A Painted Winter

by H. Barnard

  “Taran said he feels badly for not seeing you for so long. He said he’d come visit us today.”

  Sorsha spun around. “Why?”

  Dioras cleared his throat and pointed across the clearing. “Like I said, I should have mentioned it earlier. He’s here now, so you can ask him yourself.”

  Taran waved and jogged across the clearing as Sorsha shook her head at Dioras.

  “Taran!” Dioras jumped up to shake his hand.

  “Nyfain.” Taran bowed his head as he shook Dioras’ hand.

  “Thank you for visiting us, Prince Taran. It is an honour,” Nyfain smiled.

  Sorsha turned around and continued to pat Nema.

  “Have you been well? I trust the roundhouse is suitable?”

  “Yes, it was ever so generous of the king to arrange it for us,” Nyfain replied, her voice higher than usual.

  “You’ll both let me know if there’s anything I can do for you?”

  “Of course, thank you,” Dioras said with a breathless enthusiasm that made Sorsha’s fingers curl.

  “Well, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I have to speak to Sorsha.”

  Twigs and leaves creaked as Taran walked towards her. Keeping her back to him, she kissed Nema.

  “Hello, Sorsha.” Taran leant next to her against the half-door of the stable and smiled.

  “What do you want, Taran?”

  “Nice to see you, too.”

  “Forgive me. But as you’ve not spoken to me since I got back, I assume you’re here because you want something.”

  “I didn’t think you…” He frowned and stepped towards her. “I’m sorry, I thought–”

  “It’s fine.” Sorsha smiled. “It’s just been hard coming back here, and I didn’t quite realise until just now that I actually wanted…”

  Taran’s eyes glistened. “What did you want?”

  “No one has visited me. Not a single person since I’ve come back.” Tears threatened her eyes, and she tried to frown them away. “Serenn and Eluned make me help them in the city, and I live here with Dioras and Nyfain, but no one has come to see me. Not your mother. Not Arian. Or Brei.”

  “Why would Prince Bridei visit you?”

  Sorsha blinked. “Of course he wouldn’t.” She shook her head. “It’s very kind of you to take the time out of your day to come here. Is there something I can help you with?”

  Taran drummed his fingers on the top of the stable half-door as he considered her. “I just wanted to say goodbye. The day after Naoise and Eithne’s ceremony, we depart for the Great Wall.”

  “Goodbye, then,” Sorsha said, and turned back to Nema.

  Taran stepped closer, and his fur cape rustled against her forest- green cloak. “I know what you are.”

  “‘What’?” Sorsha bit her lip as a tear slipped down her cheek. “Not ‘who’?”

  Taran reached out and touched her elbow. “Who. I’m sorry.”

  Sorsha pulled her arm away. “How long have you known? You knew at my trial, didn’t you?”

  Taran ran a hand through his long blond hair. “I knew you were valuable. Serenn and King Gartnait wouldn’t have been willing to bind someone as important as Naoise to you if there wasn’t something in it for them.”

  Sorsha raised her eyebrows. “So that’s why you did it?”

  His blue eyes flicked to the ground and back to her face. “Are you angry?”

  “No.” She sighed. “Actually, in a way, I’m relieved.” She smiled. “No offence.”

  He laughed. “Some offence taken.”

  “But I’m also confused. Why did you bind yourself to me, and then when I came back, you had nothing to do with me… Are you still angry at me for leaving you in Caeredyn?”

  “I was angry. Furious, actually.” Taran’s eyes narrowed. “But not with you. Why did you really go to the south? It wasn’t just about your mother, was it?”

  Sorsha raised her chin. “To escape.”

  “Right.” Taran squinted up at the sun fighting through the mist. “Why did you come back?”

  “I didn’t come back because I wanted to.”

  Taran’s face was calm. “The Eldar Druwydd said you would come back to me. He had predicted you would come to Caledon in the first place. There is a prophecy.”

  “Come back to you?” Sorsha frowned. “What is the prophecy?”

  “You must go to Rīgonīn to hear it, Sorsha. Promise me you will go?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Taran reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Promise me. There are others, Sorsha. Other Healers. In Caertarwos. They told me they are waiting for you to find them. There is a staircase under a hill that leads to a chamber. They will find you there. Promise me you will go?”

  Sorsha’s stomach tightened, and she looked up into his blue eyes, shining like turquoise.

  Taran cleared his throat. “Serenn told me about what happened with Anwen. If I had known, I wouldn’t have…” He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. It’s not her fault, either. Poor Anwen, is she all right?”

  “You forgive her? You’re not angry?”

  “Of course I forgive her. I understand why she did it. She’s troubled, and I feel nothing but sorrow for her.”

  Taran dropped her hand and grimaced.

  “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Sorsha asked.

  “Nothing. Nothing, it’s just that you’re so…” He laced his hands behind his head and turned to face the clearing.

  Sorsha reached out for him, her hovering fingers inches from his back.

  He turned around and frowned at her outstretched hand. “How would you remember me if I died on this campaign?”

  Sorsha dropped her arm to her side. “I don’t know, I barely know you. But you’ve always been kind to me. And I thought we were friends before I…before I left you in Caeredyn. I’m sorry, Taran, you have no idea how horrible I felt about betraying you after all you had done for me.”

  Taran studied her with an intense gaze, his eyes darting across her face as though he was searching for something. “We are friends, Sorsha,” he sighed. “I was never angry with you. But I wish I’d not stayed away now.” He shook his head. “Serenn told me to, but I wish I hadn’t.”

  “Why did Serenn tell you to stay away?”

  “Serenn doesn’t matter.” Taran stepped closer and grasped her hand once more. “Sorsha,” he squeezed. “If something happens to me, think of me like you think of Anwen.” Bending his head, Taran kissed her cheek. “Goodbye, Sorsha.” He turned and walked across the clearing, a dark shadow enveloped by mist.

  Forty

  Autumn, 367 C.E., Caledon

  A wet snowflake landed on Brei’s eyelash. He swept it away as he gazed across the Shining Lake, watching the snow tumble in the wind and melt on the water.

  Between the lake and the ridge of snow-dusted hills, King Talorc led a small party of riders. A horn blew, announcing the king and his warriors, a line of cavalry, followed by marching spearmen. Brei raised his hand and Talorc greeted him in kind, spurring his horse on.

  “How was your journey?”

  Talorc pulled up next to him and reached out his arm to grasp him. “It’s getting much too late in the year for ladies to be travelling, so it’s a good thing Eithne is staying here.”

  “It’s a shame that they are to be bound on the eve before we depart. Surely we could give them one day?”

  Talorc shook his head. “The muster has to begin tomorrow if we are to make it to the Great Wall to join the other kingdoms on the solstice. The Eldar Druwydd has warned me I may have left it too late already.” Talorc looked back at Eithne as she approached and then back to Brei. “Still, I wouldn’t put it past Naoise to have secured his succession before he leaves.”

  “The Goddess Brig be with him,” Brei snorted. “Talorc, you should know that Gartnait is not well, not well at all, and he’ll be unable to make the ceremony.”

  Talorc scratched his re
d beard. “This is a tragedy, of course. But with tragedy comes opportunity.”

  Brei grunted. “For Taran, perhaps.”

  Eithne and her brother, Drest, rode up to them. She smiled, radiant and golden as he last remembered her.

  “I will accompany you to the tower, where rooms have been made for you on the king’s floor. The ceremony will start in the afternoon,” Brei said.

  “I hope the weather holds out,” Eithne said and smiled. “Talorc has been absolutely beastly in chiding me for waiting so late in the year for it.”

  Talorc leant forwards and gave her a little shove. “You should have listened to me, then, if you didn’t want to be teased, darling Eithne.”

  Eithne rolled her eyes and urged her horse into a canter.

  Bouquets of dried purple heather had been draped over the branches of a tall ash tree in the Sacred Forest. The fiery leaves clung stubbornly despite the lateness of the season.

  Naoise was bare-chested, his Torc glinting in the pale light, and Eithne stood at his side in a pale blue tunic, threaded with silver. She seemed to float, and, in that moment, she was the most beautiful creature Brei had seen. He pressed his hand into Anwen’s and squeezed.

  Serenn presided, wearing her deer skull and antlered headdress, as she called upon the Goddess Brig to bless Naoise and Eithne with fertility. On Belenus, she called for guidance to light their way when the world grows dark. From Taranis, she asked for strength, and from Cernunnos, Lord of Nature, she asked that he remind the couple of their duty. Around Eithne and Naoise’s wrists, she bound them together with a rope made of gold, twisting like a Torc. “I bind you before the Gods in protection and provision,” Serenn said and dropped their hands.

  Eluned and Arian stood a few paces away from Serenn. Dressed in black, their faces were painted with swirls of dark blue. Brei’s stomach tensed as he felt Sorsha’s absence more than he wanted to admit. He had not seen her since the night she had been stabbed, and yet it seemed she was always in his mind, her tears filling his dreams. Brei stood back, his arm around Anwen, and forced a smile as Naoise and Eithne passed them to return to the tower. When he turned back to the tree, Taran strode towards him, and they embraced.

  “Talorc just told me that the Eldar Druwydd is concerned about the plan,” Taran whispered.

  “Why?”

  “Apparently he’s overheard Talorc bragging about the plunder they’re going to take.”

  Brei glanced at Talorc. “So he was serious when he said the Gods would only allow revenge?”

  “Talorc is worried.”

  “This is a problem.”

  Taran nudged Brei with his shoulder. “We can talk about it later. Shall we go back in?”

  Brei nodded his head towards Anwen.

  Taran glanced at her. “Fair enough,” he said and spun around. “Talorc!” he called and pushed through the crowd towards the king.

  Brei re-joined Anwen. Her face was strained, and he took her hand. “Is everything okay?”

  “Is she going to come back when you leave?”

  “Who?”

  Anwen bit her lip. “Sorsha.”

  “No,” he sighed. “Darling, let’s go inside and join the feast.”

  Anwen nodded, and they walked up the hill through the Sacred Forest to feast in the hall. The long table heaved under the weight of meat and wine. Drummers, a flautist, and a horn blower played a melody that echoed around the hall. In the city, a bonfire had been raised in Naoise and Eithne’s honour and mead supplied to the people. Fear and excitement gripped Caercaled as drummers and dancers congregated around the fire to celebrate the union of Caledon and Vortriu and the impending attack on the south.

  Brei sat with Anwen, the twins, Dylan, and the Bandruwydds. Opposite, Taran sat in the middle of the table with King Talorc, Naoise and Eithne, Aífe, Elfinn, and Derelei.

  “Where is this Healer, then?” Talorc asked Taran, and the voices in the hall seemed to speak quieter.

  Taran leaned his head towards Talorc and whispered. His eyes flicked to Brei’s and then back to Talorc. “Sorsha’s not coming with me. She’s going to Caertarwos.”

  “Why is Sorsha going to Caertarwos?” Dylan asked. “Are you going too, Anwen? And what about Aífe and Derelei?”

  Aífe craned her neck forwards. “What about me?”

  “Are you going to Caertarwos with Sorsha?” Dylan asked her.

  “Brei,” Taran lifted his chin. “Smack Dylan over the head for me.”

  Dylan ducked under the table before Brei had even moved.

  Brei smirked. “Nia, Ceridwen, kick Dylan for Uncle Taran.”

  Ceridwen grinned, and she kicked under the table. Dylan squealed and reached up and tickled her under the arms. Brei smiled as Ceridwen giggled.

  “Brei, tell Dylan to stop,” Anwen said.

  He pressed his lips against her ear. “Just let things play out as they will.” Brei turned back to Taran and smirked.

  Taran raised his goblet to him and grinned. “He’s better than Naoise, though.”

  Naoise slammed his goblet of ale on the table. “No one is better than me!”

  Talorc rolled his eyes. “Everyone here is better than you, Neesh.”

  “Take that…” Naoise belched, “back.”

  Talorc laughed. “If you are able to walk out of this hall, I will take it back.”

  Naoise drained his goblet in one gulp. “Challenge accepted.” He withdrew his dagger and severed the golden tie that still bound him to Eithne. She glared at him as he untangled his legs from under the table, swung them over the bench and stood up.

  Derelei shook her head as she patted Eithne’s arm, the muscles in her cheeks fighting a smile.

  Naoise swayed and put his hand against the wall. Aífe swivelled around and said in a drawn-out voice, “left foot, right foot.”

  Talorc leant back and pulled Naoise’s leather pants down so that his snowy cheeks poked out. Naoise frowned and gazed around the hall. “Bit draughty in this hall, Elfinn.” He grinned and raised his index finger in the air. “You should, you should,” he released a wet belch, “you should really tell King Gartnait to fix that.” He started to walk without hitching his pants up and, as he approached Aífe, she slid her foot forwards, and he plunged to the floor. Talorc and Taran roared with laughter.

  “He… is,” Aífe gasped between heaves of silent laughter, “out… cold.”

  Eithne sipped her wine without turning her head to look.

  “Hey, Eithne,” Taran yelled.

  Eithne clenched her jaw and looked the other way.

  Talorc nudged her. “Hey, Eithne.”

  “Eithne.” Taran threw a gnawed bone at her. “Did you see Naoise?”

  Taran and Talorc heaved with their heads together.

  Brei was laughing when he turned to see Anwen’s stony face. He grinned and kissed the top of her head.

  As night fell, Brei walked into the Sacred Forest alone, to the treeline, where the forest gave way to the city below. He watched the red light and shadows from the bonfire dancing across the faces of the buildings. The pace of the drumming was fast, and people were cavorting around the fire, laughing and singing.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  Brei turned. Derelei stood close behind him, smiling. “Nothing,” he said.

  She stepped closer and took his hand. “Tell me.”

  “It was just something Talorc said when we were in Caertarwos…about war.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That if people could see the same beauty that he could, would there still be wars? There was a time when we all lived peacefully. I was just thinking about them down there, and then us, up here. We go on about foreign enemies, but even within our own community, we have wars, we have differences.”

  “And you think of this on the eve of battle because you have regrets?”

  “No, I want revenge. I want to do this.” He paused and wondered if he should tell her. “But the Druwydds have put a condition
on the venture. No looting. And I’m worried.”

  “Worried because you all intend to plunder and ravage?”

  “Well, obviously. And I’ve been thinking about why the Gods would be against it. We’re all trying to get more than the next person, aren’t we? We were once content and peaceful and now… So few are supported by so many, and yet we are still not satisfied.”

  Derelei shrugged. “This is the world we have, and if you don’t take it, someone else will.”

  Brei turned back to watch the people dancing and singing around the bonfire.

  “Speaking of taking. Gartnait is gravely unwell.”

  Brei nodded. “I know. He has been sick since last winter. And then miraculously gets better. I guess Sorsha must have helped him. But he’s been declining for weeks now.”

  “Why hasn’t Sorsha helped him again? Where is she? I’ve not seen her since we returned.”

  “She won’t come near the tower because of Anwen, and Gartnait can’t walk anymore.”

  “Did you ask Sorsha to stay away?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, Gartnait will be dead within days if she doesn’t help him.”

  Brei sighed. “We’re all going to die, Mother. Maybe it’s just Gartnait’s time.”

  Brei’s head pounded. “Anwen.” He let out a strangled hiss. “Water!”

  The cot bed creaked as Anwen got up, and she soon pressed a cool goblet into his hand.

  Brei groaned as he sat up. He gulped the water and cracked one eye open. “Is it morning?”

  “Yes, warriors are already mustering inside the upper ramparts.”

  Brei slid back down onto the pillows and groaned. “Why did we drink so much?”

  Anwen smiled. “Why indeed?” She opened the door to their chamber. “The twins want to say goodbye, Brei.”

  He ran his hands over his face. “Give me a minute.”

  Across the floor, the door swung open as though it had been kicked. “Brei!” Taran yelled from the stairwell. Already wrapped in his wolf’s pelt cape, he carried his H-shaped shield and his sword hung at his waist.

  Brei shook his head. “Of course you’re not hungover! You’re unbelievable.”

  Taran chuckled. “Get up and see Naoise. He can’t stop throwing up.” Taran skipped off down the stairs, shouting, “Neesh! Get up!”