A Novel

by Signe Pike

  “I hold no admiration for men too spineless to stand and fight. But you’ve murdered one of the Thirteen and risen to take his place. I wonder now what it is you would do.”

  “I do not seek to claim any crown. The man I deposed was a coward; he was no king. I have only risen to protect the forgotten people of his realm.” Pendragon took a deep draught from his cup. “Do you think it was my choice to slaughter my fellow Britons?” He did not wait for my father’s reply, his azure eyes flashing. “I and my men battle in the fields and the forests as it is, each time astonished to have escaped with our lives at all. No”—he shook his head—“Vortigern left me no choice.”

  My father considered him. “And what did you make of Pascent, his son?”

  “Did you not hear? I offered him some gain. The ashes of a fortress with the ghost of his father residing within.” Pendragon’s voice rose to emphasize the breadth of the boon, and one of the Dragon Warriors bit back a laugh.

  “Pascent refused the land,” Pendragon continued. “He has no men brave enough to hold it. We spotted him riding toward Bryneich. He means to make some plot with the Angles, no doubt. It would seem he learnt no lesson from his father.”

  “And is this what you will tell Tutgual King?”

  “I will not stand by whilst the innocent suffer,” Pendragon said. “I laid claim to those lands because it is my men and I who can protect them. I will tell Tutgual that it is not I who is his enemy. The enemy comes from across the sea, from Angleland, and they arrive in wave upon wave, like locusts. They mean to consume the Britons in totality. They would see the blood of our children make fertile the fields their own progeny will sow. I mean to stop it.”

  My chest swelled with admiration. Emrys Pendragon was no murderer. He was a hero; there was no denying it. I glanced at Lail and saw his eyes burning with zeal.

  Father leaned across the table. “If this is so, I commend you. And it seems your methods of warfare have taken the enemy much by surprise.”

  “Aye, we’re suited to the woods and wild places, eh?” The smile that came was fierce and cunning, like the dragon he was named for. Across the table Lail moved closer to the edge of his seat, and Pendragon, noticing, gave him a wink.

  “We meet the enemy wherever we can engage them. The Angles play now at letting a man or woman run, only to track them and string them gutted from trees. And so we want them to know fear. We want them to know pain. We wait, sometimes for days, hungry and wet. Eaten by insects and wallowing in our own stink. We wait for them to send a scout or a raiding party.” He downed his drink. “They will soon come to know that death is a far better fate than to be taken in irons by the Dragon Warriors.”

  His men raised their cups in a shout and Father smiled. “We are a strong people,” Father said. “This is not the first time we have faced this sort of warfare and survived.”

  “You speak of the Romans,” Pendragon observed.

  “Aye. Though in the kingdom of Strathclyde we survived thanks to our cunning in negotiation, our height on the map, and the din made by our neighbors.”

  At this, Emrys chuckled and the mood round the table lifted.

  “They say you are Sarmatian, Lord Emrys,” Lailoken ventured.

  “Aye,” Pendragon smiled. “My ancestors were born on horseback, our cavalry among the best in the world. We fought the blight of Rome until it consumed us. When the Sarmatians were offered a living wage within the empire, my father’s people came across the wild sea to build the Wall. When Rome retreated, we held it still. When Vortigern fled to his fort above the Esk, we held it still. Then the Angles attacked, and my brothers laid their broken bodies at the foot of that Wall. We held it still . . .” His voice fell away, his eyes dim with memory.

  I knew what had happened next—I’d heard the vendors in the market. Some thought Emrys quite mad. Others thought him a hero. He’d used the blood-soaked cloth from the tunics of the dead to sew a new standard. Little by little, men caught word on the wind that there was such a man as he. They rallied to the Dragon.

  “Lord Emrys, I am ashamed to say I possessed some doubt as to the nature of your character,” Father said. “You do not disappoint me. You fight on behalf of the truest cause: the preservation of our people. And so you have found a friend in Morken. What do you seek from me?”

  “Men.” Emrys did not hesitate. “There will come a time when I need an army. We need seasoned warriors, and whilst your clan may be smaller in number, your men are among the best. It won’t be long before we are forced into the open.”

  “When you call for men, you shall have them.”

  I drew in a breath as Father’s brown eyes locked with the steady blue gaze of the Dragon. The deal had been made.

  But I couldn’t help but wonder what this would mean for Brant, for Brodyn, for Lail, for each of us. My father took the wine amphora and refilled Pendragon’s cup along with his own. I watched as King Morken drank, swallowing the weight of his vow.

  CHAPTER 10

  * * *

  Lailoken and I could scarcely believe our luck when Cathan returned to Buckthorn and announced he was taking us to visit Bright Hill.

  I’d only ever seen the distant glitter of torches on the hilltop during our springtime festival of Beltane, when we gathered to bid Belenus, the shining one, ruler of light, health, and livestock, come back to the land. His blazes were lit on mountains and hilltops across our kingdom to celebrate his return in spring. The slopes of Bright Hill were the domain of our Wisdom Keepers: it was a sacred hill where rites were worked to bring prosperity and seek the favor of Belenus in spring planting and the safety of our animals. The villagers of Cadzow said the veil between the worlds was spun so thin on Bright Hill, you could hear the Gods breathing.

  The salty smell of the Clyde blew in gusts off the water far below as we entered a thick forest of elm, river ash, and oak. Flashes of sunlight lit Cathan’s silvery hair as he led his horse on until at last he stopped beside a giant old yew. Here a sturdy wooden bridge arced over a swift-moving stream where tiny white stars of pearlwort blossomed over the moss-covered rocks. We dismounted to let the horses drink before tethering them beside the great old tree.

  “There it is!” I exclaimed, pointing over the bridge to the steep rise of Bright Hill.

  “Come on”—Lail jabbed me—“I’ll race you.”

  “Halt!” Cathan’s strong arm barred the way. “Lailoken, you wish to become a Keeper? Surely I have taught you better than this. You are about to enter a sacred place. For when you step off this bridge, you step out of our world and into another. You must always seek permission.”

  Lail bowed his head, duly chastened, but for me the Wisdom Keeper’s rebuke stung more deeply. I knew Cathan had not intended it, but his words were a reminder that the path both my brother and I so coveted was barred from me. Cathan and Lailoken often broke from our lessons to continue discussions in private, for the teachings of Keepers were sacred. Secret. I wondered if my brother had any idea of the pain it caused. But now Cathan’s eyes had drifted closed, his lips moving in a whispered prayer. I could catch no more than the rhythm of it, swift and reverent, until he abruptly ceased his mumbling and tilted his head, waiting. For a long moment there was no sound, not even the rustle of a red squirrel in the tree overhead. And then came a small breath of wind. It rose as if from the earth, gently rustling the buds on their springtime branches. At last Cathan opened his eyes.

  “We are welcome here. We may cross now, children. Hurry up, then: this way.”

  Even the grass seemed to sprout more lushly on the opposite bank, brushing the hem of my dress as we left the bridge and followed a narrow footpath upstream. Cathan moved ahead, humming something low and mirthful until, a short distance away, we arrived at a clear forest pool. A narrow spout of water issued from a tiny split in the rock where the hill had broken open, like a woman who could not hold back her tears.

  “The White Spring,” Cathan said. An ancient thorn had dug its roots into the
slope above the spring, gnarled arms outstretched as if to shelter it.

  “The water is so clear,” I said, but waited this time as the joints of Cathan’s knees gave sharp cracks and he squatted at the water’s edge, swaying softly with a blessing for the Lady of the Spring.

  “Come, Lail, Languoreth.” He smiled. “You may settle beside me now.”

  Sunlight rippled the surface of the water in playful, light-footed patterns, and Lail’s eyes had already drifted, soft and unfocused. Glancing at him, Cathan nodded to himself and reached into the leather pouch at his waist, withdrawing two delicate chunks of amber. They flashed in the filtered sun as he pressed one into my palm, giving the other to my brother.

  “Go ahead. Tell her your wish,” he said, and stood. “And do take your time. I’ll be waiting just there.” He departed in a soft rustle of grass, leaving me and Lailoken alone at the pool.

  A wish?

  I wasn’t prepared for a wish. The delicate piece of amber felt leaden in my palm. I glanced at Lailoken, but his eyes were already closed. He was just the sort to always know what to wish for. With an uncertain sigh, I let my eyelids drop as I’d seen Cathan do. I willed my mind to go still, listening to the clean trickle of water.

  A moment passed, and soon the silvery whisper of the spring became the only sound I could hear. I sank into it, like swimming underwater. Slowly, I felt my body begin to sway, although I was not quite certain I was moving at all. But I was moving. I was swaying so softly, awash with the feeling of being rocked in my mother’s arms. I was embraced. Enfolded. So safe, so at peace. The sensation pulsed through me in waves as gentle as the roll of the sea, and I tilted my head as if to capture its rhythm. Within me I could almost feel a rivulet of light rise and spill, filling the darkened cracks of my heart.

  I do not know how long we sat there, my brother and I.

  It was as if time stood still, or perhaps there was no time at all. Gradually the pulsing within me grew fainter and fainter, fading like thunder on a hill in the distance.

  I made my wish.

  With heavy lids I opened my eyes to watch the tiny piece of amber sink to the bottom of the pool. Lail’s eyes were yet closed, his lashes a sandy fringe against his cheek and his brow creased in concentration. When at last he looked up, he did not so much cast his pebble of amber as he let it slip from his fingers.

  “Did you see her?” he asked, his light eyes shining.

  “Of course I didn’t see her.” My voice was clipped, but Lailoken didn’t notice.

  “She was beautiful,” he said. “Like a mild summer day, or the sound of the ocean as it laps on the shore.” He turned to me. “I think she quite liked you.”

  “Liked me?” I shook my head. But I had felt something, hadn’t I? I searched but found no words to describe it.

  “What did you wish for?” Lail asked, standing to brush off his trousers.

  “Goodness, no,” Cathan called out from his seat upon a moss-covered log. “Don’t tell each other. That’s terrible luck! A wish is to be kept between yourself and the lady.”

  Lailoken gave a slight nod, and Cathan hoisted himself up to join us, squinting in the sun.

  “Well, then? What did you make of the White Spring?”

  “It was lovely,” I said. Words felt empty as I sought to describe it.

  Lailoken thought a moment. “I felt as though she wanted to heal us.”

  “Yes.” Cathan stretched his arms over our shoulders, guiding us along the forest trail. “She is a good spring for healing. She has such a very large heart.”

  Young fern curled their heads along the trail, and fat red-capped mushrooms squatted round tree trunks. The hill wasn’t tremendously large, but the incline was steep, and as the path meandered in switchbacks we lingered, moving slowly, as if the sound of our footsteps might shatter the stillness.

  I remembered what Father had said about our river. Never before had I felt the magic of our gods. But I felt their nearness now. The green canopy folded overhead like the roof of a cave, and there was a quality to the air, as if another, more shimmering world had enfolded itself over this one. We moved through it slowly, observed by hidden eyes.

  A soft gust rose through the forest, causing me to shiver. And then I heard the deep-throated caw of a bird. A crow. Cathan heard it, too, and lifted his head, seeking out the direction from which it had come.

  “I will confess I was not paying attention,” Cathan said. “Shall we test your skills as an augur, Lailoken?”

  “It came from just there.” Lail gestured to an elm below. “From the south.”

  Cathan had been instructing Lailoken in the ancient art of augury, and in stolen moments I watched them observe the way an animal skittered or soared, noting the time of day, the place it was seen, the direction in which it was traveling. It was a knowledge given only to Keepers, the meanings of such signs having been divined by our ancestors, their deciphering passed on since time out of memory. Someday, when Lailoken stood as counsellor at the shoulder of his own king, it would be his responsibility to decode such omens for the safety of a kingdom.

  But now Cathan’s face was clouded. His beard twitched as he looked to my brother. “The south, you say. Lailoken, are you quite certain?”

  “Quite certain.” Lail frowned. “Though I can’t remember what it might mean.”

  “That is only because we have not yet learnt it,” Cathan said with a sniff. “Rain. I do think the crow means to warn us that rain may be coming.”

  Lailoken hesitated, as if he did not agree.

  I was still puzzling over it when the forest opened up and we arrived on the summit of the hill. Now I could see how high we had climbed. There was the little bridge we’d crossed below, and the canopy of trees that sheltered the spring. In the distance, the wide ribbon of the river rippled like serpent scales in the sun. Cathan gave a satisfied sigh at the sight of it, pointing to a gently sloped mountain in the distance.

  “We wait for the signal from that mountain when we light the great fire. And so on and so forth, until a jeweled stream of fire blazes across the entire land. The Beltane fire wakes the land from slumber, blessing the herds as they travel to summertime pastures. Blessing our hearths as we carry its embers into our homes.”

  I could almost imagine how it might look from the clouds, a blazing strand of stars glittering from hilltop to hilltop from here to the ocean, and even across the western sea to the burning mountaintops of Scotia, the land of the Westmen, uniting all of our people whether at war or at peace.

  Gray wisps of clouds raced overhead, momentarily darkening the sun, and my pulse quickened with the feeling of weather. Of course, Cathan had been right. It was going to rain. The Wisdom Keeper turned from the view to acknowledge the ancient grove of trees that commanded Bright Hill’s summit. Tucking a wayward strand of silver hair from his face, he cleared his throat, turning tutor once more.

  “As for the oaks, the generation of Keepers who propagated this grove has been lost beyond memory. Yet the trees still remain.”

  The oaks were fat-footed giants, their trunks tumorous with age. But they were beautiful, like a grandmother, their gnarled fingers tapering into delicate branches bursting with new leaves of spring.

  “These oaks are the children of the first tree, the children of Bile,” Cathan said. “The very memory of creation has been forged in their rings. This is why we come to the groves to work our rites—because oaks remember the old magic, the song the earth was singing when it first came into being.”

  Lailoken’s eyes trailed the grove in reverence. He’d been waiting for this, I knew, to stand upon this hill among these majestic old trees.

  “Go ahead,” Cathan urged us. “Wander. Greet them! See what messages you might hear rustling through their leaves.”

  I moved toward an oak with a deep hollow and extended my fingers, exploring its burls. I did not have much hope for messages in leaves. That was the domain of my brother. Instead, I wandered the peaceful grove f
or a time before I grew restless, and decided to trace our footsteps back down the hill to get a better look at the red-capped mushrooms I’d seen clustered at the foot of a tree.

  I had to hunt for a while before I finally found them, and with a hum of delight I crouched to pry a rounded bulb from the earth. Delicate white warts dotted the red cap. Poisonous, I was fairly certain. But I would bring one for Cathan to see.

  I had reached to tuck the mushroom into the small leather satchel at my belt when suddenly the very air around me prickled, the fine hair of my arms bristling like the hackles of our hounds.

  I was not alone.

  I straightened swiftly, my eyes scouring the underbrush. It was nothing, I told myself. A squirrel or possibly a fox. But then I heard the sharp snap of a twig.

  I spun on my heel, the mushroom bulb falling from my fingers.

  A skeletal man with piercing blue eyes stood not ten paces behind me, paused midmovement. A blond mustache drooped over the beard that covered much of his thin face, and in my terror I wondered for a moment if he might not be human at all but a spirit sent to haunt me from some dark place between the worlds.

  Danger. The forest around me pulsed as if in warning. And yet I couldn’t cry out; I could scarcely swallow. I could only stand as his eyes pinned me, surveying my fine-spun garments and the slender golden torque I wore. An understanding kindled as he realized I was royalty, and the way his face shifted made me reach instinctively for the handle of my knife.

  This man was no Wisdom Keeper.

  “Who are you?” I demanded. “What is your purpose here?” But my voice sounded meek in the expanse of forest. Where had Lail and Cathan gone? How quickly might they come if I could even muster air enough in my lungs to scream? The blue-eyed man did not answer; he only dropped his hands to his sides a moment as if wondering what to do with me. A little girl, alone in the wood.

  “Who are you?” I demanded again, louder this time. He raised his brows, looking at me the way I’d once seen a cat eye a wounded robin. The thought that this encounter was some sort of game to him, that I was something weak to be preyed upon heated the blood in my veins, and my fury boiled over, shattering his spell.