A Heart in Sun and Shadow (Cymru That Was Book 1) (15 page)

Idrys, however, grew more distant as the week wore on. He always hated winter with the longer nights that forced him to wear his brother’s skin and manner for hours longer than was his want. There was a certain freedom in being a hound. It was easier to keep busy during the day as well, running about with Emyr and seeing that everything was in order with the people. No one talked to him save his brother, and certainly no one expected a response.

The winters also meant more people, with the complaints and concerns that brought. And of course, winter brought reminder of the cold night his father had finally given up on this life and passed beyond the veil.

Áine’s frequent smiles and teasing banter should have been a light in his darkening world. However, she somehow made it worse. He’d not even thought about a woman in a sexual way since Seren and had quickly if politely refused the few offers for marriage that had trickled in over the years.

Áine had reawakened his buried passion with her broad mouth, flashing eyes, and obvious strength. There was also the unspoken shared knowledge of deep anguish between them. She recognized his secret pain, though he was sure she didn’t know the cause, and although neither spoke of their grief to the other, the understanding lived in every gesture and every stolen glance.

Besides that, she was becoming a very vicious and cunning tallfwrdd opponent.

Idrys did not care for his growing feelings and so he pulled away from her as well. His brother did not, Idrys knew, and sorrowed that he was the cause of the confusion that tensed her gaze when he’d refuse a game after a long day and retire to sit alone in his room with only his hound.

“You’re an idiot,” Emyr told him one cold morning as he hastily dressed.

He didn’t even bother to explain what he was referring to, for neither had missed yet another considering and closed-off look from Áine the night before.

“She’s neither inexperienced nor unwilling. But if you won’t touch her, I can hardly make a move, you know.” He sighed and sat beside his brother to pull on his heavy woolen stockings.

Idrys lay on the bed and dropped his narrow black head to the covers at his twin’s words.

This was the hardest time for both of them, in the moments after they shifted. They usually responded to things the other had said while they had a voice. It was a strangely delayed conversation. There was no banter or teasing between the brothers, no back and forth or quick exchange of ideas. And though each could physically touch the other and often did, it was not human contact and the loss always hung immediate and present between them in the early and late hours of the day.

“How much power will we give the Lady? How much of our lives will she destroy if we let this keep us from the normal things a man wants?” Emyr did not speak her name, but Seren’s curse lived between them always and needed no identifying. Idrys whined softly and dropped his head to his brother’s thigh, staring up at him with sad brown eyes. “I’m sorry. I know. It’s winter, it’s hard for you. I feel the darkness too, you know.” Emyr rose and they went side by side to face the day.

* * *

Áine was observant and finally her questions grew too many to hold in any longer. It was nearly six weeks after she’d come to Clun Cadair and she’d noted more and more that Emyr was always missing around sunset. She took the opportunity one quiet night in the hall to ask Hafwyn and Melita about it.

The women were sitting alone at the hearth, Melita and Hafwyn embroidering and Áine winding yarn. The younger woman looked up and took a deep breath.

“What happened here? With Emyr and your husband? If it is not too forward to ask,” she added as the two women exchanged a sharp look.

“No, child. It is not too forward.” Hafwyn sighed and set aside her stitching. “I used to have two sons. Emyr had a twin, Idrys. They were nigh inseparable, those two.”

She smiled with the memory of her carefree, handsome boys. Her smile faded as she continued. “About seven years ago now, they went hunting. There was a rockslide, and only Emyr returned. I fear the pain of losing one of his sons was too much for my husband. Brychan was older than I anyway, and his heart full broke the day Emyr returned alone. He sickened that winter and could not hang on. Emyr keeps a nightly vigil for their spirits.” She told the story in a rush. Her lovely brown eyes, so similar to those of her son, lowered with remembered pain.

Áine had heard whispers of tragedy and seen the sorrow that rode like a comfortable mantle over Emyr’s shoulders, but she’d never heard the tale in full and so baldly spoken. She leaned forward and placed a hand over Hafwyn’s own.

“Thank you,” Áine said. “I’m glad I know. I can see the loss in Emyr, and it is good to finally see the source. There are days when I wish that I knew an herb to salve away the pains of grief and death, but I have no skill to heal the wounds of the heart.”

Hafwyn looked into the girl’s large green eyes and saw her deep sincerity and own loss painted within. A strange little smile curled her generous mouth. “Do not sell yourself short, wise one, for you may have ways beyond your own ken as yet.”

Áine opened her mouth to ask her what she meant by that but whatever she might have said was lost as the outer door was thrown open and a gust of cold air followed a distraught Maderun into the hall. She ran to Áine and threw herself at the woman’s feet, sobbing.

“I’m sorry, please forgive us. Just save my Gwir and Geneth. Please, wise one.” She looked up with desperate eyes.

“I do not know what you mean?” Áine said as she reached down to lift the smaller woman up.

“They took sick, two days ago. Moel would not let me bring you and even Adaf thought they’d be all right, for many have had small fevers. But they’re getting worse. Moel thinks you’ve cursed us.”

“And you?” Áine said, raising a brow. Her body was tense and she hated the verbal game she played. She knew no matter the woman’s answer she’d go and heal the children if she were able. But anger and remembered hurt held her still to hear the words.

“I saw you touch the cold iron, I’m satisfied. My mother always said no fairy could take the touch without burning. Please, help us.” She gripped Áine’s hands in her own.

Áine rose. “Of course. Now, tell me the symptoms that I can get what I need from the garden house.”

“No need, Áine. Go with her; Melita and I will come along. Once you’ve seen them for yourself I’ll fetch whatever you might need.”

“Thank you. Now, Maderun, talk as we walk, shall we?” Áine paused only to grab Emyr’s cloak from the peg by the door, figuring he’d hardly need it, sulking as he was in his chamber.

The women hurried across the courtyard and through the inner ring of buildings to Maderun’s home. It was simple stone and wood structure with a central hearth for cooking and three small sleeping rooms portioned off by slatted walls. The girls had been brought out to the main room and their straw-ticked mattresses placed on the floor beneath them.

Moel glared at Áine as she entered behind Maderun but Adaf looked up from his seat on a small bench near his girls with relief on his face.

Áine nodded to him, ignoring his father, and bent immediately to examine the children. Both were unconscious, which did not please her. She shook each gently and found them reluctant and slow to rouse. Prying open their eyes, she noticed a rheumy fluid and slight discoloration. Their gums were pale, their breathing labored and uneven, and their skin was flushed with fever.

“Have they been coughing?” she asked.

“Aye, when they are awake, which is less and less in the past day,” Adaf answered her.

“Any blood? What color is the phlegm?”

“No, no blood. No fluid at all. It’s a dry cough, though sometimes they are so overtaken they vomit. What does that mean?” Maderun shifted from foot to foot, her expression a rough mix of dread and hope.

“We’ll see. I think I’ve seen the like, years ago,” Áine said. “We need to keep them isolated from other children. You all as well. Everything will have to be washed in very hot water once they’re healed.”

“Then they’ll heal?” Adaf sighed with relief.

“Perhaps,” Áine replied. She hated to dash his hopes, but she didn’t wish to raise false ones either. “We have to get them breathing properly and get fluids into them as well.” She looked at Melita and Hafwyn. “I need mustard seeds, ground fine, hot water, and,” she paused, thinking, “cherry bark, wild lettuce, red clover flowers, coltsfoot, lavender, and that peppermint and marjoram tincture we made last week.”

The two women hurried to gather what she needed as Áine knelt quietly beside the girls and let her consciousness sink into each in turn. She felt the pain in their lungs, a strange burning itch that crawled like a living thing through the thin spongy tissue. The fevers were high as their bodies rebelled against the sickness. Both children were dehydrated and exhausted, too young and weak to put up a strong fight.

She pulled back into herself as Hafwyn returned with the first basket load of the requested items.

“Adaf, go with Hafwyn and fetch the copper bath. The children need to be bathed to reduce the fever.” He nodded and left.

To their surprise, Moel limped out behind them after grabbing a kitchen bucket, muttering that he’d start bringing in water.

Emyr, brought forth by his mother’s light knock, returned with the others, helping Adaf carry the bath. The little house was overcrowded and Áine calmly ordered everyone out except for the women once the bath was partially filled and two kettles and a pot set to heat on the hearth.

They undressed Gwir first, since Áine was more worried about the younger daughter’s condition. She did not wake or protest as they lowered her gently into the tepid bath, which Áine had steeped with mint and chamomile. They bathed her and then Maderun held her daughter’s head up as Áine coaxed a strong tea of garlic oil, honey, wild lettuce, and cherry bark down her throat. They returned her to the bed and covered her to the waist with the blankets. Áine showed Melita how to carefully massage the little girl’s bony chest with the peppermint and marjoram tincture.

They repeated the process with Geneth, who woke briefly and was overtaken for a moment by a deep dry coughing fit that left her weak and her skin red-purple in tone.

Maderun massaged her elder daughter’s chest gently as Áine had demonstrated while the wisewoman turned to making a paste of mustard using water as hot as she could stand to touch for a count of ten. She took strips of clean linen and soaked them in the mustard paste, then laid the compress onto the chests of the girls in turn until the mix cooled and hardened.

It was a long night. They repeated the forced feeding of the honeyed tea mix and the chest massage combined with the hot mustard compress every hour or so. Geneth’s fever broke before dawn, though she did not wake. Her breathing evened. It seemed to Áine they were through the worst with her at least.

Daylight was seeping in under the door and through the slatted casement when Gwir finally opened her eyes and asked for water. The sheets beneath her were soaked with sweat and Áine hugged Hafwyn with deep relief. The younger one’s breathing was still too ragged for her taste, but her cough brought up a little phlegm and subsided quickly as she sipped the lukewarm tea.

Áine looked at Maderun and nodded. “I think we’re out of the worst, though you’ll need to keep up the tea, as much as they can drink. And a broth made with fish oil wouldn’t hurt either, though they may not care for the taste much.”

“Thank you, Wise One.” Maderun rose and clasped Áine’s hands to her chest.

“Remember, wash everything, and no visits from children or people with children for at least three more days or ‘til all symptoms clear, whichever is later.” Áine smiled. Her back ached and she was suddenly aware of her own exhaustion. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go to bed before I’m of no use to anyone. If the fever returns or they start to cough even after a sip of tea, send for me immediately.”

She turned and walked back to the hall with Hafwyn beside her. Emyr was up early as usual and greeted both as they entered.

“The children?” he asked.

“They’ll live, I think, thanks to Áine.” Hafwyn smiled. Her face was lined and her eyes sunk and dark with fatigue.

Áine waved a weary hand and stripped off Emyr’s cloak, hanging it back on its peg.

“Have to get you one of your own, I suppose, though you’re tall enough to wear that well.” Emyr grinned at her.

Cy came up and pressed his head under her hand. She smiled down at the hound and scratched his ears.

The memory of her dream the night before the flood crashed into her exhausted mind with unbidden vividness. The tall black hounds, the forest, Tesn, the flood. She looked down into the face of the large dog and felt a strange recognition surge through her.

Áine pulled away and fled quickly to her room. The three left in the hall watched her go with curious faces.

“This home is overfull with a bounty of mysteries,” Hafwyn said softly. “Good night, my heart. If anyone needs me before midday, come and wake me.”

“Ha. You sad, tallow-faced assassin of joy.” Áine grinned and shot Idrys a gleeful look as she moved a little blue peg and surrounded yet another of his defenders with her own men.

“Perhaps you should concede the game now and save a little pride, friend.” Llew said and Urien chuckled as he refilled their cups with the fizzing honey mead.

“Hush, you. I’ve not lost yet.” Idrys leaned over the board and considered his options as he fingered the small bone die.

Hafwyn smiled at the little group. With gentle prodding from her and not so gentle words from his twin, Idrys had finally emerged from his shell and seemed to be enjoying winter for once. She imagined it had no little to do with a certain red-haired young woman who grew more lively and comfortable by the day. As the season neared the longest night, Áine seemingly put aside her grief with more and more ease, the moments of hollow pain less frequent though no less sudden or troubling.