by Karen Dales
No one had ever done this for him. At first it felt strange, and then he began to relax, especially once she began to hum. Untangling his hair was always relatively easy, but he never had a brush or a comb. Fingers, either his own or Aunties, did the job adequately, and sometimes in the fall the thistle flower would work well, but this was bliss.
Finally she halted. “All done.” Eira smiled rising to stand as he stood, admiring the transformed young man. She could not believe he was the same person who had alighted her threshold with nothing more than the ratty stained clothes on his back. Now he was going to leave her, probably forever, looking like the fairy lord her daughter believed him to be.
“I know that Notus is waiting to leave,” explained Eira, “but before you go, there is something else you should take with you.”
Curious, he watched as she went and reached under her bed once again, this time drawing out a swatch of black cloth obviously hiding something in its folds. Once she stood before him, Eira opened the wrapping to reveal a long-sword with a black grip. The guard was also steel, but shaped in the style of two dragonheads and the pommel was plain. His eyes widened in shock. He had seen this sword before. He had trained against this sword and the man who once carried it.
“I cannot take this,” he said. He shook his head and pushed the sword towards Eira, his mind swimming at what he should not be seeing.
Eira held it out again, her sad eyes imploring him. “My father—” Her voice caught and she coughed to clear it from the emotions threatening to halt her from what she knew she needed to do. “My father was a good man—the Chief of this village after my grandfather. After I married Rhys, my father started to spend time with my Aunt who lived alone on the other side of the woods. He said it was because she needed help and we all believed him because he was a good person. Before he left with my husband to fight with the king, he told me that should a young man the colour of my name come I was to help him. I didn’t know what he meant until that morning I found you with Bronwen in the milking shack. When my father was killed, along with Rhys, I kept his sword. I believe he would have wanted you to have it.”
Stunned at the revelation of her story and its implications, he reverently grasped the sword and released it from its simple dark brown leather scabbard, setting the blade ringing. Firelight caught the blade with the single deep blood groove and lit up the delicate etching of two dragons intertwined on each side of the blade.
It was Geraint’s sword.
“He never told me your name,” she quietly stated, watching the young man’s face fill with sorrow.
“I never told him because I never knew it,” he quietly admitted.
Eira laid her hand over his on the hilt, holding the sword with him and smiled into his watery blood coloured eyes. “It’s Gwyn.”
He closed his eyes, stopping any tears from flowing, and nodded.
Together they sheathed the sword and with Eira’s help fit the sword on his right hip with a strong wide leather belt. He would not be able to wear the baldric until his arm healed.
Hand in hand they walked to the door and before she opened it, she turned to face him once more, tears glittering in her eyes. “I don’t want you to ever forget that you will always have a home with us.”
“I will not,” he promised in a husky voice. More than ever he did not want to leave. He wanted to stay and talk with Eira about Geraint and about Auntie who was her Aunt. He wanted to be part of her family and knew that could never be.
“I’m glad.” She reached up and cupped his face with her hand, caressing his soft cheek with her thumb. “My mother had a son that died before the madness took her. I wish he could have been you.” Stretching up on her toes, she lightly kissed his cool cheek.
Stunned by the confession and head spinning at all that had happened, he stood dumbfounded as she opened the door.
It seemed that most of the villagers were there to see them off. Many of them were milling about in twos and threes talking quietly with one another. The chatter instantly ceased as they finally took notice of him. The only sound was the wicker of a horse. Taking a fortifying breath, he stepped clear of Eira’s home and into the inquisitive sight of so many people.
He could see Notus talking avidly with an average looking man who radiated an aura of authority and strength. His sensitive Chosen hearing brought that the man was the Chief and Notus was thanking him for the horse harnessed to his cart and the one next to it, saddled and ready. The Chief seemed quite happy to give them the horses and the tack since they originally belonged to the raiders, and now that they were dead, the village acquired a new herd of fine warhorses.
A man standing next to the Chief whispered into his ear and without any further ado, wished Notus well, and walked back to his hall with several others in tow. With no one to talk to and noticing the strange quiet, the monk turned and noticed him.
“My dear boy,” exclaimed Notus, briskly walking to meet him. “I am so pleased to see you up and looking well.” He turned his attention the Eira who was only a few steps behind, “How is he?”
“Well.” She stopped next to the young man.
“Good. Good. Wonderful,” interrupted Notus, oblivious to her agitation. “Then he is—”
“But he will need to have the bandage changed regularly,” interjected Eira, “and he will need help with some tasks. Other than that he is fit to travel.”
Notus nodded satisfactorily. “Then we shall be on our way.”
“Not yet,” announced Eira and she grabbed his long brown sleeve and pulled him aside until she was sure they were far enough away to have a private conversation.
Distinctly aware of all eyes upon him, he walked over to the saddled black destrier. Lifting his hand for the horse to get his scent like Geraint had taught him, he was rewarded with lips nibbling at his hand in acceptance. The horse pressed its head against his chest forcing him to take a step back and he began to scratch its ears and nose, enjoying the soft velvety feel.
He did not mean to hear, but Eira’s fervent whispers drew him.
“You cannot tell him,” she whispered. “Never.”
“My dear, I gave you my promise as one who serves the Good God. Do not fear. Your secret is safe, though it is a tragedy that you cannot tell him the truth.”
He frowned wondering what was being hidden from him. Notus wanted him to trust him, but now he was keeping secrets from him. He shook his head, white hair falling against the black of the horses face. Realizing that someone had come up beside him, he could not focus upon the continued conversation between his Chooser and Eira.
Tarian stood with Beti gurgling in delight in one arm and a draping of cloth in the other. Beside her Bronwen struggled with Llyr on her hip.
“I’m sorry I jumped on you.” Bronwen gazed up at him and he knew this time the apology was sincere. A smile lighted on his lips. “I just wish you didn’t have to go.” Without warning she grabbed his legs in an awkward hug and let go before she almost dropped her brother. Bronwen hastened to her mother without looking back, ashamed of her tears.
Standing alone with Tarian, he could see her beautiful liquid eyes. “I thought you might forget this,” she uttered and held out his cloak.
He took the cloak from her, and in the palm of her hand was Geraint’s broach. With her one handed help they managed to get the cloak over his shoulders, the heavy fabric pressing his wound uncomfortably, and closed the cloak pin in place. She sadly smiled as he freed his hair.
He wanted to say so much to her and found not a word. What could he say? Instead he timidly took her hand in his. “Tarian?” he ventured and found that his voice caught.
She gazed up at him, eyes brimming with tears. “That’s going to be the last time you say my name,” she whispered. “Please say it again.”
He did and she folded herself around him, weeping as he repeated her name over and over, stroking her soft curling locks, tears streaming down his face.
The touch of Notus’ hand
on his side brought his attention away from Tarian. “It’s time to go.”
Sympathetically, Notus stepped over to the cart, allowing them a final moment alone.
Releasing Tarian, he wiped his tears away and then hers, her face so soft he lingered for a moment. “I have to go,” he mumbled.
She nodded sadly. “I won’t ever forget you. My life is yours, twice over now.”
“And I will never forget you.” He turned on his heel to walk to the cart and stopped at Tarian’s grip on his hand.
“I never heard your name,” she said as he turned back to face her.
He stared into her eyes not knowing what to say, and then it came to him. “It’s Gwyn.”
Her eyes widened in awe and he walked to the horses and Notus, holding her hand until the last possible moment before the distance was too great.
Notus smiled proudly and passed the destrier’s keys to him as he held onto his own horses’ reigns. They led their horses and their belongings out of the village. The only sound was the horses hooves trampling hard packed earth, creaking leather, and the jingling of metal, followed by the turning of the carts wheels.
Just as they were about to follow the track into the woods they heard farewells called out by the villagers, Eira’s and Tarian’s the loudest. Without turning, eyes focused only on the road ahead, Notus quietly said, “Do not look back, my boy, salt stings.”
About the Author
Karen Dales is the author of the widely acclaimed The Chosen Chronicles. Which include Changeling: Prelude to the Chosen Chronicles, Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles and Shadow of Death: Book Two of the Chosen Chronicles.
She is currently at work researching the next book in The Chosen Chronicles - Thanatos: Book Three of the Chosen Chronicles as well as a historical fiction novel.
Born in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, she shares her life with her two cats, one son and husband.
Visit her website at www.karendales.com
