by A. M. Linden
Leaving a dozen of his men to despoil the enemy corpses and hunt down any survivors, Theobold sent the bulk of his troop back to Gothroc with the news of his victory. He kept only his hand-picked guard with him on his side trip to the shrine of his patron saint to give thanks—just as he’d sworn he would in front of his adored wife and detested nephew.
Instead of cheers and ovations, the contingent of troops returning through the gates of Gothroc was met by the wails of serving women, the tolling of church bells, and the news that the queen had died in labor the night before and her undelivered infant had been lost along with her.
Someone would have to tell the king.
Gilberth, his face a steely mask, ordered a delegation of Theobold’s closest and most trusted retainers to carry the sad tiding to him. He urged them to go at once and intercept the king at the shrine of his patron saint, where he would have the presence of the blessed Saint Aethelbard to comfort him in his sorrow.
Riding hard, the men reached the start of the pathway that led up to the cliffside shrine just as the king was arriving from the opposite direction. As reliable witnesses told it later, “On hearing the news, King Theobold was overcome with grief. Tears flowing down his cheeks, he left us and went alone to the shrine to pray.”
Theobold was old and, had he not been the king, someone might have insisted on going with him. Instead, obeying orders, they waited below for his return. They were gathered there, all of them together, when they heard a single despairing cry and rushed up the path to find the shrine empty. Fearing the worst, they looked over the edge of the cliff and saw, far below them, the body of the dead king, his once strong, straight limbs twisted at impossible angles and his proud, stern face staring vacantly at the sky.
Despite their king’s dying without a grown son to succeed him, Derthwald remained intact thanks to Gilberth’s stepping forward to take his uncle’s place. He assumed hegemony over Piffering on his cousin’s behalf and for the next fifteen years the combined territories enjoyed a period of peace and tranquility rare for small kingdoms with poorly marked borders. Good fortune, however, was not something the inhabitants of Derthwald took for granted, living as they did in the shadow of the dark, forbidding mountains where, rumor had it, devil-worshipping Druid sorcerers still lurked despite the best efforts of the church to root them out and burn them at the stake.
Chapter 1
The Clearing
A torch touched the dry tinder and the fire sprang to life, flaring up in a ring around the condemned man. At first the bound figure was just a silhouette against the night sky, but as the fire spread around the stake he was illuminated in its glow, his dark hair shining as golden red as the flames. Even bruised and bloodied, he was handsome, tall, lean, and fit—his features so fine and noble that it was hard to believe the crowd surrounding him was screaming for his death instead of pleading for his life.
Looking through the flames, he could see the shifting shapes of the mob, men with spears, women with cudgels, and children waving sticks. They were cursing him, calling him a sorcerer. If he could have made himself heard, he would have told them that he was not a sorcerer, he was a physician who could have given them the gift of healing, a singer whose songs could have soothed their rage, a bard who could have told them a thousand stories about splendid heroes from days when the world was fresh and new. If they would just stop shouting and listen, he would tell them that he’d been the last of the disciples to sit at the feet of the three greatest Druid masters of their time. He would tell them that by killing him before he could pass on what he had learned they were destroying an ancient heritage of wisdom that could never be recovered, condemning themselves to suffering and ignorance.
Their taunts and jeers seemed to fade away, lost in his longing for a swallow of water to sooth his parched throat, a bite of food to ease his aching hunger, and, above all, to die unbound. It was the fire that granted his last wish—burning through the leather cords so that, for a moment, he was free.
Instead of leaving the fire to be torn apart by the frenzied mob, he raised his arms up towards the moon like a child reaching up to his mother. A sudden breeze fanned the fire and the flames soared, engulfing him and forcing his attackers to fall back as his body turned to a soft, feathery ash that was gathered up and carried off by the wind, swirling up and away into the star-filled sky.
The crowd’s angry curses quieted to grumbling complaints, and those changed to the hooting of owls and the croaking of frogs as Caelym woke up to find himself whole again, lying beside a decaying, moss-covered log at the edge of a clearing.
He’d fallen asleep in a thicket of alders, worn out from his desperate race to escape a real mob of raging Saxons. Choosing death by drowning over burning at the stake, he’d dived headlong into a river that carried him out of their reach and far out of his way. It had taken most of a day to make his way back along the river’s edge to the turn in the road where he’d been discovered. From there he’d limped on, continuing the quest he’d begun the day after learning that the long-lamented Priestess Annwr, sister to their chief priestess, was alive, that Ossiam, Grand Oracle and Master of Divination had seen her in a dream . . . Imprisoned in a high tower, her golden hair blowing in the wind and tears streaming down her cheeks, crying out for someone to save her from the bestial Saxon king who comes to ravish her night after night.
It was Feywn herself, in the privacy of her bedchamber, who told Caelym about Ossiam’s vision, and as she spoke the image of her weeping sister had seemed to hover in the air between them. Dropping to his knees, he’d sworn an oath on his life to rescue Annwr and kill the Saxon king, making with that his fifth impetuous vow since entering the room, which was—even for Caelym—a new record.
Taking his ceremonial dagger, along with a satchel of hastily gathered supplies and a map drawn for him by the shrine’s eldest priest, he spent the next two months following hints and rumors, guesses and omens, until finally reaching the stronghold of the Saxon war band that had carried Annwr off fifteen years before— only to learn that she had never been a mistress to the king but merely a nursemaid to the king’s daughter, that the king was long dead, and that his daughter had left the palace and gone to a convent, taking Annwr with her.
Now, against all odds, he’d found the convent. Getting up, he stepped over the log and pushed a low-hanging branch out of his way to gaze at the cluster of roofs above a high wooden stockade. From where he stood, he could have thrown a stone and bounced it off the side of the compound’s outer wall.
Before he’d fallen asleep, he’d circled the edge of clearing that surrounded the convent, searching for some way to get in. Now, looking up at the dark towers that loomed over the top of the wall, he could make out the shapes of windows and suddenly saw what he had missed before—that one of the windows was open. Still half dreaming, he thought he saw a beautiful, golden-haired woman there, reaching her arms out to him. He blinked, and the vision vanished.
The nearly full moon was sinking behind the convent, casting a shadow that crept towards him as he stared up at the window, debating what to do next. Even if he were able to scale the wall and climb in through the window, he still would have to find his way through a maze of unknown corridors and passageways, searching for a woman he hadn’t seen since he was eleven years old. One part of his mind made excuses; the other part replied, “You swore a sacred oath to save Annwr or die in the attempt.”
There was no answer to that, except that he was tired and hungry and had an arrow in his back. Swearing another oath— that he would return and either find Annwr or find out where she had gone—he stepped back over the log, picked up the damp, travel-stained leather pack that held the meager remnants of the provisions he’d taken with him on his ill-fated quest, and retreated into the forest
Not far from where he’d been standing, he came to the start of a narrow, overgrown path. With a brief invocation to any protective wood spirits that might be hovering nearby, he set off to look for som
ething to eat and a place to hide, and to try again to pull the arrow out—hopefully without fainting this time.
Caelym was hurrying along, looking from one side of the trail to the other for early berries or edible shoots, when the path took a sharp turn and he collided with a small, gray-haired woman, knocking her over and scattering the contents of her basket—a loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, and two long sausages—on the ground.
He staggered backwards, struggling to keep his balance. He had to act quickly—either strike the woman unconscious before she started to scream or snatch the loaf of bread and run for his life. Lightheaded from hunger and fatigue, he shifted from one foot to the other, debating what to do.
“Help me up!”
He knew enough English to understand the woman’s words, and he recovered his wits. Careful to keep his back turned away from her so she didn’t see the arrow and become suspicious, he helped her to her feet. Then he picked up the bread, cheese, and sausages for her and brushed off the dirt with the hem of his cloak.
As he repacked the wicker basket, he apologized, saying that he was most sorry he had disturbed her walk, that he meant no harm to her or any of her people, and that he was on his way to visit a woman named Annwr who was kin to kin of his, and who might now be residing within the nearby convent, only he wasn’t sure and didn’t wish to disturb the Christian priestesses or their guardians by knocking at their door before breakfast. Putting together a sentence of that length in English wasn’t easy, but he was pleased with it, especially with how he had dropped the hint about breakfast without actually begging for a handout.
The woman took the basket back and scowled at him.
Regretting that he hadn’t slipped a sausage under his cloak when he had the chance, he tried to think of another way to ask about Annwr without giving himself away.
“Come!” The woman snapped the command in Celt before turning on her heels and going back the way she’d come, leaving the scent of freshly baked bread wafting down the path behind her.
His mind argued caution, his stomach food. His stomach won.
Rushing to catch up, he would have run into her again when she stopped to open a gate in a fence at the end of the path except that she stepped out of the way, letting him charge past her and into a garden filled with winter savory and rosemary, meadowsweet and marsh thistle, tansy and sorrel.
Grumbling something about “clumsy oafs,” the woman closed the gate and elbowed past him, leaving the tangle of herbs and winding her way through freshly turned vegetable beds towards the back door of a small cottage.
Caelym started after her, only to fall back when a hissing, angry gray goose attacked him, leading a dozen more.
“Hurry up! My geese don’t like men!”
Neither her words nor her tone was hospitable, but neither were the geese. So, summoning the last of his failing strength, he dashed for the door she held open for him.
Chapter 2
The Message
Going into the cottage was like entering another garden, only one that was upside down and dead. Bundles of dried flowers and herbs hung from the ceiling, well above the woman’s head but low enough to hit Caelym full in the face. He ducked down, made his way past shelves lined with neat rows of jugs and pots and wooden boxes, and passed through a second door that opened into the main room of the cottage.
It was a square room with a cupboard and counter against one wall, a bed and small square table against another. The bed was covered by a plaid blanket that was laid out so that its lines were perfectly straight, both up and down and side to side. The only other furniture was another, slightly larger, square table with two matching chairs. The chairs were exactly opposite each other and exactly aligned. There was a round stone hearth in the center of the room. A polished black kettle hung over the center of the hearth, and Caelym did not need to look inside it to know that the simmering water would be bubbling with well-disciplined bubbles, each one waiting its turn and rising to the surface in orderly succession—not in the confused, churning disarray with which most kettles boil.
The woman, who had gone to the counter and started unpacking her basket, looked over her shoulder and nodded at the table.
Caelym took this as an invitation to sit down, so he did— carefully, and at an angle, to keep the arrow from hitting the back of the chair. Resting his arms on the table to steady himself, he did his best to convey no more than polite attentiveness while the woman cleaned the last specks of dust off the food, took a knife out of the cupboard, checked its edge for sharpness, and cut meticulously measured slices of the bread, cheese, and sausage, grumbling all the while about uninvited guests who expected to be waited on hand and foot. She spread butter on the bread and put the bread in the center of a round wooden platter, arranged alternating slices of cheese and sausage around the bread, and added a sprig of parsley for garnish. With the plate prepared, she took a jug out of the cupboard and poured what he guessed from the color was elderberry wine into a cup. Then, finally, she brought the plate and cup to the table and put them down directly in front of him.
Exercising a restraint acquired through years of intense training, Caelym waited for her to take her hand away before he started to eat. Even so, it took him less time to clean the plate and drain the cup than it had taken her to fill them.
Sincerely grateful for the first substantial meal he’d had in weeks, he rose from his chair to praise the woman’s generosity to a stranger, only to be stopped by a dismissive wave of her hand. It was a gesture he would know anywhere—the exact same gesture that Feywn made when he came into her bedchamber uninvited. He opened his mouth, closed it, and sat back down. It was a full moment before he found his voice again.
“You are Annwr?”
“And if I am?”
“I’ve come with a message for Annwr from her sister and need to know that it is Annwr I am giving it to.”
“Fifteen years is a long time to wait to bring this message.”
Spoken in an imperious voice—as if Feywn’s voice were coming from the old woman’s lips—her words settled the last of Caelym’s doubts. Still, it was not fair that he should have to answer for Ossiam’s failure to have his vision sooner, and he recovered himself enough to say so.
“I began searching from one end of the land to the other, climbing snow-covered mountains and descending into desolate valleys, swimming across raging rivers, and wading through perilous swamps, with little food and no rest, the very moment it was revealed that Ossiam, Grand Oracle and Master of Divination, had seen in his dreams that . . . that . . .”
Caelym faltered. The vision that Ossiam had seen was of a beautiful girl held captive in a king’s palace, not a bad-tempered old woman living comfortably in a common cottage that was too clean but otherwise quite pleasant. He finished awkwardly, “That you were still alive.”
The realization of just how far off the mark their Grand Oracle and Master of Divination had been shook Caelym to his core, leaving him speechless.
Annwr broke the silence. “Ossiam couldn’t divine his way to the latrine in broad daylight and downwind of it!” She fixed Caelym in a direct glare. “So now you are finally here, suppose you say what it is you have come to say.”
Challenged to get to the point, he did. “To my sister, Annwr— greetings. In your absence, much has come to pass. It is imperative that you come without delay. Caelym, son of Caelendra, who bears this message, will be your guide. All will be revealed at the equinox.”
“Spring or fall?”
Her words hit hard—harder, maybe, than she intended. Refusing to acknowledge Annwr’s unwelcome reminder that he’d spent over two months searching for her and still had a long road ahead of him, Caelym spoke in his most imposing and masterful voice—a voice befitting an emissary of the Great Mother Goddess—as he changed the subject.
“Of course, you must be overcome with eagerness to hear of all that has come to pass in your long, sad years of separation. If there were but time and
if only I had my golden harp at hand, what stories I could tell you, what songs I could sing. For now, let it suffice to say that Cyri, brave and beautiful, conceived in the Sacred Summer Solstice Ceremony and born of your exalted loins, stands at Feywn’s right side, ever yearning for your return.”
He paused there, waiting for the importance of what he’d said to sink in, before adding, “Now I have found you, you need fear neither Saxon warrior nor wild beast in the forest, for I will protect you and keep you safe on our journey.”
With this oath, at least, as good as fulfilled, he folded his arms on the table, put his head down, and fell asleep, the arrow in his back vibrating rhythmically with his snores.
“Caelym!”
She said his name sharply, causing him to startle.
“I remember you now! You always were a gabby little pest! I suppose that besides expecting me to feed you, you want me to pull the arrow out from between your ribs, and then go traipsing back with you so you can boast about what a brave hero you are.”
While it was true that Caelym was looking forward to hearing the gasps and cheers as he recounted his adventures before the high council, it was also true that he’d suffered genuine hardship on Annwr’s account, so he sulked in silence for several minutes before conceding that he would be grateful to have her help in pulling the arrow out of his back, “and pleased beyond the ability of my poor words to express for your bestowing upon me the exalted honor of escorting you out of these accursed lands to the place where your dearest kin reach out their arms wide in joyous welcome.”
