A Heart in Sun and Shadow (Cymru That Was Book 1)

by Annie Bellet

  His tail was a hand’s breadth from Áine’s face, its ends resting on the root in front of her. Hardly daring to breathe, she turned her body toward the steed and slowly raised her hands. She’d positioned herself perfectly off to his side where she hoped his kick wouldn’t touch her. She inched her hands forward and with a last prayer grabbed a thick handful of tail and pulled it toward herself.

  Again with preternatural speed, the March Cann sprang into the air. Áine held fast even as she was ripped free of the gap in the roots and dragged upward. Her body swung hard to the other side of the steed and his kick went past without connecting. For one terrifying moment Áine saw how far over the island they were, the lake with its moonlit spear looked as tiny as a lady’s polished hand-mirror. Then she swept the blade up and cut into the tail as high above her fist as she could reach.

  The hairs parted. With an iridescent fistful of hair and a triumphant yell, she fell out of the sky.

  Twenty-three

  As though emerging from the very darkness of the night itself, hundreds of ravens appeared beneath her as Áine plummeted toward the lake. A cacophony of cries echoed through the air as body after body buffeted her, slowing her descent. She rested on the back of each raven only a moment before it would drop away and another would sweep in to take its place.

  Áine dared to look when she realized she should have touched the water already and saw that with their strange method the ravens were carrying her out over the forest.

  It felt like no time at all to her racing heart before she was allowed to fall to the soft ground at the base of a hill. All around her ravens landed, some shifting into dark-skinned people. Áine shivered, naked except for her fistful of fairy hair and her knife. Her head spun and she took deep breaths before rising.

  “Thank you,” she called out to the raven people.

  An odd clicking laughter rippled through the gathering crowd. She stood carefully, keeping the weight off her injured leg, and noticed that they parted before her in a clear path toward the crown of the hill. Taking the hint, Áine limped between the laughing people.

  Her eyes widened as she reached the top. The top of the hill was a huge marble slab of purest white that glowed in the moonlight. And on it stood a handsome youth with glossy black eyes and a brilliant white smile in his blue-black face. He was clad only in a cloak of raven’s feathers that fell from shoulder to ankle in thick gathers and a simple silver circlet that bound his curly black hair.

  “I greet you, Áine,” he said.

  “I greet you,” she answered, “but I do not know you.”

  He laughed and a flash of recognition came to her at its harsh sound. “You do not recognize me, yes, but you do know me.”

  “Bran?” Áine guessed.

  “Aye.” His grin grew wider. “I told you I was the king of the ravens, but you seemed only to humor the child. I thought you might better believe the man.”

  “Forgive me, my lord.” Áine flushed and stared down at her toes.

  “No offense was meant, and so none has been taken.” He reached behind him and brought out her pack. “I believe this is yours?”

  Áine nodded and came forward to take it from him. His smile deepened as she blushed even further. This close she could feel the heat from his nearly naked body and was very aware of her own bare and chilled skin.

  Focus, you goose. She bent and put her handful of hair into the bag, then pulled out the knife sheath and her dress. Bran stood over her and watched with that insufferable grin on his face. No wonder they call it an “unkindness” of ravens; I think he’s doing that on purpose because it makes me blush.

  She stood, clothed now, and tied her belt around her waist. Bran was only an arm’s length away and Áine took a step back and another deep breath.

  “I thank you and your people for saving me,” she said.

  “I told you, I owed you a favor. It was an honor to save you, Áine.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “When you were trapped in the thorn bush, why didn’t you just shift into a man and untangle yourself?”

  He threw back his beautiful head and laughed.

  Áine crossed her arms and started to turn away. The ravens might have saved her, but she was cold and exhausted and had a long walk to Seren’s if her ankle would hold and she could find the way from this strange hill.

  “Áine, please. Take no offense.” He stepped forward and caught her arm with one long-fingered hand. “I did trick you before, but why save myself when a beautiful woman is nearby? Come, rest this night with us and feast. In the morning I promise to show you the way to the drychpwll.”

  Raven people came up the hillside, laying out a thick woolen blanket and many cushions. Áine allowed Bran to lead her to the blanket and she sank down with a sigh, though she tucked her pack carefully against her side before relaxing.

  A feast was laid out before them: piles of ripe berries, a platter of cooked grey partridge basted in drippings and stuffed with herbs and roots, warm rolls, soft white cheese, stewed pears, nuts mixed with sea salt, and a clay pitcher of sweet mead.

  At Bran’s gesture, Áine filled the wooden platter in front of her. She’d eaten nothing for weeks but apples and bread and while they sustained her, she realized now how much she missed the textures and flavors of other foods, especially the cooked meat.

  Finally her body warned her not to eat another bite and Áine leaned back on the cushions, sipping the mead. Bran sat across from her, his feather cloak wrapped around his body, watching her. As though something in her posture invited him, he rose and moved to her. Áine stiffened as he sank down beside her and reached to pull her against him.

  “No, please,” she said, though the warm touch of another nearly made her cry out. To think, I’ve almost become accustomed to loneliness.

  “Shh, Áine,” Bran murmured as he wrapped his feathered cloak around her. “I know your heart is given. Rest now, halfling. I’ll watch over you.”

  Halfling. That was what Seren called her as well, but on the raven king’s lips it was more endearment than insult. The bone-weariness that these days seemed to eternally hover over her seeped into her warm body and she let her head fall against Bran’s chest. It felt good to be held thus and tears welled in her tired eyes.

  “I come to Cymru-that-could-be,” she whispered. “And it seems I spend half the time weeping.”

  “If it’s only half, this land hasn’t yet broken you, has it? Sleep.”

  A question flitted through Áine’s mind but it slipped away before she could grasp it. With a deep sigh she drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  Emyr and Idrys stood behind a curtain of falling water, perfect mirrors of each other. Áine rose from the ground, glancing around at the towering stone walls that bound her.

  “Áine,” Idrys cried out to her and stepped forward. Emyr grabbed his hand and pulled him back.

  “Cruel to leave us so, aren’t you?” Emyr’s eyes were dark and angry.

  Áine opened her mouth but found she could not speak.

  “Áine, Áine, my love,” Idrys said, “Come home to us.”

  “Come to us,” Emyr echoed, his expression softening. “Return here, return now.”

  Áine shook her head, holding out her hands. She stepped toward them, reaching through the cascade of water. The water was warm and thick and she looked down, recoiling in horror.

  Her hands and arms were soaked with blood. She found her voice in a long raw scream.

  The twins turned away and faded into the darkness beyond, hand in hand.

  * * *

  Áine woke, still calling to the twins. She jerked away from Bran’s comforting arms and blinked down at her hands in the weak sunlight. As far as she could tell, it was just past dawn. Slowly she brought her breathing under control as she stared at her clean, pale hands.

  “All right, are you?” Bran asked. His glassy eyes watched her closely.

  “There was so much blood,” Áine whispered, “but it was jus
t a dream. Only a dream.”

  “Not all dreams are dreams.”

  “Comforting me, are you? You’ve a funny way about it.” She glared up at him before flushing and looking down. She smoothed her skirt over her bruised legs and sighed.

  “You’ve taken on a difficult journey, Áine. Accept the warnings and the help as they come.” His feather cloak swirled around his dark body as he rose to his feet.

  “Forgive me,” she said and stood as well. “Sometimes I think I’ve forgotten what help is, or what it felt like to be rested and content.”

  “Would you break your fast before we leave?” he asked.

  Áine thought of the dream and all the blood on her hands. She shook her head as her stomach turned.

  “What is this place?” she said instead.

  In the sunlight the white marble glimmered with thin veins of gold and she could see the crown of the forest stretching all around the hill. It was higher up then she’d realized in the dark.

  “White Hill,” Bran said, “my llys, the center of my kingdom.” His lips twitched in an ever-ready smile. “Ravens are not exactly the most clever of creatures when it comes to naming, are we?”

  “I love a man who calls his hound Cy,” she said and smiled back at him. Calls his brother Cy. She wondered which twin had come up with that name and couldn’t decide.

  “Are you ready then?” Bran motioned to her pack and she wondered at the sadness in his face. “I’ll take you to Seren, since I doubt that ankle will carry you far.”

  Áine hobbled to her pack and slipped the strap over her shoulder. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes with one hand and ran the other through her short hair. Her body felt bruised and sore from the buffeting of wings and her cold wait the night before and she felt as though she’d hardly slept at all. Her ankle throbbed and didn’t want to bear her weight.

  Áine worked her ankle around in a circle each way and then sighed. “All right,” she said, “take me to Seren.”

  Bran held out his hand and Áine stepped forward with a quizzical look and took it. He clasped her wrist higher up and with a harsh laugh pulled her into the sky.

  “Don’t let go, eh?” Bran laughed as Áine clung to his arm with both hands, clutching her bag tight between her arm and her body as they flew out over the trees.

  As if I’d even consider it, you oaf. She pushed away the uncharitable thought and stared down at the trees as they flew past. Her stomach churned and she focused on the horizon instead. Bran’s cloak swept back from them, snapping as it billowed in the wind.

  Too soon and yet not soon enough Bran brought them down in a spiral to land in a clearing that Áine thought looked familiar. Her legs went out from under her and she sat hard onto the ground as her heart slowly found a calmer rhythm and her eyes stopped watering from the flight. Bran stood silently beside her, his cloak wrapped around his body, his black eyes watching her.

  Áine struggled to her feet and lifted her pack once more to her shoulder. “Thank you, King Bran.”

  “It was my pleasure,” he said with a wide smile. “Seren’s home is the next clearing to the west. You should be able to get that far on foot. I will wait for you here.”

  “Wait for me? Why?”

  “You have more tasks, do you not? You do not seem like a woman triumphant.”

  “Yes, I think one more, provided Seren did not trick me in some way. But she said four when this began and she cannot lie about such things.” Áine sighed. One more task. “But why would you wait? You’ve already given me more help than I know how to repay.” She looked into his beautiful face and hated that she mistrusted his motives so, but this place was teaching her quickly that nothing came without some price.

  Bran shrugged, his cloak rippling with the motion. “I have my reasons, not the least of which is that if you succeed, you’ll be making no friend in Seren, and the Lady is no friend to my people. And I like you. Another might have long since given up. Your heart is a tiny sun within you.”

  Áine flushed, knowing how close she’d come to giving up more than once on this journey. I almost gave up right as it began. She nodded.

  “All right. Thank you, Bran.” She touched his feathers and turned away. What with the strands of the March Cann’s tail, she was nearly done. She smiled to herself in satisfaction. Seren would be quite disappointed to see her, wouldn’t she?

  * * *

  Áine’s satisfaction was short-lived. The Lady greeted her with a smile that raised goose flesh along her arms and made Áine’s scalp crawl.

  “You return with the tail hair?” Seren asked and her perfect white teeth looked almost sharp as she parted her full lips and leaned slightly forward.

  Áine reached into her pack and felt the cold metal hilt of the knife. She was little more than an arm’s length from the Lady. It would be easy: draw the blade, one thrust into the perfect white of her breasts that swelled over the low line of her gown.

  One little cut into Seren’s heart and the curse would be over, that condescending smile and all the pain she’d caused wiped away in a single motion.

  Áine swallowed hard and grasped at the curled hairs beside the knife. She drew out the shimmering handful; translucent blues and purples cascading over her fist.

  “There, tail hair from the March Cann. More than you asked for as I thought you’d like your pick.” Áine bit her lip and raised her chin.

  Seren gracefully plucked two purple strands from Áine’s hand as she opened her fist. The other hairs slid to the ground where they evaporated upon touching it.

  Áine stared down at them in surprise, wondering how close she might have come to dropping the precious tresses. She narrowed her eyes and looked back up at Seren who merely raised a single pale blood-red brow and widened her predatory, knowing smile.

  “My final task here in Cymru-that-could-be?” Áine prompted. Bran was waiting for her, and even his strange oscillations between gentle teasing and tense scrutiny were preferable to Seren’s sudden smugness.

  “It is simple,” Seren said and she motioned with one hand. The hairs of the March Cann disappeared and a small horn bowl appeared in their place in her palm. “Go to the Yfwr and collect her tears. Bring them to me and I will complete the charms that will break the curse.”

  “Collect them in that bowl? How do I do this? Who is the Yfwr and where does she live?”

  Seren laughed, a sound like bells on a cold morning. “Ah, halfling, you ask so many questions. Yes, collect them in the bowl. Make her cry and it will be an easy enough task. You will find the Yfwr by the fairy ring beyond the lake.”

  “How do I make her cry?” Áine clutched at the bowl that Seren extended to her. Why are you answering my questions now? Why are you acting so helpful? Áine tried to think what might have changed but her mind swam in tired circles.

  “You’ve proven a very resourceful one, haven’t you?” Seren shrugged and vanished.

  “I do hate it when you do that,” Áine muttered to the empty clearing and shivered. She turned and tucked the bowl into her bag. I could have ended it all. Selfish of me, wasn’t that? I’m a coward. No, I’m a healer. Do no harm. I will end this my way.

  She hobbled slowly back toward Bran, wondering what the price hid in this new task.

  * * *

  “Emyr, please. See reason on this.” Hafwyn touched his shoulder as he threw wide the hall door and set one foot out into the crisp spring evening.

  Melita rose and left the hearth with a murmured excuse. Alone now, Idrys turned back to his mother and glared down at her. There were tears in her warm brown eyes and his heart softened.

  “You’d have me marry, would you?” He glanced around and added. “Have us marry? Do you know what that might mean?”

  “I know, Idrys, I know.” She dropped her gaze. “But life goes on, with or without curses, with or without love.”

  “Not Idrys,” he said bitterly. “Emyr. This would kill Idrys forever.”

  With a harsh moan, Hafwyn rea
ched out to him again, her shoulders slumping. Behind her Emyr gave a soft whine and dropped low to the rushes, resting his bony head on his paws.

  Idrys wrapped his arms around his mother, noting the white that dusted her dark hair; it seemed more than the previous spring. He took a deep breath and stepped away from her, pulling them both into the hall and closing the door behind him. He stared beyond his mother to the hound sitting by the hearth.

  His brother watched him with sad, liquid eyes, a dark shadow against the stones. Idrys shivered. It wasn’t loving the same woman that pulled us so far apart. It was losing her.

  Idrys looked down at Hafwyn. “Comely, is she? Well. All right, mother,” he said, “it cannot hurt to at least meet this chief’s daughter.”

  Twenty-four

  His glassy black eyes narrowed in an otherwise impassive face, Bran stared at her in silence for a long moment before his shoulders rose and fell in a very bird-like gesture that Áine wasn’t sure how to read.

  “The Yfwr was the first creature of the water. There is a legend among my people that she saw Amathaon, son of the goddess Don, tilling a field by her lake and fell in love. She shifted into a maiden and seduced him. After he lay with her she turned back into a creature and when Amathaon realized the deception, he left her. It broke her heart. She bore him three children, then turned into a weeping willow, which is how you’ll find her now.”

  Áine mulled this information over. “How do I make a tree cry? Seren said this task would be simple, but I cannot see how that was not a lie.”

  Bran’s jaw tightened and he pulled his cloak around him, turning half away from her. “It is simple, she did not lie. To make the Yfwr cry, you need only wound her.”