by Signe Pike
“I am Languoreth, daughter of Morken, and you trespass on a sacred hill. State your purpose or leave here at once! I will not ask you again.”
I whipped my knife from its sheath and sliced it in the air between us. But the threat of my blade turned the amusement in his eyes to shadow. He took a step toward me, and my instincts took hold. I rushed at him like a shrieking banshee. I meant to startle him, to chase him away, but the man only slipped aside as if he were made of water. I felt a sharp crack upon my wrist and cried out in pain as he knocked the blade from my grasp as if it were a plaything. It fell to the earth with a thud that left me queasy.
“That knife belongs to me! Give it back!”
The man bent slowly to pick it up, his eyes admiring the jewel work adorning the handle. He passed the knife from hand to hand, testing its weight. Sensing my chance, I billowed my lungs to scream, but he closed the distance in an instant, clamping a rough hand over my mouth and knocking me off balance. He crouched over me now, so close I could smell the sour musk of his sweat. I struggled to force the breath through my nose, my heart thudding as he shook me in his grip, forcing me to go limp, to submit to his will.
As he raised his free hand I braced myself to claw out, to fight whatever he may do. But he only brought an earth-stained finger to his lips, his hard stare silencing me.
Quiet.
Slowly he eased the pressure on my mouth and stood.
His eyes bored into mine as he backed slowly away, until a safe distance lay once more between us. And then, as if he were flicking a fly from a banquet table, he tossed my knife to the ground.
I scrambled to my feet as the man turned and fled downhill, into the forest. Lurching for my knife, I brandished it, fingers trembling, eyes fixed on his back as he retreated into the undergrowth. This time I would not miss my mark.
“Languoreth!”
I heard the panic in Lailoken’s voice as he careered down the trail, his face tight with worry.
“What’s happened?” he asked. “I heard you cry out.”
His eyes raked my body in search of cuts or bruises.
“I—I’m all right . . . There was a man . . .”
“What man?” Lail’s hand flew to his sword. “Did he harm you? Did he touch you?”
“No,” I insisted. “Not in that way. He—he twisted my wrist.” I rubbed the place where it was sore and swelling. “He was right there,” I gestured to the trail. “He was right there when you came upon me. Did you not see him?”
Lailoken scanned the tree line, wary. But the only sound was the wind through the trees and the high-pitched tittering of the forest birds.
“I’m sorry, sister. What did he look like? Was he a Keeper?”
“This man was no Keeper!” My words came as a shout and Lailoken stopped.
“How do you know this man was not a Keeper?” His voice was keen.
I took a breath. There was the memory of the stranger’s skeletal frame, his drooping mustache and wiry beard, the amphibious chill in his eyes. Never had I been looked at with such loathing.
But it was something far simpler that had given him away.
“This man was not a Keeper,” I insisted. “He wore the brown hood of a monk.”
CHAPTER 11
* * *
“Tell me precisely what happened,” Cathan said. He tugged at the thick hair of his beard as I related my story.
“It was only my wrist,” I said. “But . . .” I searched the ground, feeling rather foolish now to have been so shaken by a chance encounter in the wood.
“Go on,” Cathan urged.
“The forest changed. And he looked at me with such loathing. As if I were little more than a grain rat.”
“A grain rat.” Cathan paced the trail, his eyes bright with anger. It seemed for a moment that he would leave us and strike out in search of the man, but he could not abandon us with no escort, no guard. He raked a hand through his hair and turned.
“Languoreth. Are you quite certain this man wore the hood of a monk?”
I hesitated, wondering if I dared repeat the truth. Brother Telleyr was our friend. We had always lived in peace with Christians, what few we had met. But there was no mistaking the man I had seen, the brown cowl he’d worn. Nor the feeling of danger that yet pooled in the pit of my stomach.
I nodded. Cathan closed his eyes a moment.
“That man had no right to trespass on this sacred hill. Worse, I do not think his intention was to tread it lightly.”
“We must ride out,” Lail said. “We must find him and bring him before the Council!”
“You and your riding out,” Cathan said. “You would wage war with the world! This is now a matter for the Keepers, Lailoken. I will thank you to ponder it no further.” The Wisdom Keeper reached to smooth the hair from my face, and the edge dropped from his voice.
“No harm has come to you. This is what matters. Come, now, let’s get you home. I’ll thank the Gods that no more adventures should find us on the road.”
Cathan rode ahead, his body stiff as he surveyed the fields for any sign of danger. But even as I eased into the soothing rhythm of Fallah’s gait and Bright Hill receded into the distance, my mind returned to the forest.
What was a Christian monk doing walking the slopes of Bright Hill? The Wisdom Keepers and Telleyr’s monks had always lived peaceably. Partick was Cathan’s domain. The Christians had their monastery and grounds on the outskirts of town. And White Isle, Strathclyde’s center for training young Keepers, was only a small stretch downriver from the hill.
When we arrived at Buckthorn, we told Father of all that had taken place. He gestured for me to come and cradled my wrist, turning it gently in his weathered hands.
“Not broken,” he said.
“I will tend to it.” Ariane came swiftly with a salve to ease the swelling and wrapped my wrist in cloth, her eyes dark with anger.
“I should have been with you,” she said. “It will not happen again.”
There were warriors among Father’s retinue who had earned their keep by skill in their stealth. Men like Arwel, Oren’s brother, who had been at Cadzow the day the people of Bryneich came. His smile was easy, his voice even. But his eyes were keen. It was he Father sent to inquire about the monk I had seen in the woods.
We waited, and tried to forget.
• • •
No news came, and as Beltane drew closer, more merchants arrived, the hulls of their boats filled with salt, wine, and succulent sweets like raisins, figs, and dates.
On the morning of Beltane eve, Buckthorn bustled with activity. Father had been called to the hunt by the high king and had ridden off that morning. We would host a feast on the morrow, and Wisdom Keepers had been arriving from all corners of the kingdom to join in the lighting of Bel’s Fire on the summit of Bright Hill. Children mobbed them in the streets in hopes of a cloutie or a charm, a blessing or a glimpse of otherworldly magic.
Now I sat in the little chamber beside the door in a rare moment of peace, quill in hand, practicing my lettering. Crowan had thrown herself into preparations weeks ago, and I’d busied myself in observing how she managed the servants, in stitching garlands, and in visiting the market with Desdemona to fetch the necessary ingredients.
With all the preparations for the feast, I hadn’t time to forage with Ariane that morning, but now my work was done and she’d promised to fetch me when she returned.
“When I get back, I will teach you a kenning,” she’d promised in an effort to cheer. At last, when I heard her voice call out to the guard, I sprang from my seat.
Lail looked up from his seat beside the oil lamp, where his head had been buried in a Greek text on geometry. “Who is it?”
“It’s only Ariane.”
He nodded and turned back to his reading. Ariane had lifted her hand to knock when I thrust the door open.
“I thought you would never arrive—” I began, but stopped when I saw her. Her dark hair was windblown, hanging in pi
eces from her plait. When she lifted her head, I saw her pale face was streaked in dirt, her eyes wet with tears.
“Languoreth, is your father returned from the hunt? I would speak with him right away.”
I stood for a moment, dumbstruck. I had not imagined Ariane could weep. “What’s happened?” I asked.
“Your father,” she demanded. “I must speak with him right away!”
I shrank from the bark in her voice. “He’s not yet returned.”
“On all the days!” Ariane threw up her hands with a curse. Rushing past me into the corridor, she shouted for my cousin. “Brant!”
Brant materialized drowsy-eyed from the great room, where he’d been dozing, but at the sight of her he came awake as if someone had doused him with snowmelt.
“What is it?”
Ariane’s eyes flicked between the two of us as if she would spare me but hadn’t the time. “There has been . . . a terrible act on Bright Hill,” she said. “You must come right away.”
A terrible act.
Panic rose in my throat. Cathan had traveled there only this morning to make offerings and to pray.
“What’s happened?” I demanded. “Ariane, you must tell us. Is Cathan all right?”
Upon hearing, Crowan and Lail rushed over, but Ariane gave no answer. “We must go now, Brant.” She yanked at his tunic. “There is no time to waste.”
He slung his baldric over his shoulder and hurried toward the door. “I’m ready.”
“I’m coming,” Lail said, snatching up his cloak.
“And me,” I said, doing the same.
Crowan stepped forward, her little frame growing impossibly large as she blocked our way. “Nay, I think not! You’ll stay here where it’s safe!”
Brant was moving through the door. Lail clutched Crowan’s frock like a caged animal. “Crowan, please.”
I leaned in close so she could not mistake me. “If something has happened to Cathan and you do not let us go, Crowan, I shall never forgive you.”
She looked between us, frowning, her thin mouth pursed.
“I’ll look out for them, I swear it,” Brant called from the courtyard, then turned to the warrior at the gate. “Send word to Morken. He must know of this right away.”
Crowan followed us into the courtyard, shaking her fist at him. “So be it, Brant. But the Gods hear my oath. If any harm should come to them, I’ll nail your parts to—”
Her words were lost in the wind as we raced toward the stable, calling out for our horses.
We had scarcely arrived at the edge of town when we heard the shouts. Tutgual’s soldiers were mounted on horseback, yelling for order as people streaked from the shops and huts of Partick, their anguished cries filling the streets. Brant jerked the reins of his mount and skittered to a halt, nearly trampling a dark-haired woman who had rushed at him with a babe on her hip.
She looked up at Brant, clutching at his calf. “The Hill,” she wailed.
“We are headed there now. Make way,” Brant shouted. “Stay back!”
The scarlet capes of Tutgual’s men flashed amid the masses. “Stand back!” one commanded. “Let Morken’s man through.”
With the road clear, I leaned into Fallah. “Faster, girl. Go faster.”
We sped onward, out of town and through the fields, my heart thudding in time with Fallah’s hooves as we dodged the twisting procession of townspeople making their way to Bright Hill. I saw them in flashes as we passed, their tear-streaked faces tilted to the sky or buried in disbelief in the fabric of their tunics.
Fallah’s coat was near frothing by the time we reached the towering yew at the foot of the bridge. White-robed Keepers were pacing the foot of the hill, eyes wild with grief, arguing, shouting, or keening, all of them thrusting their arms toward the mount of Bright Hill.
It was the fear of what we might find that pushed me to drop from Fallah’s back, Lailoken close on my heels, as I brushed past Brant and Ariane, up the trail I’d climbed only a fortnight before.
I heard Ariane calling after me, but I had left them behind now, lungs burning, until at last I breached the summit of the hill.
A lone white-robed figure stood as if stunned in the center of the ancient grove of oaks.
What had once been a grove.
Now ragged stumps protruded from the earth like bones burst through skin. It was difficult to see amid the mangle of fallen trees the number of oaks that had been felled. I reached a timid hand to touch a jagged stump. Some had been more cleanly cleaved with an axe, while others lay splintered, hacked by something duller that possessed less mercy. Whoever had done it had not taken them all; perhaps because the trunks were so thick, they found themselves unable. But those that remained looked battered, too, as if the very life had been sucked out of them. Tears stung and I blinked them onto my cheeks, staring at the man who stood motionless in the wreckage. Beside me Lailoken made a sound as though the wind had been knocked out of him.
“Cathan?” I called.
His head tilted at the sound of my voice but did not turn. He moved instead like a feeble old man to sink down beside a fallen tree. The sound of his humming came, drifting and achy with grief as he laid his hands tenderly upon the splintered wood.
As we closed the distance between us, I thought I heard him murmur something.
“When the trees were enchanted, there was hope for the trees.”
But then his breath hitched and his shoulders began to shake.
Cathan the Wisdom Keeper was weeping.
I knelt beside Cathan, leaned my head against his shoulder. Lailoken came and swiped gently at Cathan’s face with the edge of his sleeve. The Wisdom Keeper looked at us then. Took a breath as if relearning the habit.
“They were the watchers in the wood, carriers of hopes and dreams. Their hollows were the keepers of secrets. Every knot and whorl marked the memory of a story so ancient, the echoes faded eons ago. And yet those stories lived on, kept safe in the circles of their rings. This is why we come to their groves, why we sing to them. Because the oaks help us to remember: who we are, who we were, where we once came from.”
I looked across the hilltop, a battlefield where none had come to claim the dead. At first I was too stunned to feel any anger. But as the destruction seeped in, a heat began to smolder somewhere deep inside me like an ember in the belly of a dragon.
That was when I saw it, some distance off. A solitary mound of earth.
“What is that?”
Cathan inclined his head, willing me to look. Lailoken and I rose and approached with mounting dread. It was a grave—a mound of freshly dug dirt pierced by a rudimentary wooden cross. I squinted at the Latin inscription it bore.
Hic depositum est corpus Fergi
pius servus Dei
Here lies the body of Fergus.
Devoted Servant of God.
CHAPTER 12
* * *
Grief clung to the great room as if it were smothered in soot. Father, Cathan, Lailoken, Ariane, Telleyr, and I sat in silence, each of us feeling the rage and splinters of the grove in our own way. Our anger was like a sickness.
“I am confounded.” Telleyr’s broad shoulders slumped. “I cannot make sense of how this did happen.”
“Confounded, are you?” Cathan fixed the monk with a stare. “This is an act of war. A sacred hill defiled, marked with a Christian burial like the piss of a cat. The wrath of the Keepers will be swift, I can promise you that.”
Across the room, Father was hunched in his great oaken chair. “Telleyr. Long winters have passed since I first called you a friend. But this Fergus was a monk of your order. Was he not in your private company when we met on the road on our way to the capital? And yet you insist this devastation has been wrought without your knowledge.”
“Morken. Christ may be my God, but I am your friend and a former Keeper. Never before has religion come between us. Let it not divide us now,” Telleyr said. “Can you think it does not grieve me to see such a sacred
place laid to ruin? Do you imagine that Christians cannot also hear the cries of the trees?”
Father shifted in his seat. “I do not wish to insult you. Yet I cannot understand how a plotting of this magnitude escaped your notice.”
Telleyr tugged his cowl from his head as if it itched him. His hair beneath was disheveled. “My people do not plot,” he said firmly. “There are none among my community, whether they be worshipper or Brother, who could conceive of such a hateful and violent act.”
Cathan slammed a fist to his knee. “Dead men do not work alone! There is a monk of your order buried upon Bright Hill in a Christian grave!”
This sickness would turn to madness. Any could see Telleyr’s innocence. I opened my mouth to speak, but Ariane reached out a hand and pressed me deeper into my seat.
This is not your place, her stern look said.
“Perhaps Brother Telleyr might start from the beginning,” Father said.
“Of course.”
Father rubbed a hand over his bearded face as Telleyr stood. “I have gone over and over the events in my mind,” the monk began. “Since our return from the Borderlands, Fergus’s health began fading by the day. When he was absent for first vespers yesterday morning, I found him abed. His suffering had been long, but he’d passed during the night. Prayers were said. He was cleansed and dressed, readied for burial. I laid his body out yesterday evening in the church myself; we were to bury him this morning, once we had consecrated the ground.
“Brother Anguen had gone to light the candles for this morning’s service when he noticed—with some alarm—that the body of Brother Fergus had vanished. We did not know what to think! Had some wild animal come and somehow carried him off? Was this some cruel prank brought upon us by village tricksters? Some even spoke of divine resurrection.”
