Home > The Forgotten Kingdom (The Lost Queen Trilogy #2)(2)

The Forgotten Kingdom (The Lost Queen Trilogy #2)(2)
Author: Signe Pike

We traveled fast on fleet-footed horses. We traveled light, with thick cloaks and thin bedrolls, with little more than the sack full of oats each man strapped to his horse to be fried with water or blood from wild game. Thirteen leagues in a day we passed with ease.

And yet on this day, we’d scarcely traveled through Hawksland and the Blackwood when my young niece bolted upright in the saddle before me and cried out, “Stop!”

My horse tossed his head as I yanked back on the reins, gripping Angharad to keep her astride as the caravan came to a halt. “Angharad. What is it?” I asked.

The Dragon Warriors drew up their mounts, restless and questioning. They’d never traveled with a child. Who among us had? Now we traveled in the company of a freckled girl of eight winters whose gray eyes were yet swollen with tears. At sunrise, Angharad had left all she had known to train with me as a Wisdom Keeper. That I was her uncle was little consolation.

“The feathers,” she said now, pointing to the ground.

“Feathers.” I followed the line of her finger to the place where, indeed, a cluster of crow feathers lay, their ink glinting rainbows in the sun. “And so they are.”

It was this child’s curiosity about the natural world that had first endeared her to me, and now I was to foster her. Yet despite my reassurances to my sister, I was still learning the way.

“Angharad. Surely you’ve seen crow feathers before.” I leaned forward only to see her brow furrow.

“But I want to pick them up.”

“Well, of course you may. But you must take more care when alerting me to feathers on your next sighting. You nearly tumbled from Gwydion’s back.”

Angharad’s face flushed scarlet, her voice a whisper. “I’m sorry, Uncle.”

There’d been little admonishment in my tone, yet my words alone were enough to flatten her. She pursed her lips in an effort to hold back tears, and guilt struck, pointed as a spear. “Oh, no, Angharad. Please. You mustn’t cry.”

The warriors looked baffled as I glanced round in search of aid. Gwenddolau sat mounted at a distance beside my cousin Brant, expressions vigilant yet uncertain.

“She’s your kin as well,” I grumbled, then motioned to Maelgwn, who already trotted toward us on his horse, green eyes alert.

“What’s happened?” he demanded.

“She’s weeping,” I said.

“Aye, I can see.” He dismounted and went to her, taking her small hands in his. “Angharad, what is it?”

“I didn’t intend for all the men to stop. I only wanted the feathers,” she said.

“Tell me why.”

She took a breath, searching the sky. “My mother told me our hearts are like birds, pricked full of feathers, and that each time we say good-bye, a feather will fall. One for a friend, two for a sweetheart. Three for a child.”

At the mention of Languoreth, Maelgwn’s gaze softened. “And here you spied three feathers, just as your mother said.”

Angharad nodded. “She promised if I found a feather, it had fallen from her heart. She promised if I picked it up and held it close, it would keep me safe.”

“Then you must have them,” Maelgwn said.

I watched as he handed Angharad the cluster of crow feathers. Long had Maelgwn loved my sister, Languoreth.

As Angharad drew them to her chest, I searched for the right words.

“I know your sadness, little one,” I began. “Languoreth and I, we lost our own mother when we were no more than ten winters—”

Angharad’s eyes widened at the very thought. “But my mother is not dead.”

Fool, Lailoken.

“Aye. I mean, nay! Of course she isn’t.” I reached for her. “I only hope to say I know how your own heart must feel. We may collect each feather you see. But you need no such talismans to keep you safe. I swore to your mother—and I swear the same to you—you are safe with me, Angharad. I’m your uncle, your own blood, and… I love you.” The last came too gruffly, and I cursed myself again. Maelgwn frowned.

But Angharad only wiped at her eyes, casting a weary look over her shoulder. “You’re not terribly good with children, are you?”

I smiled in spite of myself. “You’re right, then,” I decided. “We’ve traveled far enough. We shall stop here for the night.”

Gwenddolau approached, swinging down from his horse. “A rest is fine, but we cannot yet make camp. We haven’t passed more than five leagues, Lailoken.”

“Well enough,” I said. “But ’tis only the first day of our journey, and Angharad is unaccustomed to long days upon horseback, brother. You cannot expect her to last from dawn ’til dusk in the saddle.”

Gwenddolau’s clear blue eyes swept the broad expanse of moor, resting on the grassy mound that rose in the distance. “Surely it is ill luck to make our camp so close to a hill of the dead. I have seen enough shades in my day.”

“Aye, we all spied the mound, and many a time have we passed it,” I said. “But the hill lies upstream, and the ashes within it are sleeping. Besides, we are not far from the old ring of stones. I’m certain Angharad would wish to see it. If you’ll not brave the shades for me, brave them for your niece, eh?”

The look I received was one of predictable gravity—Gwenddolau’s humor had gone with seasons past. “I feel no more ease bedding beside a stone ring than I do a mound of the dead.”

Brant drew up his horse, his brown eyes touching on Angharad with concern. “The ring will make a good enough boundary for the horses,” my cousin said. “They’ll not stray beyond it.”

“Aye,” Gwenddolau agreed at last, signaling for the men to dismount. “They’re ill at ease, as I am, round places of the dead.”

In truth, I knew rest would suit Gwenddolau as well, whether he cared for it or not. His old battle wound was on the mend, with thanks to Languoreth’s remedy, but he needed to recover his strength. Thirteen leagues in a day or half that, what did it matter? Angharad was ours now—all of ours—and I meant to tend to her as best as I could.

The thought seemed to weigh upon Gwenddolau, too, for as I watched, he placed his sunbrowned hands round Angharad’s waist, lifting her from my horse with a smile at last. “Well enough, Angharad. Come, then. Let’s find a suitable place to make camp.”

I dismounted, following behind. “It’s bound to be boggy. I’ll fashion a bed so Angharad might sleep in the cart.”

Next to me, the old warrior Dreon chuckled.

“Oh, go on, then, Dreon. Let’s have it,” I said.

“Well. I have naught to say but this: a handsome lord, in his prime at thirty-two winters—a Wisdom Keeper to boot—already become staid and matronly as an old mother hen.”

“An old mother hen?” I said. “You should mind you don’t choke on a chicken bone.”

Dreon lifted his hands. “Eh, now! There’s no need for bandying curses about.”

“When I curse you, you shall know it.”

“I believe you.” The warrior clapped me upon the shoulder. “Whatever you may do, you mustn’t fret, Lailoken. I have bairns of my own, and I’ll lend you some wisdom—children are like wolves. They can smell your fear.”

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