fuck you.”
Taran leant back and laughed.
Brei sipped more ale and tried to keep the confusion from his face.
“And you think we should raid down south, is that what you’re getting at?” Talorc asked.
Brei nodded. “Attack them while they are weak. Then, because we can enter through the Great Wall, we can take our horses.”
“For more plunder. Yes, yes, it is appealing.” Talorc drained his silver goblet of mead and signalled to a servant hovering by the edge of the table that he wanted more. “But why should we limit our ambitions?”
Taran leaned forwards. “What do you have in mind?”
Talorc paused as the servant poured fresh mead. Another servant hurried forwards with a glowing poker and dipped it into the cup. It sizzled and spluttered for a few seconds before the servant removed the poker and, bowing, hobbled away.
“Well, you will remember my queen, Princess Maeve, of Attacot?”
They nodded.
“Our children, of course, belong to Attacot, but I visit sometimes, and I have become quite friendly with her father, King Derine. It seems to me that they would be keen to join us.” Talorc picked up his goblet and drank.
“Why stop there?” Naoise asked.
Brei turned, surprised to see Naoise contributing something other than banter.
Talorc smirked. “Do you have anything else in mind?”
“My father is a Prince of Ulster, I could visit him and see if his brother, the king, would be interested.”
“The eldest sons inherit in Ulster, don’t they? Who is in line for the throne?” Talorc asked.
“My cousin, Prince Fergus. He’s an arsehole.”
Talorc smirked. “I’ve heard. I had thought of them, but they seem more interested in warring with Attacot and Cait and taking the lands on the west coast. But perhaps an alliance with Ulster would be beneficial.”
Brei exhaled through his nose.
Talorc raised his eyebrows. “This displeases you, Brei?”
“What doesn’t?” Taran smirked over the lip of his goblet.
Brei grunted and rolled his eyes.
Sitting next to Talorc, Drest pawed at the king’s arm. “I will go with Neesh to Ulster, if you give leave, brother?”
“So that you and Naoise can get up to mischief with no one to watch you?”
“We are men!” Naoise huffed. Taran smirked across the table at Talorc, whose eyes twinkled back over his goblet.
“But” Naoise paused, smiling. “If you are worried, perhaps you would send Princess Eithne to keep us in check.”
Brei slapped the back of Naoise’s head. Princess Eithne was Talorc and Drest’s younger sister. As one of the few direct Princesses of the Blood of Caledon and Vortriu left, she was a prize beyond measure.
Talorc shook his head, but Drest grinned at Naoise.
“Fine, you can go together with an escort of my choosing,” Talorc said.
Naoise and Drest cheered and slammed their goblets together, spilling mead across the wooden table.
The moon was full and splashed silvery light across the fortified port as it protruded grey into the ocean. Brei had slipped away, trading drunken banter for fresh air. He ambled along the rocky beach next to the fortress, inhaling the salty breeze. Waves rumbled and hissed as Brei sat, drawing his knees up to his chest. He ran his hands through the cold sand.
“Can I join you?” a voice in the dark asked. Brei turned. Talorc stepped across the sand, swaying with glazed eyes and a drowsy smile.
“Of course.”
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The moon on the water like that.” Talorc thumped down next to Brei and stretched his legs into the sand. “Sometimes I wonder what would happen if we could all see this, would we ever have cause to fight again?”
Brei wondered how many goblets of ale Talorc had drunk since Brei left the hall.
Talorc sighed and lay back against the sand. “Our ancient mothers and fathers lived peacefully under the moon and stars for so long, and I often think it must be because we have turned away from this sense of awe and gratitude for life itself that we kill each other for land and jewels.”
Brei burst out laughing. “So much for wanting a saddle full of Roman heads and a bed full of their women!”
Talorc grinned through half-closed eyes. “Is it too much to want both?”
Seventeen
Winter, 367 C.E., Caledon
Sorsha pushed her palms into her aching eyes. Yet another night had been spent with the Bandruwydds waiting for the clouds to disappear, so they could measure the stars. Serenn had taught Sorsha how to track the passage of time through the stars and the moon phases between the solstices and equinoxes. They counted the nights until Imbolc, the festival that fell between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. It celebrated the arrival of spring and the Goddess Brig. Serenn had explained to Sorsha that Imbolc was a time of hope in the despair of winter. But if the signs were not favourable, it was a time of great depression in the realisation that Brig would not lure the snow away early.
“It is a time to beg Brig to purify the herds during their winter confinement and that she ensure the healthy birth of the lambs on the farmsteads. It is a time to drink milk and ale,” Serenn had said. “And the Gods always call for sacrifice.”
Druwydds from Rīgonīn were soon to arrive in anticipation of the festival, and people from the small villages and farmsteads around Caledon gradually poured into Caercaled.
“We are going to the river,” Serenn said.
Sorsha’s eyeballs seemed to drop into her sockets, and she wondered how dark the underneath of her eyes must be. Serenn looked immaculate, no matter how little sleep she had. Her hair was always piled atop her head, held back from her forehead with pins made of bone, and her eyelids forever blackened with charcoal, such that Sorsha got the impression Serenn wished to be both feared and adored.
Sorsha yawned. “Why?”
“Because I require more signs.”
Sorsha had spent weeks watching for any animal that might be more active, and she had scoured every tree in the Sacred Forest for buds. “But I’ve told you all the signs.”
Eluned arched an eyebrow. “That the squirrels are active? That is not enough. The snow still stays on the ground, and the oak is yet to bud. Have you seen the boxing hares yet?”
“No.”
Sorsha glared at Eluned’s back as they walked through the empty, winding lanes. Plumes of smoke rose from the roundhouses as they passed, and a large rooster stood on the thatched roof of Gwyddion’s workshop, arching its head to the sky and screeching. They continued walking through the muddy lanes of Caercaled, heading for the empty centre circle.
“The festival will take place here on the night of the next full m
oon, six waxing moons after tonight,” Arian whispered to Sorsha, her head bobbing up and down as she struggled to limp at the same pace.
“How can it hold everyone in Caercaled, let alone the surrounding farmsteads?”
“They flow out into the streets.” She smiled. “It’s a mess.”
Serenn clicked her tongue, turning on them with eyes like slits. “Not a mess for the Bandruwydds.”
Arian smirked as they passed through the Western Gate, which was guarded by a small garrison of warriors.
At the riverbank, a white-haired man waited for them, wrapped in furs. His pale blue eyes shone like a rabid wolf, and he motioned for them to follow him. “It’s this way.” Sorsha stared at Serenn’s straight back as they followed him along the river. The old man stopped and pointed to a rocky outcrop five yards into the river. “It’s out there.”
Serenn squinted at the icy water. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, we hit the rocks two days ago, and I got a good look down there for a moment before we freed the boat. It was lucky we didn’t sink!”
Serenn turned to her apprentices. “Do you have the rope?”
Arian nodded, the hint of colour disappearing from her pale cheeks.
The old man gaped. “You’re not going in there, are you? It’s terribly cold, you’ll die soon as you get back to the shore.”
Serenn smiled. “The Goddess of the River will protect us.”
He dropped his head. “Of course. Praise the Gods.”
Arian had removed her furs and stood in a black woollen tunic on the bank. Sorsha’s gaze flicked to the stump strapped to the end of her leg as Eluned tied a rope around Arian’s thin waist. They waited on the riverbank while Arian limped one hundred yards upriver. Pausing for a moment at the river’s edge, she limped as fast as she could and dived into the raging water. The river hurled her downstream, towards them, and into the path of the rocks. Fighting against the powerful current, Arian swam out to the middle of the river, and within a few seconds she smashed into the outcrop. Water tore against her back as she clung onto the rocks.
“It’s on the left side, closest to the southern bank!” the old man yelled.
Arian leaned under the water. “It’s stuck!” She gasped.
Serenn closed her eyes and chanted prayers to the Gods, and Eluned joined in. “Dour, dobur-ban-doiuis, arbeissi!” (“Water, dark water Goddess, have mercy!”)
Arian kept trying to pull something up off the rock, but it seemed the prayers to the dark water Goddess were not working.
“Shall I fetch her a stick or something?” Sorsha asked, as she scanned the forested bank.
“I’ve got it!” Arian screamed, holding a black rock high above her head.
“Pull her in,” Serenn yelled.
Eluned and the old man heaved the rope. Water sprayed onto the riverbank as the rope twirled and slacked with each heave. As they pulled, the water gushed over Arian and pushed her under the current. Sorsha snatched up the rope behind Eluned and pulled until her hands burned. When she finally hit the bank, Serenn wrenched Sorsha off the rope and pushed her towards Arian. Sorsha fell to her knees in the icy water and dragged Arian onto dry ground, hoping it was not too late. Arian clutched the black rock with blueish-grey hands, her body convulsing. With one arm cradling Arian upright, Sorsha pressed with her free hand into Arian’s chest until she ceased trembling.
“Is it better?” Sorsha whispered, her eyes darting back and forth across Arian’s pale face, searching for a sign she was not about to die.
A shaking arm extended upwards, and Arian handed Serenn the rock. “I’m okay.”
Eluned tossed a fur cape around Arian’s shoulders and walked back to Serenn’s side to gaze at the rock.
“What is it?” Sorsha asked as she pulled the fur cape snug around Arian’s shoulders and held her.
“We shall see,” Serenn whispered, pulling a dagger from her waist. The oval-shaped rock was the size of Serenn’s hand, and she prised it open with the knife and looked inside. She turned it around to show Arian and Sorsha. Nestled on a grey bed of mushy slime lay a shining white pearl.
“We will have an early spring,” Serenn beamed. “The Gods have blessed us with a gift, as a sign of the harvests to come.”
“So, there will be a sacrifice at Imbolc?” Sorsha asked.
Serenn rubbed the pearl between her thumb and index finger. “Oh yes.” Her voice lowered. “We must praise Brig for delivering us from this winter.”
Eluned and Serenn hurried back towards Caercaled, leaving without a backwards glance for Arian. Sorsha helped Arian to stand. “Why did Serenn make you do that? Surely Eluned could have?”
Arian shook her head. “Eluned is the daughter of the great King Uradech. Serenn would not risk her life. They are kin.”
“But she doesn’t mind risking yours.”
Arian smiled, her ghostly beauty shining despite the drenched mop of blonde hair plastered to her cheeks. “Let’s head back, I’m exhausted.”
Tall pines by the river’s edge creaked in the rising wind as Arian hobbled on her sodden stump. Sorsha reached out for her hand as she slipped for the second time.
“It’s okay.” Arian limped up the icy bank and onto the firmer path that snaked around the river to the Western Gate.
“How do you put up with all this?” Sorsha asked as they trudged in the compacted snow along the path. “I’d be so bitter if I were you, but you just smile and say everything is fine.”
Arian laughed. “But everything is fine. I’m lucky to have my life, and so lucky to have my apprenticeship. What is there to be bitter about?”
“It’s some kind of dark magic to only see the good in life, Arian.”
“Why don’t you feel lucky? You have an unending number of lives ahead of you, think what you could achieve with all the knowledge you will accumulate throughout time?”
The path forked sharply west to their left and lazily east to their right. They took the path to the east without pausing, the land rising with gentle ease towards the Hill of Caledon.
“But my mother forced me to accept this Gift. It doesn’t feel lucky when it is forced.”
Arian stopped limping and stared at Sorsha. “I mean this with affection, Sorsha, but do you realise how whiny you sound? I was forced to feel lucky to be alive because I watched the flesh from my parents’ bodies melt in the flames. Very few people are privileged enough to lead lives without sacrifice, to live a life without being forced to do something they would rather not.”
“I…” Sorsha looked down, her eyes following paw prints in the snow that followed a pair of large boots.
“And if you’re so angry about being forced to accept the Gift, why do you want to go back to your mother?”
“Because… It’s complicated.”
Arian reached out and held Sorsha’s hand. “You’re angry that you were torn from your old life, and you miss home? I get it. It’s confusing because, despite everything, you love your mother and you know it would have been awful for her having you assassinated. But deep down I think you realise that the same compulsion that drives you to heal people can also drive a Healer to do anything the Gods want. It’s the Gods you should be angry at, Sorsha, not your mother.”
A tear crept from Sorsha’s eye. “This place is horrible, it’s so different from home. So cold. So harsh. I just want to find a way to make it work, to appease the Gods but live in the south, in Britannia.”
Arian withdrew her hand and walked away. The crunching of her footsteps seemed so loud, and Sorsha’s stomach sank as she watched the small lump of furs limp along the snowy path.
“Arian, I’m sorry!” Sorsha called, running to catch up.
“You don’t need to apologise, Sorsha,” Arian said without stopping. “I’m sure there will come a day when I’ll see the good fortune in this too.”
Eighteen
Winter, 367 C.E., Vortriu
Brei waited in the stables with Rhuad, as Taran and Naoise prepared
their horses for departure. He wanted to return to Anwen and the twins, but he had seen blue skies for the first time in many moons, and a guilty part of him would have preferred to stay longer.
“Prince Taran?”
Brei twisted towards the door. Dressed in a long, white, flowing tunic, the Eldar Druwydd stood in the stable entrance. Ever since he had refused to claim the throne of Caledon, Brei had the impression the Eldar Druwydd disliked him.
Taran bowed. “How may I help you?”
“Serenn, of the Bandruwydd order in Caercaled, has asked a favour of you.”
Brei frowned and wondered why Serenn had not asked Taran herself before they left Caercaled.
“What does she want?”
“She needs a new Torc. There is one that is ready, but it is in Rīgonīn. Are you able to detour on your way home to transport it for her?”
Brei frowned. Who is the Torc for?
“Are you not coming down for Imbolc?” Taran asked.
The Eldar Druwydd smiled, his cheeks cracking. “I will spend Imbolc in Rīgonīn. Some of the Druwydds will attend, but they left for Caercaled days before you arrived. It is a wonder you did not pass them, they stayed with King Alpin at Banntuce.”
“We did not visit King Alpin. But of course, it would be an honour. May we escort you back to Rīgonīn? Are you travelling today?”
“Yes, that would be appreciated. I have planned it in the hope that you would say yes.”
They set out for Rīgonīn, three warriors leading a pilgrimage of five Druwydds. It was a long day’s ride from Caertarwos, and the journey took them south, away from the coast towards the mountains. During their breaks from the saddle, Taran and the Eldar Druwydd sat huddled together, talking in low voices. What’s he up to? Brei knew his brother was not any more devoted to the Gods than he was.
Rīgonīn was a sacred, royal village, where religious and royal jewellery was made. It sat between the Kingdoms of Ce and Vortriu and was controlled by the Druwydds. The great fortress of Rīgbre, the “Hill of Kings”, which flirted with ruin but had never been abandoned, guarded over the valley from the north of where Rīgonīn lay.