by Jaine Fenn
He spent a couple of days walking the hot, reeking streets of the City, checking out ways into the Tyr. There were five main doors, and a number of smaller service entrances, and he investigated all of them, from the wide processional avenue in the main square to a small wooden door set into the rock wall at the end of a dead-end street. Every entrance was either locked, guarded, or both.
There were plenty of windows, many with balconies, higher up the slope, presumably belonging to priests whose status got them a room with a view, but the near-vertical rock face made them a non-starter.
As well as checking out his options, Sais also tried to put together the pieces of his old life. Sitting in his room that evening, the shutters thrown wide against the muggy night air, he remembered the name he’d called out in his delirium: Nual. He still had no idea who Nual was. Was this person the key to what had happened to him?
The bruised sky darkened into night and lights came on outside. As the first fat drops of rain began to fall, he decided to ask for Einon’s help one last time. The priest had suggested another Cof Hlesmair session several times since they’d arrived in the City. Now fully aware of how far outside Einon’s idea of normality he fell, Sais had fobbed him off - but if he wanted to get back the parts of his past still lost to him, Einon might be his only hope.
He found the priest in his room, poring over his papers. At first he looked flustered, but he was quick to agree.
They sat opposite each other as they had before, and this time Sais took the lead. Rain hissed on the shutters, and the flame of the lamp between them danced in a sudden draft. ‘I’d like you to try and find out about somebody called Nual,’ he said.
Einon frowned. ‘Nual? I think, ah, I think you said that name during one of your bad dreams.’
‘Really? Can you remember when?’
‘Sorry, no. Those inns have rather blurred into one. Do you think this individual was, ah, important to you?’
‘I do.’ Sais was apprehensive about focusing on something from one of his nightmares, especially given the unpleasant reaction they’d got when they’d tried to find out who mattered to him now, but he had to complete the picture, to find out who he really was.
‘Then we must ask, and see what comes of it,’ said Einon firmly.
Sais slipped into the trance easily, his mind now attuned to Einon’s voice—
Running down red-lit corridors, your hand in mine . . .
Standing side-by-side on the top of the cliff, laughing into the wind . . .
Elarn, screaming, ‘How dare you bring that abomination into my house?’ . . .
As I kissed your forehead, you said, ‘This is my final gift’ . . .
Every image, every thought, was blotted out by the vision of void-dark eyes boring into his mind, stripping his soul bare. He wanted to fight, but he was too weak.
Some part of him was aware of someone calling out, ‘Return! Return!’
He tried to open his eyes, to focus on the voice.
Failed.
‘This is my final gift . . .’
Oblivion.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Kerin had left the shutters in their room open so Damaru could watch the patterns the falling rain made in front of the light-globe across the street. She was sitting with one of his hands clasped in both of hers, heedless of the splashes coming over the sill onto her lap, when a scream pierced the night. She had not believed a human voice could hold so much horror and madness—
Damaru started as she jumped up. She grasped his shoulders, looked into his eyes and said, ‘Damaru, you must stay here until I come back. Do you understand? Stay here!’
When she was sure that he did understand, she ran across the hall to the priest’s room, where the terrible sound had come from.
Einon stood against the far wall, shaking. Sais lay on the floor, thrashing about, his heels banging the wooden boards, his head whipping from side to side. Kerin recognised this as a fit, such as Damaru sometimes suffered, and rushed over to him.
Sais’s teeth were clenched, his eyes rolled up, and shivers ran up and down his body in waves.
She called out, ‘Einon! Pass me the pillow from your bed - now, please! We need to stop him hurting himself.’
The priest grabbed the pillow and thrust it towards her and Kerin slipped it under Sais’s head. Pink-tinged foam bubbled out of his mouth where he’d bitten his tongue. Kerin checked, relieved to find he had not swallowed it and could still breathe freely.
‘What happened?’ she asked Einon.
‘I do not know! I was, ah, I was trying to help him get his memory back.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘The technique is harmless - we have used it many times.’
Deciding Einon knew nothing of use, she turned back to Sais. As he exhausted himself, so the shudders became less intense.
The doorway was full of people, all watching in silence as the fit finally subsided. Sais gave a great heaving sigh, his breathing grew even and his body relaxed. His eyes remained closed.
Ebrilla spoke from the hall. ‘I know a good physic, though he will want paying.’
Kerin was not sure what a physic was, but she trusted Ebrilla’s judgment. ‘Please, fetch him. I will pay.’
‘No, ah, I must pay,’ said Einon, looking embarrassed.
‘I must see to Damaru,’ Kerin said. ‘We need to make Sais comfortable while we wait for this physic to arrive. Will someone lift him to the bed?’
Sais didn’t stir as Meilyg and his son moved his limp body.
The physic, a tired-looking young man with a crooked back and delicate fingers, turned out to be a healer. He examined Sais, said his condition was not due to fever or injury - something Kerin could have told him - and announced that he might wake up as normal the next day - or he might not. They should be prepared for him to awake changed, or even to remain in this state for some time.
‘There is little you can do for him save prayer, though a watch should be kept in case his condition changes,’ the physic said. ‘You could try and drip water into his mouth, but do not attempt to move him.’
Einon offered to sit beside Sais in case he awakened in the night, but the next morning he lay as they had left him, still as death, barely breathing.
At the end of the morning meal Einon took Fychan aside. They spoke in Ebrilla’s parlour, after which Einon returned to his room while Fychan remained in the parlour with the door closed. A little later a sharp knock sounded on the lodging-house door. Kerin rushed out from her room in time to see a priest disappearing into the parlour.
Ebrilla came upstairs and found her. ‘The priest wants to meet the sky-blessed boy,’ she said. ‘He will take Damaru to his presentation tomorrow.’
Kerin wondered where Einon fitted into all this.
The priest, a balding man with a tendency to twitch his head when he spoke, introduced himself as Rhidian, a second-tier priest of Medelwyr. He managed to capture Damaru’s attention briefly, as Einon had, before her son decided he was more interested in looking out the window.
As soon as Rhidian had gone, Kerin said to Fychan, ‘Can I ask you something, please?’
‘Aye,’ he said cautiously.
‘I just wondered why Einon is not accompanying Damaru. Did he confide in you?’
Fychan looked uncomfortable. ‘He said it was better that he remain in the background.’
‘Did he tell you not to mention him?’
‘Kerin, we should not question the will of priests!’
So Einon did not want the Tyr priests to know he was here. Interesting, Kerin thought.
She asked Ebrilla where the best place to watch the presentation was, and the housekeeper said sympathetically, ‘Do not worry. After lunch tomorrow I will show you just the spot. Your boy will have a good view of you, too.’
Kerin smiled at the older woman; in truth, being where Damaru could see her
was her main concern.
When Kerin offered to take a turn watching Sais, Einon refused, politely but tersely. ‘I am quite capable of keeping an eye on him while I am working,’ he explained, indicating his pile of papers.
Sais’s condition remained unchanged and Kerin remembered the first time she had waited like this, praying he would open his eyes. So much had happened since then - and though much of what she had experienced these last weeks had come with a burden of suffering, and the future was haunted by uncertainty, she did not regret leaving Dangwern.
The day of the presentation dawned bright and hot. Though Kerin would not have to bid farewell to her son for another two and a half days, today marked the point of no return. Once the Cariad had looked on the candidates and accepted them for testing, they were committed. She wondered what would happen if she took her son’s hand, gathered their few possessions and walked out of the City now. Nothing good, she suspected, given their presence was known and registered.
That morning Kerin took Damaru and Fychan to what Ebrilla described as ‘a respectable bath-house’ - one where men and women were segregated. Afterwards Kerin felt cleaner than she ever had in her life.
In order to get a good vantage point, she and Ebrilla had to leave before the priest came to fetch Damaru and Fychan. After some thought, Kerin gave Damaru a little bogwood root with his lunch. She had already told him that he must go with Fychan later, but he had paid little attention. She left him in Fychan’s care, both of them sitting on the padded bench in the parlour, Damaru dozing and Fychan looking nervous.
When she followed Ebrilla out of the house, Kerin glanced up at the window where Einon sat with Sais. If - when - Damaru ascended, the first prayer she would offer to the Mothers who had taken him to their breasts would be to let Sais awaken unharmed.
Ebrilla led her to the great square in front of the main entrance of the Tyr. The crowd was already gathering behind the coloured ropes around the edge. A tent had been set up near the entrance, its sides painted with pictures of the Skymothers. Five great skymetal bowls stood in the centre of the square, and the cobbles between them were covered in a bright patchwork of woven rugs, such as the townsfolk knelt on when they prayed. Ebrilla told her, ‘Tis good luck to have a rug from your house chosen to cushion the knees of the candidates.’ The end of the square under the shadow of the Tyr had wooden seats laid out on a low platform. The entrance to the stand was guarded by monitors. ‘For the Senneth members,’ said Ebrilla. ‘But we shall have just as good a view standing here.’ She led Kerin to a point far enough forward that they could look back at the carpeted centre of the square.
As the afternoon wore on, more people entered the square. Ebrilla pointed out the Oriel Glan, the sacred balcony high up on the Tyr where the Cariad would make her appearance. Kerin tried not to fret.
Finally, with the sun sinking towards the horizon, the great wooden doors set into the base of the Tyr opened and a procession of youths in coloured robes emerged. Some, mainly those wearing Carunwyd’s red, carried instruments. They ranged themselves to either side of the entrance. Others applied torches to the skymetal bowls and great gouts of pungent smoke started to belch upwards.
More priests filed out, each successive group older and wearing more ornate costumes, until the part of the square directly under the Tyr was full. The townsfolk, who now crammed every bit of available space around the edge, fell silent as four figures stepped forward from the press of priests, old men in metal-encrusted robes and high headdresses. They must be the Escorai - but only four? Where was the Escori of Carunwyd?
Music began, starting at the edge of hearing, then growing to fill the square, an exquisite blend of pipes and high voices. The last rays of the sun glinted on the Edefyn Arian. The silvery link to the sky looked almost close enough to touch.
Kerin, busy watching the Tyr, did not notice what was happening at the other end of the square until Ebrilla tugged at her arm. She turned in time to see the front of the painted tent being raised. Several figures stood on the threshold and with a rush she recognised her son, flanked by Rhidian and Fychan. There were five candidates in all, each with a priest and a guardian. One of the other groups stepped forward and a boy started hesitantly into the square. Then another. Kerin squinted, trying to see Damaru’s face in the failing light; he stared fixedly at the cobbles in front of him.
The music swelled and the fourth boy stepped forward, cocking an ear to hear better. Now only Damaru remained in the tent.
‘T’will be all right,’ whispered Ebrilla. ‘The boys are often unsure, poor mites. The music usually calms them. That and the presence of their guardians.’
Except when the guardian was not the person they wanted with them, thought Kerin, her throat tight.
Though the priests were trying to get their charges to approach the presentation area at a slow walk, the boys moved in that random way she knew so well: a few quick steps, then stop, look around, sometimes head off in another direction altogether, only to be guided back on course by their guardian.
The first boy reached the rugs. Damaru still had not moved. Fychan took his arm and pulled him forward. As though only now noticing his surroundings, Damaru raised his head and shook Fychan off, then darted forward. She saw Fychan’s mouth open to call out, though she could hear nothing above the music. Damaru must have heard him though, as he turned back to face the tent, almost slipping on the cobbles. He put his hands out, as though for balance, then turned again, towards the crowd. Suddenly he put his head down and ran straight towards Kerin.
She rushed forward, pulling the rope barrier over, ignoring the man in uniform heading her way. She stepped out into the square and ran to Damaru, who raised his head at the last moment, careening into her arms. ‘I am here now, tis all right!’ she said. ‘I am sorry I left you alone.’
She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked into the stern face of a monitor.
‘I am his mother,’ she said sharply.
The monitor hesitated. All but one of the other skyfools had been led to the centre of the square; the last had stopped halfway to look at them. As she watched he was persuaded to move on. Rhidian and the monitor had a brief conversation while Fychan stood to one side, looking awkward. Kerin felt sure everyone in the square must be looking at them.
Rhidian came over. ‘Mistress Kerin, would you be so kind as to accompany your boy?’
‘Of course, Gwas,’ she said, then to Damaru, ‘Will you come along with me now, please? We are not going far, then we can go back to our room.’
Damaru kept hold of her hand and she led him to the presentation area where the other skyfools waited with varying degrees of patience. As they came to a halt on the rugs, the beat of drums grew over the melody of voices, built to a climax, then stopped abruptly.
Like everyone else, Kerin found herself staring up at the darkened balcony above the entrance to the Tyr. Between one heartbeat and the next, the darkness was dispelled and the Oriel Glan became a beacon of silver light. A lone figure stood in the centre. Belatedly Kerin realised she should be kneeling, as everyone else - Escorai, Senneth members, townsfolk, monitors, priests - had dropped to their knees. Only the candidate skyfools remained standing. She knelt and bowed her head and for a while there was the silence of true awe. She was in the presence of the Daughter of Heaven.
The Cariad spoke. Her voice was low and sweet, yet it carried to everyone in the square. It was almost as though she whispered in Kerin’s ear, tender as a lover, comforting as a parent. ‘Blessings, children of the sky. The year turns, and I look upon you with the joy of one who loves you all. I stand ready to receive the petitions of those who would enter the Heavenly realm whilst still clothed in flesh, to take their place with the Skymothers.’
Kerin circled herself repeatedly during the speech, as did everyone else she could see, save the skyfools themselves.
‘I wish first to view the skyfool from Plas Derwen Mawr,’ the Cariad announced.
Ebrilla had to
ld her that the order of presentation was something the Cariad decided on the day, and as such was subject to Heavenly will. It should not be taken to signify any order of precedence or merit, though the old widow claimed there were some Abyss-touched men who laid wagers on which skyfools would succeed based on such things. Kerin suspected the Cariad’s reasoning was simple enough: she would not want to choose the most awkward candidate first.
She heard the first skyfool and his retinue stand and walk to the centre of the presentation area, heard the guardian declaim the boy’s lineage and history and petition the Cariad for the chance to prove his worth.
‘Your claim is true,’ the Cariad said in response, ‘and the candidate will be tested. Take light, that your child may become the light.’
Each guardian carried a torch made of a material similar to the light-globe poles, and as the Cariad spoke, the torch in the guardian’s hand burst into flames.
By the time the fourth skyfool had been called up, Kerin’s knees were beginning to ache.
Finally it was their turn.
Kerin could not resist glancing up at the Oriel Glan. The Cariad stood in the only light in the square, a distant figure swathed in black and spangled in silver, a mirror of the stars lacing the deepening darkness above her.
In reciting his lineage Fychan stumbled over the name of Damaru’s grandfather. Kerin understood why: quite aside from nervousness, he was speaking of the family’s, of the village’s, shame, even if none here but the three of them knew it.
Unless the Cariad knew too, of course.
Kerin felt the same disorientation she had felt at Piper’s Steps. She was kneeling before the Beloved Daughter of Heaven! Did the Cariad know their very thoughts? Could she sense the hearts of everyone here?
Fychan completed the rest of his recitation without incident, and visibly sagged with relief as the Cariad spoke: ‘Your claim is true, the candidate will be tested. Take light, that your child may become the light.’
The Cariad raised an arm from which stars appeared to drip and gestured towards Fychan’s torch. Flames leapt from the wick.
