by Annie Bellet
* * *
They set off early the next morning, though they’d hardly slept the night before. Áine had protested, but Tesn was set on leaving that morning. She meant to make the river by afternoon and from there they could turn north and, she hoped, make Clun Cadair by nightfall on the day following. Áine hated the idea of camping out in the cold and rain on the moors but knew from the stubborn calm in Tesn’s face that there was little she could to do deter her companion.
They made good time, the rain holding off until near evening. The river was narrow and fast, swollen with rain. They found a small wind-stunted cluster of trees a small distance from the bank and made camp. There was no dry wood for a fire and so they spent a damp night huddled together under the oiled skins of their little tent.
Áine dreamed. She dreamt often, but only on occasion did she have vivid and strange dreams beyond the usual half-remembered images of everyday life. That night, hugging Tesn close for warmth, she had one of her stronger visions.
She stood alone in a forest, the trees towering above her with long strands of silvered moss hanging like banners from the branches high overhead. To her right and then to her left, out of the wood emerged two long-legged hounds. Their eyes were the warm brown of wood in firelight and their coats deep black. She looked down and saw herself standing on a growing number of pure white stones. When she looked back up, Tesn stood a little way ahead of her in the trees. The old woman smiled at her and then suddenly sank out of sight. There was water everywhere and Áine couldn’t breathe.
She woke in the light of false dawn, gasping. Tesn slept beside her, alive and oblivious to Áine’s sudden panic. Áine shook her head at herself. She was no child to be wallowing in a night terror so. She curled back down to wait for the true dawn.
Tesn had a small cough in the morning but shrugged off Áine’s concern, pointing out that if they made good enough time, they’d be in a large warm holding by nightfall. Clun Cadair was, after all, the seat of the Chief of Llynwg. The rain began again in earnest as they packed away their shelter and broke their fast with a cold meal of hard bread and boiled eggs given to them the day before by a sorrowful Morfyl.
The river swelled further as the day grew older. Áine glanced at it nervously from time to time, recalling her dream. Tesn marched stubbornly onward, hiding her cough within the hood of her cloak as best she was able.
Ahead, near a bend in the river but beyond where the women could see, the river had grown so full of debris from its headwaters in the forest that it had dammed itself. Two large broken tree trunks were wedged in the steep banks at the bend, piling up more debris behind them. The wind and rain grew fierce as the day progressed and it was hard to tell how late it was since the great black clouds hid the sun from sight.
Áine glanced again at the river and then back to her companion as they neared a bend. Tesn smiled at her.
“This bend means we’re nearing the forest. I think we’d be able to see it if not for this bothersome rain.” Tesn hunched her shoulders.
“It’s getting late, mother. I think we’d best find a camp and wait ‘til light again. It’s hard to see with this storm.” Áine was cold, wet, and tired. The ground beneath her boots was growing slicker by the moment and she thought she’d never have dry feet again.
“We can’t be far now, love. I’ve no mind to sleep outside in this wet; I’d rather walk for that at least warms my blood.” Tesn said. Their heads were bent close so the wind could not tear away their words.
With a mighty crack heard by both women, the trees blocking the river lost the fight. A huge flood of branches and water spilled down to the bend and broke over the banks.
The water hit Áine at about waist height. She’d barely time to scream a warning as she looked up before she was swept away from Tesn’s reaching hand.
The pack and her cloak dragged her under. She couldn’t breathe. She grabbed at the cloak and managed to tear it over her head. It was swept immediately away. The swirling current bobbed her to the surface for one precious moment and she gasped for air as something snagged the pack still slung over her shoulders and pulled her down again.
Áine struggled under the water to shed the heavy pack. She twisted and suddenly felt it come free as one of the straps snapped.
She rose to the surface again and tried to open her eyes. There was water everywhere and no sign of Tesn. She saw something large and dark spinning toward her and ducked down reflexively. Something struck her head with a sharp pain and then there was only darkness.
Ten
At Clun Cadair, Emyr pulled on clothing as Idrys flopped on the bed and let his tongue loll. He pulled the coverlet over the bed and shooed the hound down.
“Quit drooling in my sheets.” Emyr smiled, knowing full well that it had been he drooling all night and Idrys who’d tolerated it.
The two emerged into the hall and waved to a rumpled-looking Urien and Llew. Llew’s wife, Caron, smiled from the hearth where she stirred a pot of oat porridge. Emyr snagged a bowl from the stack on the hearth and nodded thanks to Caron as the pretty woman ladled his breakfast.
“There’s honey and a preserve of water elder and blackberry on the table. Fresh milk too.” Caron ducked her head and blushed at his smile.
Emyr thanked her and sat down with his men. Idrys flopped down on the rushes beside the table. He’d break his own fast later since he didn’t care for porridge even when he was in human form. Emyr always remembered to cut cold meat from the cellar before they went about the day’s duties.
“Some storm, eh?” Llew said as he spooned a generous portion of preserve into his bowl.
Emyr opted for honey. “Aye. The rain seems to have let up. I think we should ride out and make sure the shepherds’ crofts are still intact, especially near the river.”
Idrys lifted his head and gave a small yip of approval. Emyr turned his head and smiled at his brother.
“I’ll get the horses saddled.” Urien swallowed the remainder of his food in three wolf-like gulps, wiped his bearded chin with his sleeve, and stood up. All three young men had felt cooped in by the rain in the last week and were eager for adventure.
They rode out as the morning light grew toward the promise of a sunlit day. The river looked as though it had crashed over its banks in multiple places as they cantered over the moor. Emyr was glad that the holding was far enough from the swollen waters to not risk flooding. They didn’t try to ford, instead choosing to check on the crofts on the near side due to the still-raging current.
They reached the first croft quickly and found Tuder and Hywel letting out the flock of sheep. Their flock was the larger of the long-wooled, white-faced sheep. The men hailed the shepherds and asked how the night had passed.
“Oh, you can see by the silt marks the river fair tried to down us, but fell a few feet short, didn’t it.” Hywel gave them a good-natured grin through his thick beard.
“Glad to hear it.” Emyr nodded. The sheep eyed Idrys nervously and the sheep dogs kept their distance, remaining between the lean hound and the flock. Dogs and sheep didn’t care for Idrys, though horses and cats paid him no more mind than they would a man.
They rode on down along the river, letting their horses stretch their legs. The sun peeked from between high, fluffy clouds and though the air held its autumn chill, the day sparkled with promise.
Idrys found the women first and set up a warning howl that drew the men past the bend in the river. Emyr dismounted and dropped his reins to ground-tie his mount. The others followed suit and they all made their way cautiously through a field of broken branches and other debris.
Underneath a heavy, snapped-off trunk, Emyr found the wisewoman. Her old face was swollen from the water, her eyes clouded over with death’s veil and staring into nothing. The upper half of her body was clear enough that he could see the undyed wool of her dress girthed by the signature red belt of her station, her cloak tangled and obscuring one arm.
“Govannon’s balls, a wisewo
man.” Llew came up beside him and shook his blond head.
“We should dig her out, give her a burial,” Urien said.
Emyr nodded and was about to reply when he heard Idrys give a sharp bark. “Work on that, I’ll go see what Cy wants.” He picked his way over the silt and branches until he could see Idrys further down river standing near a dark lump.
The lump turned out to be another wisewoman, this one young and fair of skin. Her eyes were closed and as he reached her he thought he saw movement in her chest. Emyr pushed Idrys away.
“Go on, brother,” he said, “Go use those oversized paws to help dig out the other.” Idrys gave the dog equivalent of a shrug by dipping his head low and wagging his tail before turning and bounding off toward the other men.
Emyr bent and gently lifted the woman’s head. He felt the knot at the back of it and saw the thin trickle of blood that flowed away into the silty soil. She was filthy, but alive. He pulled his cloak off and started to move the woman onto it. Maybe his mother could revive her if the head injury wasn’t too serious.
Warm hands touched Áine’s face and she murmured for them to leave her in the dark. But it was too late; pain found her hiding place and brought her into the light. With it came memory and she opened her eyes as she cried Tesn’s name.
Emyr froze as the woman opened her eyes and said a word he could barely make out as a name through the raw pain of her cry. Her eyes were the brightest green he’d ever encountered, like sunlight through summer leaves. They were large and striking in her broad face. He couldn’t make out the exact color of her hair through the mud and tangles. He thought perhaps a reddish brown.
“Sah, sah, Wise One. You’re safe now. I’m going to help you, you’re hurt,” Emyr said as he tried to soothe her.
Áine stared up at the handsome youth. He looked to be about her age, clean-shaven with dark, curling hair that fell just below his shoulders and warm brown eyes. She could read nothing but kindness in the lines of his face and relaxed a little.
Her head hurt, as well as her right leg. Tesn always says to take stock before acting. Think, you. Áine sighed and let her body talk to her for a moment. Her head wound was superficial. She probably had a concussion, but it was hard to tell. Since it was daylight, if it were going to kill her, it would have done so when she was unconscious. Her right leg and ankle were another matter.
“I think,” she said carefully, “my leg might be broken, and the ankle is definitely strained or bruised. Please, where is Tesn?”
“Was she your companion?” Emyr said but the sudden shadowed look in his eyes told her all she needed to know.
Áine stared through him as all her hope and joy at being alive fled her, leaving a hollow shell for grief to fill.
“Where?” she said very softly.
“She was trapped under a log; my men are digging her out now. We meant to give her a burial. You’re lucky to have lived,” he said the last to try to comfort her, knowing there was little he could do as her expression turned from hopeful to one of grim pain.
Áine struggled to rise and Emyr wisely didn’t stop her. He helped her instead and draped his cloak around her damp and muddy shoulders. With him as her crutch they hobbled back toward the old woman.
Áine’s first tears fell as they neared the bend and she could hear the men hacking at the trunk with the little hatchets. The tears dripped off her chin and soaked into the muddy collar of her ruined dress at first. She stumbled and fell to one knee, taking Emyr down with her.
“I’m sorry,” she said and a tear fell from her nose to the earth where it bounced before laying still. She gasped and moved to cover it with her hand but Emyr was quicker.
He picked up the perfect pearl and stared at it as Áine scrubbed at her face with her free arm. She looked at him with worried, cautious eyes. He gave her a small smile and slipped the pearl into his belt pouch.
I spend half the day as a hound, Emyr thought, who am I to judge a wisewoman whose tears turn to pearls when they touch the earth? He’d have to mention it to Idrys, however, and see what his brother thought of it all.
They made their careful way and found that Emyr’s companions and the hound had nearly freed Tesn. Urien and Llew looked up at the bedraggled pair. Emyr’s trousers and tunic were smeared with mud, his knees and boots caked from their stumble.
Áine cried aloud with wordless grief and, tearing free of Emyr’s strong arm, half crawled the last few feet to Tesn’s side on her own.
“Tesn,” she said over and over as she pulled the dead woman’s hand from the mud and held it to her chest. Áine tried to call upon any power in her body, but found no response. Death was a pain she could not touch and Tesn had long since passed beyond.
“Not like this, mother. You weren’t supposed to leave me like this. Mother!” She choked on her tears as they spilled onto the dead woman’s dress and some onto the ground where they turned to tiny pearls. She didn’t care if anyone noticed for it didn’t matter now if they named her Other or outcast or thought she was fey. Besides, one of them already knew.
Urien and Llew looked at the tall woman for a moment and then turned back to pull the tree trunk free. They’d hacked enough branches loose to provide places to grip. Emyr pulled Áine away as the other two men lifted and pivoted the tree away from the dead woman. Urien gallantly offered up his cloak to wrap her body in. They lifted Tesn to the back of the calmest mare. Áine’s pearl tears slipped unnoticed into the wet silt.
Áine looked at Emyr as he gently wrapped his cloak back around her and lifted her to his own horse. She sat staring out into the sunlit day with a grey, bleak expression, her green eyes dull with pain.
It was a long walk back to the holding. Llew walked as well out of respect for the others, though his horse danced at the end of the reins wanting to have its head again for the return to the stable.
Hafwyn, sitting in the courtyard spinning and carding wool with Caron and Melita, spied the men first with her sharp eyes. She saw them walking with a lone rider and that Urien’s horse carried a bundled burden.
“I think we’d best get the herbs and heat some water. It looks like they might have found some refugees of the storm.” She set aside her spindle and rose.
“Not one of the shepherds?” Caron rose as well, upsetting her pile of wool.
“I cannot say for sure.” Hafwyn turned and walked to the hall as the other two gathered up their projects and made to follow her.
A few minutes later the sad group rode into Clun Cadair. Emyr helped Áine down from his horse as Urien and Llew carefully lowered her adopted mother’s body. Áine leaned against Emyr as a beautiful middle-aged woman in a purple dress with a band of simple red and yellow embroidery decorating her neck and cuffs emerged from the hall. Her long dark hair was braided and pinned up with bone combs carved to look like birds diving. Áine recognized something kindred in the woman with the man upon whom she was currently leaning.
“I greet you, wisewoman. I am Hafwyn wreic Brychan. Be welcome to Clun Cadair,” Hafwyn said and Emyr flushed as he realized he’d not even introduced himself to the young woman.
Hafwyn looked at the bundle that Urien held and realized it was a woman. She stepped quickly closer and saw the look of death on the ancient, wrinkled face beneath the muddy and tangled white braids.
“My mother,” Áine choked out. She shivered against Emyr’s warm strength.
“I’m sorry. We’ll see her bathed and prepare her pyre. You must also bathe and do something about your injuries, yes?” Hafwyn recognized the lost, distracted look on Áine’s face and motioned for Emyr to bring her inside.
Caron and Melita were filling the copper tub in Hafwyn’s room. Áine barely protested as Emyr gently pressed her onto a bench and left the women alone.
“I did not get his name,” Áine said as Hafwyn helped her pull her torn dress over her head. She hissed with pain as the dress pulled on her hair which in turn caused her head wound to smart anew.
“No
r have you given yours,” Hafwyn said gently. “He’s Emyr ap Brychan, my son, and chief of Cantref Llynwg now that his father has passed on.”
“So young,” Áine said, and then she flushed as she processed the rest of what Hafwyn had said. “I am Áine. And she.” Áine paused and swallowed hard. “She, that is, outside, she’s my mother, Tesn.”
“Áine is not a usual name in Cymru, is it?” Hafwyn said keenly.
“No, it isn’t,” Áine replied.
Hafwyn pressed her no further; instead, she and Melita helped the young woman into the steaming bath. Áine sighed as the heat restored a measure of feeling to her flesh she hadn’t cared was missing. The water stung the various scrapes and cuts, especially when Melita used a horn cup to dump water over her tangled hair and the oozing lump on the back of her skull.
Both the older women exchanged a look as Áine’s hair came clean under their ministrations. They used a soap of lavender and tea rose. The bath water looked as though they’d filled it with mud, which technically they had. The woman under their hands, however, was revealed to be unusually fair of skin with strikingly red hair that flowed like dark blood over their hands and the back of the copper basin.
Hafwyn’s eyes narrowed as the red and white coloring was not lost on her. She’d heard her son’s descriptions of the Fair Lady who’d cursed them, however, and knew Áine’s coloring, while striking, didn’t quite live up to their fearful, reverent recounting. Besides, Idrys had told of the Lady’s ability to heal with a touch, so surely if she were one of the Others this girl would have closed her own scrapes and healed her numerous bruises. She was certainly a mystery, this wisewoman with a name and the green eyes of the Isles.
A small gasp of pain escaped Áine’s lips as the women helped her from the bath. Her ankle was swollen and the bruising, now revealed out of the filth, was quite awful.
“Is it broken?” Melita asked, looking at Hafwyn.
