“Ariane can bed this night in Languoreth’s chamber,” Brant said. “We’ll lay out our bedrolls on Lailoken’s floor.”
My chamber? I concentrated on the pool of burning lamp oil, refusing to let Ariane see my frown. I did not want to see her harmed. But to share my bed with her?
I had not imagined this day could have gotten any worse.
• • •
The next morning we resumed our duties, but Ariane insisted we work from Mother’s healing hut.
“I will not be carting supplies to and fro like some sort of mule,” she said. “We’ll tend to those in the hall who cannot rise, but the others must seek us here. It will do them good to move, to walk.”
I had worried she would crowd me in my bed, but Ariane slept with her hands knit beneath her breast as if she had been laid to rest and was awaiting the pyre. She didn’t stir until morning, when she went to check upon the injured in the great room.
Over the next several days, Ariane and I fell into a strangely easy rhythm as we moved about the little hut where I’d spent so much time with my mother. We spent early mornings walking the forest, collecting what early springtime medicines we could, sometimes talking but mostly in silence, Ariane breaking the spell only to pull a wild root here or a budding plant there. She tested me on the contents of the jars and glass bottles. Soon she tasked me with bringing her the plants and roots she called out for.
In stolen moments, I studied this strange young woman who’d so suddenly appeared among us. Her skin was as translucent as the underbelly of a leaf. I supposed there could be a place where Keepers did not wear robes, though the thought was puzzling. I watched her mix poultices and salves to soothe torn feet. I stood behind her as she pounded roots I’d never seen my mother use into a fine powder, which she steeped in boiling water to make a pungent, bitter tea to help treat dysentery.
Ariane spoke little, but when she did, it was with that strange accent I could not place. Though I probed her with questions, she would tell me nothing of her home, nor anything at all about her training. Nonetheless, she treated the ill with great care, and her knowledge was vast for so young a Keeper, for she couldn’t be older than twenty winters.
Before I realized, a fortnight had passed and I had grown accustomed to her presence. Soon I realized I’d even begun to welcome it.
It was the first mild day we’d had since the snows of winter had ceased, and outside the oaks were feathering, green-tipped, in the meadow. Rare shafts of sunlight poured in, turning my mother’s glass tincture jars into glittering green jewels as we took stock of our remedies. The shutters of the little window were cast wide and Ariane had propped the door open with a bucket.
“More woundwort,” I said, my fingers scraping the last flakes of dried plant from its vessel into the cup of my hand.
“Mmm.”
Ariane reached to take the empty jar and I moved to the next. Elderberry. The sweet, earthy scent only deepened as it dried. A swift wind swept in through the unfettered window, and I drew it deep into my lungs. It carried the first viridescent smell of spring, and played with the wisps of hair at my neck that had escaped my thick plait. Ariane’s hands stopped their work and she closed her eyes as if listening.
“Your father is coming,” she said.
I looked about, confused. “My father? Now? However do you know?”
“Listen to the wind, let it whistle through the valley . . .” She looked at me in surprise. “Have you not heard those words before?”
“No.”
“It is an old kenning. Your mother was a Keeper, was she not? And she did not teach you the kennings? The old wisdom hidden within the lines of our stories?”
“I have learnt such kennings as Cathan has taught me,” I informed her. “I know that wound-wasp means arrow. A forest-walker is a bear. Wind’s brother is fire.”
“Any child knows such things,” Ariane said. “I am speaking of the teachings that lie beneath. The kennings that are kept safe by the Keepers. Listen to the wind, let it whistle through the valley. This kenning is a reminder that, in its travels, the wind touches all places. It carries with it sights, sounds, and remembrances. The wind is always speaking. But if you cannot allow it to whistle within, you will never be able to hear. Did your mother not speak of such things?”
“She would have,” I lied, even as I blinked at the memory. I had begged for such knowledge in the woods with my mother that day. She had been speaking of mayweed and Aaron’s rod, wood ear and dock.
I want to be a Keeper, Mama . . .
It was the way my mother’s eyes had been shining before the light was so suddenly snuffed out. When she spoke, it was with the hardness of remembering what she had bargained for in bearing the children of a king.
You cannot become a Keeper. Your father is king, and you our only girl. You must marry someone of rank and keep safe our family. Daughters of kings are married to kings.
The words had fallen like ashes between us. In that moment I understood I would never belong to myself.
I studied the fine lines that whorled over my knuckles.
“Well, I will teach you the kennings,” Ariane said simply. “And you must remember them. Someday you will teach them to your daughter.”
I looked up. “But such kennings are only for Keepers.”
“Not where I come from.” She pursed her lips. “Where I come from, kennings are meant for those bound to carry them. And you are such a one.”
I studied her a moment. “Ariane?”
“Mmm.” She jotted a note in the ledger.
“How does the wind speak?”
She looked up as if she’d never considered this before. “It catches my attention, I suppose. Though it went first to you”—she gestured—“blowing about your neck. And then I saw it. An image of a man with hair like your own. He was sitting astride a dun-colored horse, approaching the gate.” She reached a delicate finger to tap her own heart. “I saw this, and I knew that this man was your father.”
“Are you a Seer, then? Can you see everything?”
“No,” she laughed. “I am no Seer. I hear only what the wind chooses to tell me. Now, go and greet your father. He has missed you, I am certain.”
A hollow blow of the horn sounded from the guardhouse, announcing the return of our king. I set down my jar and took off running.
In the courtyard our hounds lifted their black noses to the breeze, their tails thumping expectantly. Our man Arwel called out and the gates were thrust wide as Lailoken and the others came to join me. My heart took flight at the sight of Father, Gwenddolau, and Cathan trotting in astride their mounts. They were home. Safe. I felt as though I would nearly burst. Father dismounted on stiff legs and I raced to wrap my arms round his waist, breathing in the leather of his padded vest and the mud from the road.
“Languoreth.” He pressed me to him as the hounds circled round, barking. “I should have been here, eh? I came as soon as I was able.” His horse shifted its weight beside him, eager to find bed and grain in the barn. He ruffled Lailoken’s hair.
“Come, let us go inside and wash the road from our faces,” he said. “Then there will be time enough to tell our tales.”
• • •
Later that evening, Father addressed the people of Bryneich from his chair in the great room. “It is with a solemn heart I greet you and welcome you to Cadzow. Many of you have suffered the loss of loved ones and a harrowing journey to find sanctuary among us. We have sheltered you this past fortnight. Now any who wish to bide under my protection may present themselves. Any who wish to return and rebuild their homes may share in our feast on this night, and tomorrow we shall bid you farewell.”