Wings Over Tremeirchson
By
Copyright 2013 Linda Ulleseit
Also by Linda Ulleseit:
On a Wing and a Dare
In the Winds of Danger
Under a Wild and Darkening Sky
Under the Almond Trees
License Notes
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Aerial Dance
Chapter 2: Marc’s Barn
Chapter 3: Vocation
Chapter 4: Morgan
Chapter 5: Opening
Chapter 6: Racing
Chapter 7: Dance
Chapter 8: Aftermath
Chapter 9: Despair
Chapter 10: Passion
Chapter 11: Decision
About the Author
Chapter 1: Aerial Dance
The early spring air, still chilled by the remnant of winter, rushed past Neste’s cheeks and teased her chestnut hair out from under her leather helmet. She took a deep breath, but her hands trembled on the reins. A shiver of tension ran through the muscles of the winged horse beneath her, and Neste murmured, “Easy, Llawen, just like we practiced now. Easy, del,” masking her own anxiety as best she could with the Welsh endearment.
The mare was not fooled. She tossed her head and her silver wings missed a beat. Neste clenched her lips and focused on Llawen’s gray ears. They swiveled, alert to the other four horses in formation nearby. Hoel, aboard his glossy brown stallion, led with confidence that bordered on recklessness. Neste suspected that some depth of his mind believed only he could master this dance, rendering all others irrelevant and beneath him. Still, he led the team. Of course he wanted them to perform well.
The swish of Llawen’s powerful wings added to the breeze, and the usual delight of soaring aboard such a beautiful creature filled Neste’s heart. Below them, people locked to the ground scurried about their business to the apothecary or the tanner or the tavern. Nonwinged horses pulled wagons and carriages. Neste wondered if Llawen felt superior to them.
The mare’s charcoal-colored mane rippled. The occasional silver strands caught the sunlight and sparkled. The mare’s dappled gray neck gleamed with sweat as the most difficult part of the routine came upon them and Neste’s pleasure evaporated in concentration.
“Hover like a hummingbird.” She muttered Hoel’s ridiculous words as she signaled the mare. The great silver wings angled slightly so that the downstrokes would not carry horse and rider forward. Neste patted the damp gray neck. “Best hummingbird in Tremeirchson.”
Valiant and well trained, Llawen flew whatever crazy pattern Neste directed. Visualizing the overall effect of the dance from a spectator’s viewpoint was difficult while in formation. During the competition, however, the judges would be earthbound. Aerial dances were more than the precision of horse wings and body placement, more than just flying from one spot to another. The team had to work together to create a vision of effortless grace and beauty. Done correctly, the dance would evoke gasps from the spectators over the incongruity of winged horses that seemed to float like wisps of cloud.
The Aerial Games annually pitted Tremeirchson’s nine barns against each other. Neste knew Hoel desired to make this aerial dance perfect, a winner for his father’s barn. That meant beating Morgan, something Hoel’s father had been unable to do against Morgan’s father. Hoel had made it plain he was determined to succeed.
Sweeping patterns opened the new dance, basic moves intended to show off wingspan. The five horses’ circles overlapped so flight speed needed to be monitored to avoid crashes. That was easy, a matter of timing. The next set of movements, though, twisted Neste’s stomach in knots. She simply didn’t agree that her unswerving belief in Llawen’s ability to hover would make it happen. Horses weren’t meant to hover.
On Neste’s right, a bay horse with black wings rose to a position slightly above them. A sorrel on their left matched the movement. That left Hoel and Adam to top the formation. Neste winced as she struggled to hold Llawen in position and watch the horses above her at the same time. Hoel’s brown stallion slipped into place effortlessly, but Adam struggled as Adam always did. His brown mare seemed confused, and Neste shook her head. Even if Adam signaled incorrectly, surely his horse knew what to do by now. Neste fastened her eyes on the awkward mare, willing Adam to hurry before Hoel exploded or Llawen’s wing strength gave out.
Hoel’s stallion gleamed with good health. In contrast, Adam’s wiry mare looked more like a reject from a gypsy caravan. Her brown coat bristled with dull tufts. Neste wondered if the horse’s diet lacked some essential ingredient.
But thirty feet above the ground was not the time to be concerned with another rider’s horse. Llawen’s wingstroke faltered then resumed. Neste patted her neck and murmured soft words intended to calm them both. Above them, two pairs of horses finally formed the vertical V. They flew completely out of rhythm, but they finished it. The bay mare on their right positioned herself such that Llawen’s wings would have tickled her tummy had they been directly above. The sorrel flew a bit low on the left, but just as Neste frowned, the rider corrected the height.
Hold. Synchronize wingstrokes. Neste held her breath, as if that would help the five horses hover. Finally, she dropped away from the formation and swept into a wide turn that climbed in altitude. She felt the tremor in Llawen’s tired shoulders, but the whoosh of air once they resumed motion matched the release of Neste’s breath. They’d executed their part well. It hadn’t gone perfectly, so Hoel would no doubt be angry, but this time he would not direct it at them. Unfortunately, that meant Hoel’s anger would land on Adam, as it did too often. Neste shifted uneasily in her saddle. She had no time to waste on guilt or sympathy. She had a routine to fly. There was still time to make a mistake. Ridiculous to do so on the easy section.
Neste turned the mare into a wide circle around the point where they had formed the V, just above the town. The other four in the aerial team mimicked the movement. Gradually they would narrow the circle until they flew tightly, nose to tail.
The pattern took them out over the edge of the cliff where the ground dropped away hundreds of feet. Tremeirchson perched on a huge mountain ledge between red cliffs and a sheer drop into the valley. Farmland stretched along the ledge, and a dirt road wound out of sight down the hill. It snaked through the Welsh province of Gwynned to Merioneth on the edge of Cardigan Bay. In that far off place lived the patrons who supported Tremeirchson’s barns. Merioneth held spectators, too, who traveled up the mountain to root for their favorite barns each year as they competed in the Aerial Games.
Neste and Llawen approached the town again, drawing closer to Adam and his mare. He rode with a stiff back, and from the angle of the horse’s head Neste could see how tightly Adam clutched the reins. Hoel said that a tanner’s son had no business riding a winged horse, but his father, the barn leader, had selected Adam. Two years ago, when they’d been sixteen, she and Adam had been paired with their horses in the same Rider Ceremony. She’d felt sympathetic toward him since then.
The circle tightened, and Adam’s mare tossed her tail. Llawen snorted at the brown hairs tickling her nose, but didn’t move her head. Neste patted her sweaty neck and smiled like a proud mama.
Hoel led the group into the landing area by dropping out of the circle and gliding to the ground. As each horse reached that point in the formation, they followed. Neste landed last. After the smooth gliding of flight, Llawen’s tro
t jarred. Neste rose up in her stirrups as the mare folded her wings alongside her body. The five riders directed their mounts toward the barn. Winged horses from Tremeirchson’s eight other barns circled above as they either headed out for their own practice or returned.
In the small yard behind Hoel’s barn, Neste dismounted with a sigh. Every muscle in her body ached from the tension of the morning’s practice. She removed her helmet and unwound the long braid of hair so it fell down her back.
Adam shook out his own blond hair, and his green eyes danced as he smiled warmly at Neste. “Good job!”
She couldn’t help but smile back even as she wondered if he really realized how poorly he’d flown.
Hoel took off his helmet and shook his head, brown hair hanging past his ears in sweaty hanks. The gray streaks in his hair reminded her of the silver in Llawen’s mane. His tall, wiry frame looked even more imposing as he stalked toward Adam. His dark eyes flashed. “When are you going to figure out how to ride your horse? What were you doing up there?”
It didn’t help that Hoel towered over Adam’s shorter, stockier frame. He leaned forward, his face in Adam’s, giving the impression of a vulture looming over its prey. Neste turned away, embarrassed.
“I tried,” Adam said, blond hair falling forward to cover his grin.
“Oh, in Rhiannon’s name! You’ve been trying your whole life! When are you going to accomplish something?”
Neste wasn’t sure an invocation to the horse goddess would help Adam’s flying or repress his boyish charm.
The grooms hurried out from the barn to take reins from riders. The other riders dispersed, following grooms and horses into the barn without speaking. Neste remained. She shifted her weight from foot to foot as she tried to think of a way to intercede on Adam’s behalf without making it worse. “Adam did better today,” she said.
Hoel turned. The anger melted out of his face like butter over a biscuit. When he spoke, his tone caressed her, his betrothed. “This is not some wild creature caught in a snare that you can rescue, cariad. Adam is a man. He really needs to take responsibility for his role on this team.”
She slipped her arm halfway around his waist, hoping to preserve the softer side as long as she could. “Under your leadership, how could he fail?” Her eyes slipped past Hoel and caught Adam’s. She tipped her head slightly toward the barn and Adam made his escape. “So can I ask you about that hovering section? What angle do you want the vee shape to be?”
Hoel brought a hand up to Neste’s cheek and stroked it softly. “I don’t know why I allow you to distract me,” he said, “but I can’t refuse you anything when you look at me with those big brown eyes. I’ll try harder with that incompetent tanner’s son.”
“You will be a wonderful barn leader someday, Hoel,” she said, smiling up at him.
“I only want the barn to succeed. This is Morgan’s first Aerial Games as barn leader. Now is the time to beat him.”
“His father left a powerful team in place.” Neste shook her head. She doubted it would be as easy as Hoel envisioned.
“Are you saying I’m wrong?”
“Of course not.” She smiled and placed a hand on his chest. “We also have a very strong team.”
“Iawn, we’ll do well,” he agreed. Hoel took her hand, kissed it, and turned to go. “If that idiot Adam can learn his part, that is,” he tossed over his shoulder.
Neste watched him walk toward the barn with confidence. He waved at riders and ignored grooms. Most waved back. He was the leader’s son, destined to be barn leader himself. She was destined to be his wife. Both of them must grow into their roles.
With a sigh, she walked away from the barn. Just across the dirt yard where riders landed after flight, a dusty lane led into a cluster of small houses occupied by riders and their families. Small fences enclosed gardens full of vegetables and herbs. Chickens pecked along the verge. Neste reached to unlatch a gate, and the latch came away in her hand. She bent over and picked through the weeds that choked the gate post, looking for the errant screw that was supposed to hold the latch in place.
She gave up and walked to the front door, its solid wooden surface weathered gray. Everything needed attention. The garden must be weeded, the house painted, the roof repaired…useless to keep a list. Neste and her mother couldn’t do the heavier work, and her sister couldn’t do it all. That had always been her father’s job, and no one could ever replace him. Her brothers didn’t even try.
Inside, a threadbare rug lay on a well swept wooden floor, and a small fire was lit in the hearth. A massive oak table dominated the room, with six straight-backed chairs around it. Near the fire, her father’s large carved chair sat empty where it had been the full eighteen years of Neste’s life. Her mother’s smaller chair faced it, also empty. Cheerful humming came from the kitchen. Her sister kept the place clean, cooked, and watered the flowers. Neste felt guilty that their mother’s care fell to the oldest instead of to Neste or her three absent brothers. No one would expect her to give up Llawen to care for her mother, but the idea had crossed her mind more than once.
Neste tiptoed through the narrow hallway into the nearest room. Her mother, however, was awake. The drapes were drawn back so she could look out at her garden, where the earliest flowers budded. Crimson draperies swung from the rails above the bed to be tied to the four carved posts. Her mother, propped up by the multitude of pillows arranged behind her, sat with an embroidery hoop on her lap. The needlework kept Mum busy even though her hands could hardly hold the needle these days.
Mum’s smile of greeting lit up the cramped space. Her gray hair neatly wound around her head, framing a pale freckled face. Those freckles gave the only evidence of the riotous mass of red that had given Neste the ruddy tinge to her own hair.
“Cariad, croeso. Tell me all,” she said, welcoming Neste by patting a spot on the bed.
Neste crossed to the bed and leaned against a bedpost. “Is the pain better today, Mum?”
The blue eyes darkened. “It’s always there.” She rubbed her leg with a gnarled hand.
Neste had to take the clouds away. “Llawen flew well today. Strong and graceful like you.”
Her mother’s laughter filled the room. “Silver tongued like your father, Rhiannon watch over him.”
Neste relayed every minute of the morning’s practice except for the altercation between Hoel and Adam.
“Your Da would’ve enjoyed watching Llawen fly,” Mum said. “He’d be very proud of you, Neste. When he got sick he fretted that he wouldn’t live to see you grown and wed. Betrothed was the best he could do.”
“I know, Mum. He loved when you flew.” She’d been twelve when her father’s death shattered her world. The betrothal to Hoel had been his dying wish.
She reached over and kissed her mother on the cheek. “I need to get cleaned up for dinner, then I’ll bring in your tray.”
“Thank you, cariad.”
Her own room, next to her mother’s, was the only place Neste didn’t have to measure up to someone else’s expectations. On the clothes chest, a handful of white flowers nodded over the rim of a pewter tankard. A simple bed without hangings, a straight-backed wooden chair, and a heavy trunk in the corner completed the room’s furnishings. An old rug covered the floor. Neste took a deep breath and exhaled all the cares of the day.
She changed into a clean shift and pulled a longer tunic over her head. So much of each day was spent in a divided riding skirt and leather flying helmet that conventional clothing felt odd. The room may be Neste’s, but the rest of the house belonged to her sister, who insisted on proper dress. Neste combed out her braid and looped the long chestnut hair around her head. Then she tied a simple coif over her hair and hurried to her supper.
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