by Signe Pike
“Languoreth! I am shamed to say I did not know you. It seems only yesterday I carried you upon my back as a little girl, yet I see now that you are grown into a woman. Tall and graceful as a swan.”
Color heated my cheeks, but I accepted his embrace. “And yet I could never mistake you, brother. Welcome to Cadzow. Welcome home.”
I glanced over his shoulder at the men who stood behind him. They wore thick leather padding under their breastplates, even in the heat, and the massive swords slung at their shoulders looked more Pictish than our Cymric blades, so broad were they. Gwenddolau released me and reached to clasp the shoulder of the man who stood beside him.
“You have met Lord Emrys, of course.”
Met him, yes, but I scarcely recognized him. His eyes were the same azure, but where his hair had been dark not four years before, it had gone white as fresh-fallen snow. I’d heard it said that the strain of kingship could drain a man’s hair of its hue, but never before had I seen it.
“You are most welcome, my lord,” I said, bowing my head. “Only you travel in such modest numbers. We prepared for many more. I hope you did not curtail your retinue on our behalf. We can host quite a number at Cadzow.”
“We travel fast and we travel light,” Pendragon said. “Should I have none others than these men at my back from here to the ends of the earth, I would sleep soundly the rest of my days.” Then a smile creased his face, and I could not help but think his white hair suited him. With his beak-like nose and long eyelashes, it lent him the appearance of a great, snowy dragon.
“Fine men, the lot of you,” Father said. “This shall be an evening of stories! Come in, come in, and we will chase away the weariness of your travels.”
Cathan and Father led Gwenddolau and Pendragon past me into the fort, but the Dragon Warriors did not follow. I stood there frowning until the black-haired warrior with the green eyes shifted his weight ever so slightly, reminding me they awaited an invitation from the lady of the Hall.
“Come in, please, and join us. You must be thirsty,” I said quickly.
“Thank you, Lady Languoreth,” the black-haired man said, stepping forward. He looked to be twenty winters, the same age as Brodyn, and I saw the war band was looking to him, though whether it was out of authority or respect, I could not tell, for he had not introduced himself.
“I’m sorry, I do not know your name,” I said pointedly.
“Maelgwn,” he replied, but offered nothing else. His emerald eyes sparkled with humor, like those of a cat toying with a sparrow.
“You are most welcome to Cadzow, Maelgwn.” I spoke politely, my blinking the only betrayal of my annoyance as I led them through the courtyard. This man Maelgwn was good-looking, perhaps, but clearly he was as vain as any warrior, and every bit as irritating, too.
In Cadzow’s great room, Father and Cathan were already seated at the center of the table, their heads bowed in conversation with Gwenddolau and Pendragon. I nodded to Brodyn and he guided the Dragon Warriors to the fleece-lined couches that sat along our walls. Maelgwn took a seat beside Gwenddolau at our table, adjusting his sword in its baldric before sitting. If he’d earned a place at the table, he would be a proper general, then, not just a warrior. Gwenddolau glanced up and slid him a cup of wine. There was an ease between them that spoke of brotherhood, and it occurred to me just how little I knew of Gwenddolau’s life since he had left Cadzow.
“Before we begin . . .” At the sound of Pendragon’s voice, the conversation in the room dropped, and I took my seat hastily beside my brother.
“. . . though we are joyful to celebrate the Midsummer at Cadzow, we come to your festivities bearing grave news,” Pendragon continued. His eyes flicked to Gwenddolau. “Perhaps it is best that Gwenddolau speak, if he is willing.”
Gwenddolau gave a curt nod. His tanned fingers moved to his cup before retreating again. At last he spoke. “My father, Ceidio, is dead.”
The warriors bent their heads in a gesture of respect. My heart twisted as I looked at my foster brother. Gwenddolau had only been reunited with his father for four winters. Now King Ceidio was no more.
“Ceidio is gone? But I received no word.” Father sounded baffled.
“I hope you will forgive me for not sending a messenger. I wished to tell you myself,” Gwenddolau said. “I know he was not only a father to me but also like a brother to you, Morken.”
Father blinked. “Tell me how.”
“All had been quiet for weeks on end—which didn’t suit my father, as well you might know.”
“He was a battler to the core,” Father said. “A caged bear in times of peace.”
“Yes.” Gwenddolau gave a small smile. “We were traveling east on patrol, when Ceidio mounted to ride with us. It was quiet. Deceivingly so. We were readying to make camp for the night, when we were set upon by a band of Angles. They hadn’t many men. Four took spears to their guts before they fled. We should have known something was afoot, but we had grown too comfortable in our victories, pride deafening our reason.” Gwenddolau’s face darkened. “Light was fading, and yet we gave chase. We crested the hill and were descending into a valley, when their party split off.”
Cathan spoke up: “A trap.”
“A tactic we ourselves are known to use,” Pendragon said. “No small coincidence in that. Over the rise came an army of Hengist’s men.”
“We were forty men against one hundred,” Gwenddolau said. “I do not know when my father fell.”
Across the table Maelgwn spoke up. “It was four to one, brother. You cannot lay blame upon yourself.”
“Had you carried on, it would have been foolish,” Pendragon agreed. Gwenddolau glanced at the men on the couches. A few of them sat with eyes locked on the flickering of the fire.
“Go on, then,” Gwenddolau said to Pendragon.
Pendragon inclined his head to his young protégé. “It was a slaughter. Thirty of our band had fallen when our men were forced to flee,” Pendragon said. “They knew Ceidio’s face—knew his son would come back for him. And so they left Gwenddolau his body but took with them Ceidio’s head.”
Father’s grip tightened on his cup. The head was where the soul resided; the barbarians could have shown no greater disrespect. So long as the head of Ceidio was held captive, his spirit could never enter the Summerlands. Gwenddolau’s father could never go home.
No one spoke. Then at last Father broke the silence, pushing away his cup.
“Now all my brothers are truly dead. I should have been with Ceidio to fight by his side. Your father was the last of the men who came up with me. All sons of Mor: we were wild and fearsome then, just like our ancestors. Now all but one of us rot in the earth. Ceidio and myself—we were the last of our kind.”
Gwenddolau looked at Father, his eyes bright. “Morken, you are many days’ ride from us. Even if you and your men had whipped your mounts to their bones, you would have arrived only to bury him.”
“This was no pitched battle in a field,” Pendragon said. “I and the greater bulk of my army were spread throughout our lands between the Liddel Water and the coast. Spies have infiltrated our kingdom. That is the only answer. They knew of our patrol; they killed my scouts at the borders and entered unseen. The gathering strike was quick as lightning. The days of Ida the Angle are over. It would seem his son Hengist is cleverer than his father and more studied in our ways.”
“Why have you not yet hunted this Hengist down?” The words fled my mouth before I could trap them. Pendragon turned, appearing surprised.
“A worthy question, Lady Languoreth. But it would be foolhardy to launch any attack on Hengist’s fortress with fewer than one thousand men. We would need a confederation, and Tutgual will never consent. It is not his battle to fight, or so he says.”
I nodded, my face gone scarlet.
“So the Angle bear has sired a fox,” Pendragon went on. “Now we lose too many good men to lightning raids, to torture.”
“He sends fingernails,
followed by hands,” Gwenddolau said. “If he is generous, he may yet send a horse over the border with my father’s head in a sack. But he would be certain to put out his eyes first.”
A curse to wander the afterlife blind.
Gwenddolau bowed in my direction. “Your pardon, Languoreth.”
I waved it away, indicating no offense, but as I looked at them, my heart sank with the weight of these men and their thousand sorrows.
Damn those Angle hounds bent on destruction. And damn the foolish kings who led them to our shores. The full beards and long hair of the Dragon Warriors could not conceal the scars their bodies bore. I felt shamed to have passed judgment and found them wanting. Truly these men who fought with Pendragon were heroes, and my heart thudded with a new pride simply sitting in their company.
Cathan stood, raising his cup in a blessing. “To Ceidio. A great warrior and rightful king. Long may his name echo in the halls of his descendants. I pray he will soon find the peace he deserves among his kin in the Summerlands.”
Deep voices rose in a toast as my eyes caught Maelgwn’s. His gaze was curious and he gave a small smile, but I shrank from his scrutiny, my face growing hot. The doors to the great room swung open and the serving began. It took two servants to carry the platter of roasted pork. And as the smell of toasted hazelnuts and creamy goat cheese caught the noses of the Dragon Warriors, they rose to take their seats at the surrounding tables. Stewed barley with figs. Rosemary beef and fresh bread with golden hunks of fresh-churned butter were laid out before us. The Dragon Warriors fell to eating as if they hadn’t seen food in a week.
After a while, Pendragon turned to me. “Languoreth. It is true what Gwenddolau has said. You and your brother have grown mightily since last we met. I hear Lailoken has entered the folds of the Wisdom Keepers. What will your path be?”
How could he ask a woman such a thing? The question seemed almost cruel, and the pain was not lessened by the interest etched on Pendragon’s face.
“I am the daughter of a king, am I not?” I did not look at Emrys, but rather leveled my eyes upon Father. “As such, my life’s dedication will be to make an advantageous marriage and so secure the well-being and way of life of my family and our people.”
A momentary silence descended upon the table.
“Yes, well,” Emrys said. “Then you are a dutiful daughter indeed.”
Dutiful. The men returned to feasting, but I found I had little appetite. Looking round the table, I saw that Maelgwn, too, seemed poorly matched for his plate. I was insulted in spite of myself.
“Is the food we have provided not to your liking?” I asked.
“I could ask the same of you,” he said, gesturing to my plate.
“Talk of war turns my stomach.”
“As it should.” His green eyes settled on mine. I wasn’t prepared for the spark that burned through me.
“And what of you? Have you no appetite?” My voice was softer.
Maelgwn looked at his plate. “Did you have a hand in planning this feast?”
“I did.”
He lifted his knife almost gingerly. “Then I shall do my best to enjoy it.”
I looked away as Gwenddolau stood and lifted his cup. “To Morken, one of the great kings of the north. Though I have lost one father, I am thankful to be welcomed into the hall of another who yet lives.”
“To Morken,” the echo came.
Father bowed his head and the men raised their cups, faces lit by the glow of the fire. But as I lifted my goblet, I noticed there was another who was not smiling.
Maelgwn sat, his broad back straight in his chair, cup lifted, regarding me. His lips echoed the chorus of voices. But his gaze pierced right through me, to a place where I held no secrets.
CHAPTER 17
* * *
I lay awake that night, mind racing. The hall had been quiet for hours and still sleep would not come. Restless, I rose from bed to open the shuttered window. A cool wind rushed up the walls of the gorge and I breathed in the fresh smell of silt carried on swiftly moving waters. Overhead the moon rose full and round, like a glittering brooch on a swath of black silk. I gazed into the pure white of her orb until I grew dizzy. They said if you slept beneath a full moon you would either wake with the gift of prophecy or rise to find you’d gone mad. Perhaps, then, the moon was to blame for these traitorous pulsings threatening to overtake me.
When I closed my eyes I saw the sweep of Maelgwn’s black hair, the dark fringe of lashes that lined his startling green eyes—things I hadn’t thought I’d noticed until alone in the dark.
Maelgwn’s good night at the end of the evening had been cordial, exceptionally so. I’d lingered long past the music, until the heat of the fire and the warmth of the drink had made my eyes heavy with sleep.
And now I found I could hardly wait until morning. Surely this was moon madness. Or else I had drunk far too much wine. I wasn’t accustomed to keeping company with men, and they’d kept their glasses full even while I laced mine with water. I hugged my linen shift to my body, shivering a little in the night air as my thoughts wandered back over the evening.
News of Ceidio’s death had only strengthened my father’s commitment to Emrys’s cause. He had not called upon us yet, but how long until my father and his men were needed? Brant and Brodyn might soon be wielding their swords against some of the most deadly men our country had seen since the Romans: the Angle warriors. Would it be Brant or Brodyn to arrive home next, draped lifeless and bloodied over the back of his horse? And what of Lailoken, now grown to a man? He was as adept with his sword and spear as he was versed in the epics. He would not only be a counsellor; he would also fight beside his king, just as Cathan had. My heart could not survive the loss of him should his shield be shattered by an Angle sword. Would I feel each hack and blow? Would I feel the scorch of flames as we burned him, lifeless, on the pyre?
Then there was Father, who’d survived more battles than most, but his health was not his to command anymore. The arthritis crippled him. How many times had I watched him set his jaw against the pain, stubbornly refusing to keep to his bed? If it wasn’t the mill that needed checking, it was the granaries in the capital. He would never rest while there was a tenant’s dispute to be settled, a widow who’d been left without compensation, or the food rents to collect.
I wrapped my arms around my body and looked up at the moon. The sight of her glowing full and round reminded me that the morrow was Midsummer, and a welcome anticipation swept away my fear.
Tomorrow I would become a Torch Bearer at last. Soon, Ariane would arrive to wake me. I shuttered the window and climbed back into bed, pulling the coverlet over me. This time my head had scarcely hit the pillow before I drifted away to a place of dreaming, where I could blessedly think no more.
• • •
Ariane came to gather me in silence, wearing her blue cloak. As we moved through the morning calm she didn’t speak, as if a word passed between us might shatter the spell. It was an earlier dawn than I was accustomed to; the endless cups of wine and lack of sleep made my head feel as if I were floating. The sun had just leveled the horizon. Dew clung to my boots as we left the main path and I followed Ariane deeper into the woods. Here the light had not yet penetrated the canopy. We walked in ghostly twilight, shadowed by the thick trunks of elms. Birds overhead still roosted in the boughs, heads tucked to their breasts, and I wondered if Lail, too, had been woken and what ritual of his own he might undergo. In the semidarkness Ariane’s skin glowed like starlight.
A while passed. Soon we were moving through unfamiliar forest, land of my father’s even I had not yet explored. The woods this far from Cadzow felt different: I was used to my towering stands of oak, pine, ash, and elm, but this was a forest of birch, their papery trunks bright in the dim. At last the forest opened up and we stood before a clearing. Ariane stopped. The sky overhead was streaked with shocks of orange and pink that beat back the gloom, gilding the tips of a thousand wildflower petal
s that had been strewn throughout the grass of the clearing. It would have taken dozens of hands countless hours.
Or perhaps this was some sort of Ariane’s magic.
Her blue eyes were shadowed in forest light as she gave a sweep of her arm, bidding me enter.
I stepped into the grove and a wet morning breeze rustled through the trees overhead, causing the petals to shiver and shift, scattering crystallized droplets of dew. I turned to her, my face a question. She lifted her eyes as if to say, Look.
Overhead, the slender birches bowed in the breeze like willowy maidens, their leaves rustling against the painted morning sky. She guided me to lie on my back amid the glittering bed of flowers. The chill of the dew soaked my dress as if I were lying on a bed of ice. I fought to keep my body from shaking from the wet, the cold. And suddenly the breeze dropped. The trees went still.
It was so quiet, I could hear the soft rise of Ariane’s breath, as if the wood itself were listening. And then her voice came, soft and clear through the forest, as haunting and mysterious as a selkie’s song. The words must have been in her native tongue; they were undulating and sweet, ethereal, as though the language were that from which all other languages sprang. In the space between her breaths I felt an eerie sense of gathering.
We were alone, weren’t we?
I risked a glance beyond the grove to find only Ariane standing, the hood of her cloak cast back to reveal the gleam of her dark hair, her arms lifted to the sky. I relaxed then, as her song began to come faster, a drumbeat, a chant, a consecration in a tongue so very foreign from my own, in words that sounded like music.
Did it matter that I did not know them? Though the words were strange, their meaning was not lost. They echoed in my core—a claiming, an invocation.
