by J. M. Hofer
“Can you speak my tongue?” she asked. “If so, can you tell me of the women who come here? How often do they come?”
He looked at the passage behind her. “Before you, many times. After you, no more.”
Arhianna’s anger knelt beside her heart and growled like a loyal hunting hound. Then they know I’m here. They know I’m with child, and winter is coming, yet they would let me die here. Her hands went instinctively to her abdomen.
For the first time, he took his eyes off hers. They wandered downward to her hands, and he scowled. “This place is bad for you. Like water where sharks swim. Bad for you. Bad for your pup. You should leave.”
Arhianna swallowed hard. “Then why do you come here?” she challenged.
“They will not hurt me.”
She narrowed her eyes on him. “Who are you?”
“I am like you, and I am like them.” He motioned toward an island out in the sea.
“Like who?”
“Others like me.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Your tongue cannot say it.”
“What shall I call you, then?”
“You are beautiful. I can show you why they do not hurt me.”
She ignored his compliment and his offer. “I’ll call you Dylan—that’s the name of Arianrhod’s son, who rules the sea.”
He laughed. “I will not take that name. No one rules the sea. She rules us.”
Arhianna ignored the comment. “Are you selkie?”
“That is what your people call mine.”
She tried to hide her delight. I’ve met a selkie after all, just like Father. Tales of how he had met Ula had enchanted her as a child. She had forced him to tell the tale a thousand times. The first time she had journeyed to Gwythno with the clan, she swore she would not take her eyes off the sea until she, too, spotted Ula and befriended her. “I’ll find her,” she had told her father. “And then I’ll steal her skin and bring her home to Taliesin as a surprise!” Her father must not have taken her seriously, because he had merely chuckled and tousled her curls. She had spent hours watching the waves praying for a glimpse of Ula, and hunting for sealskins under every bush and in the nooks and crevices of every grotto along Gwythno’s shore, but she had not met her until many years later.
But then, just as quickly as her delight had come upon her, suspicion slunk in and took its place. Don’t be a fool. He clearly does Scáthach’s bidding. What if she’s asked him to get rid of you?
He looked at her sideways. “You are full of fear, but you fear the wrong things.”
Furious, she quipped, “I am not full of fear.”
He ignored her response. “Do not fear me. Fear the shark women in the sky. Better you come with me. Our women know how to care for little ones. That is what the shark women do when they have pups. They give them to us. You should, too.”
“No.” Arhianna shook her head. She could not help but feel Scáthach was testing her. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said in a loud voice.
He scowled. “Then you and your pup will die.” He turned and dove into the water, disappearing once again.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Seeds of Hope
The Ceffyl Dŵr sailed north from Gwythno a few weeks after Mabon. Lucia felt more alive than she had in moons. She loved being out on the open water, with a good, strong salty wind blowing her hair back. She spent hours watching the surface of the water, mesmerized by the ever-shifting patterns of white foam dancing on deep blues and greens. She also kept a close eye on Bran, watching for signs of fatigue or pain, but he showed none. The purse of herbs on his belt, however, looked to be thinning out much faster than usual. She took him aside one afternoon and confronted him.
“Is the water gone?”
“It is.”
“How much of the herbs have you been taking?”
He leaned on his staff, looked over at her, and let out a defeated sigh. “More.”
“How much more?”
“Quite a bit more, I’m afraid.”
Lucia felt confused. “Then how is it you’re not flat on your back, like a puddle of candle wax?”
“Before we left Gwythno, Mabyn gave me something to add to the mixture. Said she couldn’t duplicate it, but she could keep it from turning me into stew. I won’t say I don’t feel as if I’m asleep on my feet half the time, but I can walk and speak, which is an improvement.”
A jolt of hope sent Lucia’s heart racing. “Well, what was it?”
Bran shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t know. She opened several jars to make it.”
Lucia grew frustrated, feeling as if she were talking to one of her children. “And what if Mabyn leaves this world before we get a chance to see her again? What then? I need to know the recipe for it, Bran! Why didn’t you tell me? I could have learned it before we left!”
“Shhhh!” Bran scolded, noticing members of the crew turning and staring. “You’re making a scene.”
“I don’t care!”
He reached over and took her hand, pulling her closer. “Will you please lower your voice and listen to me? I merely went to pay my respects to Mabyn—I didn’t know she was going to mix something up for me. And to tell you the truth, I didn’t expect it would make any difference. You’ve tried a thousand different herbs and mixtures—none of them have worked.”
Lucia felt at a loss, irritated with her husband, but, at least, hope had been rekindled. She calmed herself. “Yes, I’ve failed up until now, but I’m not giving up. In fact, give me that pouch.”
Bran knew better than to refuse and handed it over.
She took out a wad of the mixture and put it in her pocket. “I’m giving this to Creirwy. I’m going to tell her to ask every merchant in every port to take a look at this. Someone must know what’s in it. And then, we won’t need Myrthin anymore. So tell Arawn he can’t have you yet.”
Bran smiled, delighted by the very same fierceness he had chastised her for but a moment ago. He pulled her to his chest and kissed her forehead. “Look, cariad—” To her delight, he pointed out a pod of porpoises playing in the wake of the bow.
***
On the morning of their second day at sea, the Ceffyl Dŵr changed course and sailed inland up a channel to a large port. It sat not far from where the river Esk flowed into the sea, enjoying a constant flux of fishermen and traders eager to sell their wares. Bran and Lucia planned to disembark there and ride for Caer Ligualid to pay King Urien a visit. The Ceffyl Dŵr would spend a few days trading, continue north to Alt Clud for more of the same, and then come back for them.
The moment they docked, the Ceffyl Dŵr was nearly swarmed by merchants clamoring to see what goods they had brought. The men bearing Urien’s banner were given priority and brought onboard.
“Come,” Creirwy said to Bran and Lucia. “My father will be busy for hours. Let’s have a proper meal and some ale before you go. I know a good place.” She hitched a satchel over her shoulders, leapt over the side of the ship and shimmied down the ladder. Bran and Lucia followed suit, but more slowly. She led the way through a malodourous fish market to a large tavern. The aroma of fresh bread wafted out its chimney and door, beckoning to them like a sultry lady of the night with a come-hither taunt.
“This is it. Best ale in Rheged.” Creirwy winked at Bran and led them into a warm hall with an earthen floor. Two low tables ran its length, with fat tree logs serving as stools. The patrons were rough-handed and wide-shouldered, with wind-burned faces and wild hair. A few of the men were clearly in their cups, singing a bawdy song at the far end of the hall. For efficiency’s sake, Lucia assumed, they all sat clustered at the end of the table closest to the kegs of ale, which were stacked nearly to the ceiling. Bran will be happy. The hearth at the far end was tall enough to walk into. Three large pots hung from chains over the fire, steam and delicious smells rising from all of them. There was also a long spit that stretched from one side to the other with four roasted chickens on it. A young maide
n had been given the task of turning the spit, and a plump woman watched over the pots, stirring each in turn.
It took but a moment before men’s heads started to turn, whispers or nudges rippling down the tables as, one by one, they noticed the beautiful women who had just entered.
The tavern keeper, who had been busy filling the continual parade of empty pitchers the serving girls were bringing to him, noticed them soon after and came rushing over. “Well, if it isn’t the goddess of the sea herself, come to bless my hall once more!” He took her hands and kissed them, then led them to a private table away from the other patrons. “Sit, sit. What can I get you?”
Creirwy flashed him a heart-melting smile. “Bless you. We’ve eaten nothing but cold fish for two days. Bring us your best stew, one of those fine-looking chickens to share, a loaf of bread, and plenty of butter and cheese.”
“And lots of ale,” Bran added, tossing a pouch of coin upon the table.
“Right away, m’lord, m’ladies.”
It was not long before the young maiden who had been tending the spit came over with their meal. They savored every bite of the hot food, the warmth spreading from their stomachs out to their limbs.
The tavern keeper came to take Bran’s empty cup, went and refilled it at the cask, and returned. He nodded toward his empty bowl. “Good?”
Bran took the cup and gave him an enthusiastic nod. “Damn fine meal. Good as a Gwythno feast. Ale’s even better.”
The tavern keeper smiled. “Glad to hear it.” He turned to Creirwy. “Now, my lady, what strange delights have you brought me this time?”
Creirwy motioned to the stump beside her, and the man sat down on it. She pulled two bundles out of her satchel, unwrapped them, and placed them in front of him. The tavern keeper gave voice to exactly what Lucia was wondering. “What are they?” He picked up something shiny and brown, the size of his thumb, and studied it.
Creirwy smiled. “It’s called a date. Sweet as honey.”
He looked at it with suspicion. “Looks like a dried insect.”
She laughed. “It’s not. I promise, it came from a tree in Carthage.”
He gave it a little squeeze, turning it about, and then popped it in his mouth. He chewed, tentatively at first, but then nodded in approval. He pulled a small pit from between his lips and grinned. “Gods be good, those’ll make a fine pudding!”
“They will, indeed. These are a gift for your family, of course, but I’ve a fine price for you if you’d like more.” She winked at him and then picked up a dark purple fruit with the shape of a garlic bulb. “And these…” She paused to slice it open, revealing a crimson, seedy center. “Are figs.”
The tavernkeeper, no longer suspicious, quickly sank his teeth into it. “Mmmmm.” He nodded vigorously. “Wife! Come here, taste these!” he called, seeds dribbling down his chin.
Soon, both the tavern keeper and his wife and made a deal for a delivery of dates and figs, and left the three of them to enjoy another cup of ale before returning to the ship.
Lucia, more confident than ever that Creirwy was the right person for the task, pulled out the small leather pouch she had put the sample of Bran’s herbs in and pushed it across the table. “We’ve a favor to ask of you, Creirwy.”
“Anything. What’s this?”
“A sample of Bran’s medicine. It’s the only thing that can keep his pain at bay. No one, not even the Sisters, can figure out all of the ingredients, and we need to know. We’ve got to be able to make it ourselves.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Myrthin, the Pendragon’s druid.”
Creirwy raised her brows. “Ah. No wonder you wish to make it yourself. He’s a strange one.”
“You know him?” Lucia felt surprised.
“Yes, of course—we sailed with him and Uthyr to Eire.”
Lucia chided herself. Great Mother, where’s my memory gone? “Forgive me. Of course. I’d forgotten.”
Creirwy shrugged. “So it’s quite a journey when you need more, then?”
“Yes, among other things.” Lucia restrained herself from muttering a string of curses.
Creirwy took the pouch and shook its contents into her palm. She squinted at them closely, moving them about with the tip of her knife, and then put a bit on her tongue. She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. “There are several things I recognize, but I’ve no idea what this sticky substance is, holding it all together.”
“Exactly,” Lucia concurred.
Creirwy put the herbs back in the pouch and tied it with care. “I know a few Byzantine apothecarists. Each time I visit them, I discover something I’ve never seen before. I’m sure one of them will know what it is.”
Lucia felt a surge of hope and squeezed Bran’s thigh under the table.
Creirwy tucked the pouch into her satchel. “I assume you’d like me to bring you some if I manage to find it?”
“Yes. We would be forever in your debt. Whatever it is, it kills pain like nothing I’ve ever encountered before.”
Creirwy raised her brows. “Then it’ll be me thanking you. If what you say is true, next year’s voyage will fill the coffers.”
Lucia nodded. “Undoubtedly. There’s certainly no shortage of pain in Brython.”
“Speaking of such things…” Creirwy glanced around the tavern and then leaned in closer. “There are rumors that Hengist’s son, Octa, is still alive.”
Bran shook his head, dismissing the claim with a sweep of his hand. “Impossible. I saw the man beaten to death in Londinium. Uthyr had his limbs torn from his body.”
Lucia grimaced. The things men do to each other.
“No,” Creirwy went on. “They’re saying it wasn’t Octa that day, but one of his men, who took his place. It’s said Octa escaped, sailed back to Jutland, and has been raising an army ever since.”
“Gods help us,” Lucia whispered.
“Gods help us, indeed,” Bran added, gripping his walking staff. “If Octa escaped, Uthyr’s got traitors in his ranks.” He winced as he pulled himself to his feet. “Let’s get going. I want to speak with Urien before nightfall. See what he has to say about these rumors.”
***
Caer Ligualid was a welcome sight. Smoke rose in columns from the many hearths within its walls, carrying the smell of roasted meat and the promise of warmth.
Lucia let out a sigh of relief. Her teeth had been chattering for hours. They had expected the journey to be slow due to the many wagons of goods, but the rain had made it far worse than expected. They had had to stop and free the wagon wheels from muddy ditches several times that day.
“Almost there,” Bran whispered in her ear. There had been a shortage of horses, so they had chosen to ride together. She felt grateful they had. Without Bran’s body heat, she would have been twice as miserable.
“Doesn’t seem the rain ever stops up here,” he added. “And if it’s not raining, the wind’s damn-near blowing your beard off your face. Sometimes, when you’re very lucky, like today, you get both at once.”
Lucia leaned back against his chest, pulling her cloak tighter around her, fixing her eyes on Urien’s fortress. Bran thought it was misery that had kept her so silent during the journey, but the cold was the least of her worries. Please, Great Mother, let there be good news waiting for us within those stone walls.
The gates were open in anticipation of the caravan, and they rode in to an eager crowd, anxious to see what wares the merchants had filled their wagons with. One of Urien’s men, whom Bran had befriended after the battle for Mt. Damen, took it upon himself to see to their needs. He led them to a hall and motioned toward the fire. “Go warm yourselves. I’ll make sure Urien knows you’re here.”
Hot bone marrow broth was brought to them, but Urien appeared before it had cooled enough for them to drink it.
“Lord Bran of Mynyth Aur!” he exclaimed, clapping his strong hands together. “Seems I’m getting more surprise visits than the Pendragon this moon!”
Bran planted his staff and stood up to receive Urien, who eyed the staff with curiosity. “What’s happened? Injure your leg?”
“Not exactly. Few broken ribs on the left side. Makes it hard to walk.”
“Other fellow’s got it far worse, I’m sure, eh?” Urien shot him a grin.
Bran smiled and changed the subject. “Urien, this is my wife, Lucia.”
Urien turned to her, took her offered hand, and kissed it softly, looking up at her with dark eyes. “An honor, Lady Lucia.”
“The honor is mine, King Urien.”
Urien motioned back to the seats at the fire, pulling one up for himself and sitting down on it more like a soldier than a king. He leaned forward on his knees. “I assume you’ve come to find your daughter. I regret I’ve only just heard the news. I want to assure you both I have my best men out looking for her. We’re doing all we can. I swear to you, if she’s in Rheged, we’ll find her.”
Lucia felt shocked. How does he know Arhianna’s in the north? Taliesin had made it clear he planned to search for her discreetly, never revealing her name or identity. Engaging the entire king’s guard to scour the countryside was the opposite of discreet.
“Forgive me, but how did you know she was traveling through Rheged?” She felt herself growing more concerned by the moment. “Did she send a message she was coming?”
Urien shook his head. “No. A handmaiden to Queen Igerna came looking for her—strange woman. Beautiful beyond words, but strange—she told me your daughter had set out weeks ago for Rheged, so, of course, I sent my men out immediately to look for her.”
Lucia’s heart leapt into her throat. Viviaine. “And, how fares your search so far? Have you any leads?”
“Well, we’ve not found her yet, but we’re hopeful—especially now that you’re here. If you can tell me how many were in her party, who they were, what they looked like, how many horses they had—any details you can remember—I swear to you, my men will have her safely behind fortress walls within a few days.”
Lucia felt tongue-tied. What do I say? My daughter and her husband, a Saxon warlord, once prisoner to Uthyr and freed by my husband’s deceit, were traveling through your kingdom to return to his Saxon village? And, by the way, that handmaiden you mentioned is working with the Pendragon’s arch-druid to kidnap my daughter and take her back to the Daoine Sídhe of Connacht? She stammered, “Just a small party, so as not to call attention to themselves. They were on horseback, no wagons. She had one of our best warriors with her.” I have to change the subject. “Tell me, this handmaiden of Igerna’s—did she say where she was going when she left?”
