by H. Barnard
They approached the wooden palisade that encircled the tiny village of Rīgonīn after night had fallen. The wind picked up and the torches bolted to the palisade flickered as they approached. Brei, Taran, and Naoise stopped to allow the Druwydds to catch up before entering the sacred village.
A Druwydd, hooded and carrying a torch, pushed open a door from within the palisade and walked out to meet them. He gazed up at the warriors, still mounted, and lifting his torch high above his head, let the light fall on the faces of the Eldar Druwydd and his companions. The Druwydd bowed. “Princes, my lord Eldar Druwydd.” He turned, and Brei followed the white robes inside the palisade towards the village.
They crossed an embankment and ditch that encircled a paltry collection of rectangular wooden buildings, long houses, and workshops. As they reached the inner circle, the light from the burning torch hovered across an enormous standing stone that guarded the way. Etched on the standing stone was the image of a large man, carrying an axe over his shoulder. His teeth were all fangs, and his nose protruded like a dagger. Brei shuddered, recognising the Axe of Sacrifice.
The Druwydd led them from the entry stone across into the village, where another standing stone met their arrival. Carved into the rock was the Kaelpie of Vortriu, a sea monster resembling a horse-seal. Above it was the Salmon of Ce.
They pulled their horses close to one of the longhouses and dismounted. Light from within shone through the wooden beams. Brei stretched and handed his reins to a young Druwydd in training. His bones ached, and he longed for a hot meal away from the wind. He cracked his neck and watched Taran assist the Eldar Druwydd to dismount. Brei’s stomach tensed. Even after the boy had led Rhuad away, Brei remained in the howling wind and watched as Taran walked arm-in-arm with the Eldar Druwydd into the longhouse.
“Brei?” Naoise called from the doorway.
Brei followed Naoise into a lavish hall with a roaring fireplace in the middle. Along each side of the fire were long tables with low benches. Rīgonīn was a neutral sacred site and often played host to war treaties between the northern kingdoms.
Naoise waved Brei over to sit with younger Druwydds in training. Brei sat next to Naoise but watched Taran and the Eldar Druwydd in furtive conversation throughout the meal. He chewed on a leg of lamb, gnawing and sucking until there was nothing but smooth white bone.
“Brei?”
“What?” Brei said without looking at Naoise. Taran sniggered with the Druwydds across the table.
“Are you okay?”
Brei dropped the bone on his plate and turned to Naoise. “What do you think they have been talking about all day?”
“Taran and the Eldar Druwydd?”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t heard them?”
“Obviously not, Neesh.”
Naoise lowered his voice. “It’s the strangest thing if I heard right, but they’ve been talking mostly about Sorsha.”
“Sorsha?”
“As far as I can gather, the Torc is for her.”
“But she’s not of noble blood from any bloodline I know of, is she?”
Naoise shrugged. “To be honest, I’m not that interested, so maybe ask Taran.”
Brei grunted and turned back to look at Taran. He had gone. Brei scanned the long table, but Taran was nowhere to be seen. He reached for his goblet of wine and, as he clasped his hands around the metal, he felt arms from behind. Brei’s goblet tumbled over as the arms gripped him around his neck. Wine spread across the table and dripped between the wooden slats onto his deerskin pants. The Eldar Druwydd smiled across the table, blurry, as if from a dream. The grip around Brei’s neck was not tight. He turned his head and recognised the thick blond hair tied back into a bun.
“Taran?”
Taran released Brei, and sat on the bench next to him, facing away from the Druwydds. He looked tired but more peaceful and happier than he had for days.
“What’s going on?” Brei asked.
Taran slapped Brei on the back. “The Gods are with us, brother.”
“What do you mean?”
Wood creaked and Brei turned to see the Eldar Druwydd rise. The hall fell silent as the old man raised his left hand in the air. “It is the sixth night of the waxing moon, and there is mistletoe to harvest. We must make our offering to the Gods.” He paused and pointed at a blond, pink-cheeked, young man. “Broichan, son of the old King Drest of Vortriu, has the honour of harvest tonight. My Princes of the Blood, you are welcome to join the Druwydds and observe the ritual.”
“I want to watch.” Taran smiled, the light from the fire lighting up his blue eyes. “Naoise? Brei?”
Naoise finished his ale in one gulp and leaned close to Brei and Taran. “I’m in. I’ve heard it’s horrendous.” He grinned and wiped the ale foam from his mouth.
Brei nodded and rose from the wooden bench. Only Princes of the Blood and kings were permitted to view the mistletoe-harvesting ritual. Even Bandruwydds could not watch. Brei had seen a mistletoe gathering once before, as a young child many winters ago. All he remembered about the ritual was an eery sense of unease. A feeling he had long since associated with Rīgonīn itself.
From the hall’s entrance, the Eldar Druwydd smiled at the princes. Double wooden doors thrust open, and the white-robed Druwydds walked in single file into the night. Some were old men, like the Eldar Druwydd, with long, greying or white beards. Others were young boys in training, while some were in their prime, like Brei, Taran, and Naoise.
They followed the procession of Druwydds carrying flaming torches out of the village and towards the nearby woods. Brei recalled the Eldar Druwydd’s words, “the sixth night of a waxing winter moon”. He glanced at the sky. Clouds shrouded the moon, and Brei wondered how the Druwydds knew the moon was in the correct position for the ritual. They could tell us anything, and we would all just smile and nod.
As they entered the wood, the Druwydds chanted in deep, melodious voices. Brei’s mouth twitched as he remembered an Imbolc festival from childhood. Taran had joked that the prerequisite for joining the Druwyddic orders was the possession of balls the size of a ram’s.
They proceeded through the wood in single file to a grove of ancient oak trees, where nine Druwydds stood on a thin covering of fresh snow at the base of the largest oak tree, holding flaming torches and wearing robes of thin white linen that flapped and pulled against their knees in the howling wind. Brei swallowed as a young apprentice carried an axe with an overlong wooden handle to the Eldar Druwydd. The Axe of Sacrifice. Brei glanced at Taran and Naoise, and the light from the torches flickered across Naoise’s face. His eyes were wide, and he stood close to Taran.
Heavy hooves trampled through the wood behind them. Naoise jumped and reached for his sword, but Taran grabbed Naoise’s wrist as they turned towards the noise. From the black forest, two grey-haired and bearded Druwydds each led a white bull into the grove. The princes stepped aside to let them pass. One bull snorted as they led it to the Eldar Druwydd. Taran draped his arm around Naoise’s trembling shoulders. I forget how young Neesh really is.
The Druwydds steadied the bulls by their halters as they waited at the base of the oak tree. Holding the long Axe of Sacrifice, the Eldar Druwydd chanted. Broichan, fresh-faced and eager-eyed, leapt up and grasped the lowest branch of the ancient oak with both hands. He swung both legs up onto the branch and climbed to the highest branches. Guttural chanting filled the grove as Broichan ascended. The light of the torches was unable to pierce through the gloom at the top of the tree, and Brei wondered how Broichan would find the bright green balls of mistletoe. One flaming torch had dwindled so low against the ravages of the wind that it extinguished with a pop.
From the canopy of the oak tree, Broichan yelled “I’ve found it!”
The Eldar Druwydd nodded to three Druwydds who, handing their torches to the remaining six, stepped forwards. They unfurled a length of white linen and held it aloft at the base of the tree. The Eldar Druwydd raised the Axe of Sacri
fice into the air and, with a whoosh, Broichan jumped from the tree. As the axe came down and sliced through the neck of the closest white bull, the boy thumped into the linen.
The bull brayed and sank to its knees. Brei clenched his jaw as blood spilt across the bull’s white throat. The second bull grunted, wide-eyed, and struggled against its halter. Chanting continued as the Eldar Druwydd released the axe once more and sliced the throat of the remaining bull. It wailed and charged forwards a few steps before it tripped and crashed to the ground.
Dishevelled but unharmed, Broichan handed the Eldar Druwydd a sticky, bright green ball of intertwined plant sprouts with tiny white baubles. Closing his eyes, the Eldar Druwydd held the mistletoe ball high above his head, and the chanting stopped.
The second bull groaned and dropped limp onto its side. Its breathing laboured, rasping, and haggard, until its stomach heaved no more. Three Druwydds dragged the bull by the legs. Blood streaked across the snow in its wake, and they lay the bull next to its brother. Chanting once more, the Druwydds placed the white linen onto the blood pooling from the bulls’ necks. White swiftly turned crimson until all threads were soaked and the bulls lay dead amongst the gnarled roots of the ancient oak tree.
Nineteen
Winter, 367 C.E., Caledon
Gravel pressed into Sorsha’s heels as she hunched beneath the low stone roof of a passageway, making her way towards a light flickering in a chamber. As she bent to pick up the crackling torch lying on the ground, the flame extinguished. Everything was black, and she could hear footsteps coming up the passageway towards her, growing louder and faster. Cold sweat dripped from her armpits and rolled down her arms. The footsteps entered the chamber, and an icy breath rasped against Sorsha’s face.
Sorsha choked and opened her eyes. The hearth glowed in her room, splashing orange light around the walls. It’s just the nightmare again. She tried to control her breathing, but she could still hear the footsteps, echoing in the stairwell, growing louder. Soon the steps were on the landing. The wooden floorboards creaked outside her door. I wish I had a sword. She pushed herself up off the bed. A soft knock, only just louder than the snapping fire, as though unsure it wanted admittance.
“Hello?” Sorsha called, retreating into the shadows that would emerge behind the door once opened.
The door to her room groaned open, and the orange glow of the fire fell across broad shoulders and blond hair.
“Taran?”
Unsheathing his sword, Taran turned towards her voice. “Sorsha?”
She moved into the light. “I wasn’t sure who it was.”
He pushed his sword back into the leather scabbard. “Did I wake you?”
“No, I’d just… So you’re back from Caertarwos, then?”
He nodded.
“Did it go well?”
“Yes. We had to spend a night with the Druwydds at Rīgonīn, which delayed our return. Was everything okay while we were away?”
Sorsha pressed her lips together and nodded. The light of the fire shimmered across the hilt of Taran’s sword, drawing her gaze to the leather scabbard. It was tooled with a spiralled knot design and capped at the end with a curved bronze chape with two glittering snakeheads on either side. “Would you teach me?” she asked.
“Teach you what?”
“To fight with a sword.”
“Now?”
“No, but tomorrow maybe?”
“Fine.” He shrugged. “Naoise’s gone out to the tavern and I could do with a peaceful sleep for once. But I just wanted to check in now because I am on patrol early tomorrow and I’m not sure when I would have seen you.” Taran yawned. “Goodnight, Sorsha.”
Wind whistled through the thatched roof covering Serenn’s chamber at the top of the tower. The dried herbs hanging from the rafters rustled. Flames under the decorated cauldron flickered, and grey steam tumbled up the chimney set into the wall. Eluned dozed in a chair by the hearth, her auburn head rolling and jerking. Seldom had Sorsha seen Eluned undertake anything close to the work justifying an apprenticeship. Instead she seemed consumed by the pursuit of relaxation in Serenn’s absence, and dog-like sycophancy in her presence.
Twirling carved streamers danced and curved into knots across the lid of a small wooden box. Sorsha eased off the lid. It had perfect joinery, and she plucked up a shrivelled leaf from inside the box. The green was fading, but she recognised the slender foliage that came to a point. “This is Nerion?”
Arian placed the pestle she was using to grind herbs in a stone mortar on the bench and turned to inspect the leaf in Sorsha’s hand. “The merchants call it Nerion, yes. We call it Ankudol.”
Death leaf. “What do you use it for?”
“Serenn uses it to communicate with the Gods.”
Sorsha pressed the leaf back into the box. “We had a Nerion bush back home. It had the most beautiful pink flowers. What are you making?”
“A restorative to mix in with wine.”
Sorsha watched Arian press the pestle into the leaves. The sound of stone crunching against stone echoed around the breezy chamber.
“So, are you leaving us?” Arian whispered.
Sorsha kept her eyes on the pulverised leaves. “I’ve not got permission from Taran, so no.”
“Have you asked him?”
“No, I’ve barely spoken to him, and I wouldn’t know what to–”
“Sorsha?”
Both Arian and Sorsha jumped and twisted towards the doorway. Elfinn, the king’s son, stood in the stone archway, puppy-eyed and smiling. “Sorry to disturb. May I speak with you, Sorsha?”
She wiped her hands on her tunic. “Yes.”
Eluned rose from the chair by the fire and grabbed Sorsha’s hand. “Serenn needs your help here,” she hissed.
“I will come back to help after,” Sorsha said. She searched Arian’s face for a clue as to Eluned’s erratic behaviour, but her pale cheeks were flushed, and the crushed leaves seemed to occupy her gaze.
Sorsha brushed Eluned’s hand away and walked across the chamber to join Elfinn in the flickering glow of the landing. “What is it?”
Elfinn had brown hair, like his father, and the same sad, wide eyes. “My father said you helped him last time?”
Sorsha nodded and followed him to the gloomy staircase and down to the king’s room. Inside, the king’s floor was lavishly decorated. Tapestries of curling knots and beasts in greens, reds, and blues hung from the stone walls, and the fire in the hearth burned as large as the one in the hall below. King Gartnait knelt by the fire, grey hair plastered to his bone-white forehead, and his cheeks pinched red with fever.
“King Gartnait, is it your stomach?” Sorsha asked as she knelt in front of him.
He groaned.
She slid her hands into the gap between his stomach and his knees. “May I, my lord?”
He screamed as she pressed her hand against his tensed stomach. Heat tingled from her heart, down her arms and into her palms. Gartnait’s muscles relaxed underneath her hands, and he sat up, gasping. She frowned. The urgency to heal him had not yet left her. She pressed her palms into his forehead, his chest, over his lungs and his heart. Finally, his breathing returned to normal, and she looked up at Elfinn and smiled. Elfinn bent down and helped his father over to the enormous bed, resplendent with too many pillows for one man to use.
“Thank you,” Elfinn said, returning to Sorsha by the fire.
“I don’t understand how he can be unwell so soon?”
“He’s not been well all winter,” Elfinn said, his hazel-green eyes flicking to his father lying in his bed of feather pillows. “Without you, he would have died by now.”
“Without the Gods. It is their work, not mine.”
Fabric rustled as Elfinn stepped closer and he clasped her hands. “Do you know why you have come to us? Is it for my father? To save him?”
“I don’t know why, Elfinn, I’m sorry. I wish I knew.”
Elfinn nodded and released her hands. “Ei
ther way, I am grateful you’re here.”
“Thank you, Elfinn,” she said and left the chamber. After closing the door, Sorsha paused on the landing, resting her hand against the cool stone. Why is he so sick again? Does my power only work temporarily?
Footsteps shuffled from the darkness of the staircase. Sorsha jumped and stared into the shadows, hoping it was not Anwen. Despite sleeping below her floor, Sorsha had avoided Anwen throughout the winter.
“What were you doing?” Taran whispered, stepping into the light of the flaming torch bolted onto the landing wall.
“The king was ill… I was visiting him.”
Taran’s chin rose as he looked over her head towards the closed door of the king’s chamber. “I was looking for you. You said you wanted me to teach you to use a sword?” He motioned with his hand towards the lower stairs. She hesitated and scanned his stern face. Perhaps he’s guessed I’m a Healer.
The light from the torch sparkled in his eyes, and he smiled. Sorsha dropped her gaze and walked down the staircase, with Taran following behind, until they stepped into the veiled light of the morning sun that filtered through the clouds.
“Hello, Beli,” Sorsha said to the black mastiff. The dog sat up in the recessed alcove at the entrance of the tower and wagged his tail.
“Let’s go to the stables,” Taran said. She followed him down the slope, and he turned to her as he pushed opened the stable door. “The snow is too thick in the forest, and I assume you don’t want a crowd?”
“Won’t it bother the horses?”
“If it does, then they’ll need to get used to it. Warhorses hear a lot worse in battle.” He unsheathed his sword and motioned for her to stand next to him in the main aisle of the straw-covered stables. “Hold it,” he said, handing Sorsha his sword.
The top of the hilt split into two pieces and curved upwards on either side. The effect was replicated in reverse at the base of the hilt before the polished iron blade.