by Signe Pike
“It might be the Angles,” Lail said without a trace of fear in his voice.
My mouth went dry. It was winter. My father could raise an army of two hundred, but the bulk of them were tenant farmers, home now with their families. Of the small retinue we kept on through winter, ten had traveled with my father to Partick. That left ten guarding the storehouses down by the river and only ten who remained here.
If the Angles had come, there would be no saving any of us.
As if reading my thoughts, Lail stood and yanked his sword from its baldric. “I can fight.”
“Stay back, Lailoken,” Brant said, his voice low.
“I can fight,” he insisted.
“You will not.”
“Sweet Gods, Lail, do as he says!” I shouted.
“Let them come,” Lail said. “I will protect you.”
Brant’s jaw clenched, but he let my brother stay.
I gripped the handle of my new knife, struggling to calm myself. Moments stretched. The tension in the room pulled taut as an archer’s string. I strained my ears, listening until I could hear my own blood racing. And then a series of shouts sounded from the courtyard. The heavy slap of footsteps came thundering down the corridor. Brant lifted his sword, his eyes set on the door; but when it thrust open, only Brodyn appeared, his dark hair wet as an otter’s pelt.
“Sweet Gods, brother, I nearly took off your head!” Brant cursed.
Brodyn made no apology, rushing forward to murmur something low in his brother’s ear.
“What?” Lail demanded. “Who is it?”
Whatever Brodyn had said, it made Brant’s face fall. He blinked a moment, then nodded to his brother. “Let them in.”
Brodyn retreated quickly into the damp and I heard his deep voice call for the gates to open.
Our cousin swept his dark eyes over us, deciding something.
“Come, Lailoken, Languoreth,” Brant said. “We will need your help. You must come right away.”
CHAPTER 4
* * *
At first it seemed as though the rain must have turned to waves and we were now lost in an ocean. How else could I explain the swarm of bodies that washed through our gates, tumbling into the courtyard like piles of rotting fish? Rotting, for that was the smell that assaulted our noses, causing Brant, Brodyn, and the rest of my father’s men to clamp their wet wool to their faces even as they ran to help the wounded through the yawning timber doors. Men, women, children, victims of the Angles. How far they had traveled, I could not say, but they looked half-starved, their travel-worn clothing stuck like paste to rain-drenched limbs.
They rushed toward the hall with hollow eyes and jerking movements, like corpses brought back from the dead. They rushed toward the hall until the courtyard became a waking nightmare, with wounds that glistened dark and slick like eels in the pelting storm.
I heard someone cry out, “Merciful Gods!”
And then Crowan and our man Herrick ran from the kitchens, blinking against the streams of rain coming from the sky. “Quickly! Get them into the stables; get them into the warm!” Crowan shouted.
Brant nodded at Lail. Did he want to take command? Lailoken reached out a hand as if to steady himself before gesturing to Herrick.
“Herrick. Help Macon bed clean straw in the barn. We’ll treat the wounded there. Any remaining will take refuge in the hall.”
How could my twin be so clearheaded when my vision was coming in flashes?
The weeping split of a stomach wound. The pearly white gleam of leg bone bursting through skin. Hair glossy, clumped with blood, staining faces crimson in the rain. Everywhere the putrid smell of wound rot and the stink of wet bandages.
I felt my eyes water from the stench and my stomach spasm in revolt. I don’t know how long I would have stood there, paralyzed by the horror before me, if I hadn’t felt the sharp sting of fingernails rake my arm. My gaze fell to the ground, where a boy my age had stumbled, his hand outstretched.
“Please,” he said. “Please . . .”
Wintry mud seeped into my trousers as I dropped down beside him.
“Where . . . where are you hurt?”
My eyes found the wound on his chest before he could answer. His face was white with pain. Biting my lip, I reached a trembling hand to tease back the soggy fabric of his bandage and gasped.
The boy’s eyes widened as he watched me, and he shifted with fear. “It’s soured, hasn’t it?”
I had seen infection before, but never like this. It stank of death.
“My sister told me it wasn’t so bad,” the boy said. “But it hurts—it hurts so much.” Drained of what little strength he had, he sank back onto the puddled earth.
“Where is your sister now?” I asked.
“They took her.” His voice was a whisper in the rain.
What would Angle men want with a girl my age? I swallowed. The question sickened me. The boy lifted his head and I noticed his eyes were blue like my brother’s. They held mine as if I were an anchor.
“Come. We must get you to the barn.” I tried to lift him, but my feet slipped helplessly in the mud. Sweet Gods, his body was a boulder. I braced my hands under the pits of his arms and tried again to raise him, but he screamed in pain.
“Stop, please, stop! I can’t. It hurts.”
“It’s all right”—my voice came in a rush—“it’s going to be all right.” I looked frantically round the courtyard. “Please, somebody . . .”
“My lady.” Herrick caught sight of me across the yard and raced to scoop the boy into his arms. “I’ll take ’im.”
The boy cried out over Herrick’s shoulder, his chest heaving now, his eyes wild, hysterical.
“You’ll be all right,” I called after him, but my voice was thick with panic. “I promise, you’ll be all right.”
My head was spinning and I blinked, commanding myself to think. Mother’s healing hut. There would be bandages, salves, and ointments. There was no time to waste.
I dodged through the chaos of the courtyard as fast as I could, past the stables and the rampart and into the woods. Lail’s soggy woolen trousers clung to my legs. My lungs burned. I forced my feet to pound faster, down the narrow forest trail that skirted the pasture. Here the towering trees sheltered the path from rain, and my feet could gain purchase on the soggy ground. At last I came to the thatched hut that stood abandoned in the forest of gnarled oaks. Chest heaving, I yanked the wooden latch. The door swung open.
There was no welcoming fire in the hearth. No shaft of light to illuminate the dim and forgotten room. Everything was just as my mother had left it. Poplar twigs hung from the ceiling alongside thick bundles of hyssop, sage, and lavender that filled the air with a moldy, verdant smell. Ceramic pots filled with bloodroot, velvet dock, elderberry, and crushed meadowsweet blossom lined the sturdy set of wooden shelves beside the glass vials that held Mother’s herbal elixirs. Her mortar and pestle sat on the table, a cluster of sunny, half-ground pods resting in its hollow.
The rain on the roof whispered, hush, hush. I balled my hands into fists and forced myself over the threshold. Moving past the sturdy oak table, I searched blindly in the twilight room for the basket that held clean strips of linen. When the wicker met my fingers, I let out a sigh of relief. Snatching the basket, I moved to the shelves. That was where I foundered. Here was the elder, but that was for coughs and winter sickness. I knew the blue jar contained nettle, but the brown one . . .
Frustration swelled, and I battled the urge to scream.
Think, think. The scores of bottles and jars stood silent, taunting me. My mother had known each herb and root by heart. I was no healer.
Curses! Why had I not paid better attention? The boy was going to die and it was my stupid fault.
Oh, Mother, please help me. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying with every ounce of my will. Let her appear once more. I would even give her back, let her return, if only this once she could appear and help me, help me treat these people, save
this boy.
For a heartbeat, I waited. The only sounds were the wash of rain and the rattle of wind through leafless trees. Biting back tears, I clutched the basket to my chest. Never had I felt so alone.
And then a soft creak came from the doorway. I spun, nearly startled from my skin, to see a hooded figure in a blue cloak standing on the threshold.
A woman. My breath caught in my throat.
She looked as though she’d been standing there for some time, watching me.
She must have heard my gasp, because she reached a slender hand to shift the hood from her face. Her hair was dark, wet from rain. But she was far younger than my mother had been. Hers was the face of a stranger.
My disappointment turned brittle. “You frightened me.”
“Apologies,” she said. Her voice was as low and smooth as water. “I was told I would find medicine here.”
She was willowy, her hair the color of nighttime and her skin so translucent, it reminded me of moonlight. There was something about her, some flashing curiosity behind her eyes, that struck me as strange, almost otherworldly. Sensing my scrutiny, she ducked her head and entered the room.
“It appears to be well stocked,” she said. Her eyes were a luminous sort of blue, like a pot of cerulean ink. She brushed past me and her fingers traced the ceramic pots as if they were telling her their secrets.
“My mother built her collection over a number of years,” I said.
“A number of years?” She turned in alarm. “Then I should hope their properties will not be diminished.”
The look on her face ignited my anger.
“My mother knew the property of every plant this side of the sea. She stitched our warriors after battle. She birthed babies. She treated the frail. She tended our village children. She was a Wisdom Keeper and a healer of great renown. You will not find these herbs depleted.”
“Good,” the woman said. “Then grab as many as you can carry. And hurry. We must get to work.”
Who was this woman to barge into my mother’s healing hut and command me as if I were a common tenant? I stood still, my eyes a challenge.
She looked at me, unfazed. “You’ve lost your mother. I’m sorry for you. If you continue to stand here and do nothing, other children shall lose their mothers, too.”
Suddenly I hated her. “How dare you speak of my mother?” I demanded.
The woman sighed with impatience and snatched the basket from my arms. I watched as she began pulling bottles and jars from the shelves, stacking them hastily on top of the linens. “You’re a child at play in a healer’s workshop. Let me help you. We have no time to waste. Even now, people die in your courtyard! We’ll need another basket. Can you fetch one?”
My cheeks flushed. She was right. I snatched the basket near the hearth, the tinder clattering onto the floor as I upended it. In a few moments we were racing back along the forest trail, our arms laden with tinctures, salves, and remedies, an uncomfortable silence between us. The rain had ceased, leaving behind rivulets of water that coursed their way over the path and down toward the river. I studied the strange woman out of the corner of my eye until my curiosity got the better of me and I broke my stubborn silence.
“Will you not tell me your name?” I asked.
“My name is Ariane. I am a Wisdom Keeper. Healing is my trade. And you are Languoreth,” she said, before I could speak, “daughter of Morken. And a twin.”
I was accustomed to meeting strangers who knew of my family. But this woman seemed different. I glanced at her, wary. “If you are a Wisdom Keeper, then where are your robes?”
“I have no robes.”
“All Wisdom Keepers wear robes,” I insisted. “How else do you travel as a woman without being accosted? How else do the nobles know you are exempt from paying taxes?”
She seemed to think this was funny. “I do not worry about danger. Nor about taxes.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You have a funny way of speaking.”
“Perhaps it is you who has the funny way of speaking.”
I frowned. Cathan praised me for my impeccable diction. I spoke Latin and perfect Brythonic. Whoever she was, this Ariane was certainly not a Briton.
“Where is it you hail from?”
“You ask a lot of questions.” She hefted her basket to keep it from slipping. “I treated many on the road best I could, but I have no more supplies. Hurry now.” She gestured with her chin. “We are nearly there. Tell your man to let us in.”
The rampart gate had been secured, but only a single warrior manned it: Arwel, our messenger’s brother. As he ushered us in, clanging the heavy bolt behind us, I saw his hands were slick with blood. The courtyard was empty now save for Father’s hounds, who had somehow gotten loose from their kennel. Their noses were bent to the earth, eager snouts darkened from lapping pools of rainwater and gore.
“Go on! Shoo!” I cried. They lifted their heads and slunk off toward the Hall. We reached the stable to find the double doors thrust open, a deafening muddle of voices echoing from within. Inside, rows of the wounded were bedded on piles of fresh straw, and our horses were gathered in the corner, quartered off by thick bales of hay. Steam rose from piping hot buckets scattered round the room, where my father’s warriors were tending the injured as best they could, cleaning wounds with flasks of liquor and tying fresh tourniquets around arms and legs.
A plump woman propped on one elbow caught sight of us and her eyes sharpened in need. “Look! They’ve brought medicines!” she shouted. I turned my gaze from the weeping wound on her pale, doughy stomach. “Help me, little girl! Please, I beg you . . .”
In an instant the whine of voices rose to a clamor, men and women clutching at Ariane, shouting at her to tend them first. I shrank back, the feeling of fingernails still fresh on my skin. Crowan hurried forward and touched my cheek before snatching away a stack of clean linens. I searched the rows of the injured until I caught sight of the boy. He was lying as if thrown on a mound of straw not far from the horses, his breath coming fast and shallow as a bird’s.
“Ariane, please. That boy.”
She assessed the room in a practiced sweep.
“Yes. We’ll tend to him first.” She rushed to kneel beside him, her fingers gently probing his chest. “Languoreth. Fetch me a clean linen soaked in hot water.”
I clenched my jaw against the heat as I plunged the linen into a bucket and passed it to her. Drawing a small knife from her belt Ariane cut away the soiled bandage to reveal the wound. Infection. Her eyes betrayed the damage. And now I saw the gash to the boy’s sternum had exposed the white of his breastbone.
“An axe.” Anger flashed before Ariane blinked again and her face became a mask. “Hold him down,” she said. “The shoulders. Pin the shoulders.”
“But he isn’t moving,” I protested, not wanting to hurt him.
“He will be.”
Bird bones. The boy’s shoulders were hollow beneath my hands. I took a breath and forced myself to watch as Ariane doused the steaming cloth with liquor and pressed it to the wound. The boy thrashed with a scream.
“Hold him down!” Ariane commanded. Tears sprang to my eyes. I forced the weight of my body down upon his shoulders, pinning him to the straw.
“You’re all right,” I said again and again. “Lie still, lie still.”
The boy let out a strangled sob. Ariane was moving quickly now, her slender fingers packing the wound with a pulpy mixture of ointment and herbs, and I turned away, my breath coming in short puffs. My face was close to his ear. With the stench of the wound gone, I could smell the earthy scent of his scalp. It smelled of birch bark and winter leaves.
“I’m going to stitch him now.” Ariane unrolled a leather kit with varying sizes of bone needles tucked beside neat spools of horsehair thread. But then her eyes flickered to his face and she turned to me. “Languoreth. I need you to fetch more hot water.”
The boy clutched at my tunic. “No. No! Don’t leave me,” he begged, but hi
s voice sounded thick now, muted and unnatural.
“Languoreth,” Ariane said, “I need more water before I begin. Go now. Quickly!”
I scrambled from my knees and dashed across the courtyard into the kitchens. I was gone for a heartbeat—just long enough for Agnes to fill the wooden bucket from the vast iron cauldron over the fire and for me to race back to the barn, the bucket sloshing against the sides, scalding my legs through my already sodden trousers.
But Ariane was no longer beside the boy.
She was bent now at the side of a graying old man, dressing a wound to his head. Her blue eyes met mine. I looked to the place where the boy’s body lay. She had covered him with a flour sack. His twiggy legs stuck out from beneath it like a broken puppet’s, his shoes still caked in mud from the rain.
There was a thudding between my ears that drowned out the din. For a moment everything stood still. I leaned my face against the splintered wood of the barn and closed my eyes. I might have stayed there had I not felt a warm whoosh of breath and the velvety wet nudge of a nose against my neck.
“Fallah.” I turned to bury my face in my horse’s soft white neck and she leaned into me. “Oh, Fallah.” My voice broke, and I let her thick winter fur soak up my tears.
“He was my friend,” I heard a small voice say.
I blinked and turned from my horse to find a brown-haired girl sitting against the stable wall, her knees drawn to her chest. Her upturned nose was streaked with dirt. She smelled rancid, as if she hadn’t bathed in days.
She fiddled with a loose thread on her dress, and I noticed a soiled cloth doll in her lap. “His name was Drustan.”
“Drustan,” I echoed. Her dark eyes were hollow. I took a step closer. “Which town have you come from?”
