A Heart in Sun and Shadow (Cymru That Was Book 1) (24 page)

“Stubborn girl.” Cold air and flickering torchlight greeted her with his graveled call.

Áine chose to interpret it as an invitation and walked back down the stairs and underneath the mountain.

Trahaearn heard her out in silence, his craggy head bowed over his barrel chest. Áine laid the two rounded rocks she’d chosen from the moor on the nearest table and brushed off a bench to sit on.

“If you can do this thing, as you say, then yes, I will forge the clasps you need.” At his words the hope smoldering in her eyes lit aflame.

“Thank you,” she said, then hesitated and continued. “This is not permanent. I do not know how long the pain and swelling will stay away if I succeed.”

“To live without it, even for a little while, to craft something of beauty again, these things are worth much to me.” He raised his head. “Don’t diminish my own hope, girl, for it’s you that brought it to me.”

Áine stretched her neck, looking down and away from him. “Let us begin.”

Trahaearn lowered himself to sit on the great bench opposite her and laid his right hand across the table with a puff of dust. Áine gently rested her own hand on his skin. The warmth of him surprised her; his skin felt like fine leather with rough lines hatched through it like scars. With a deep breath Áine let her mind sink beneath his skin.

The heart of the fairy smith beat with a deep, slow rhythm. Áine felt her own heart racing in comparison, her body rebelling against the calm strength of the man she touched. Beyond that throbbing pulse laid a terrible chill its steady power could not touch. Áine pushed herself toward that chill, down into his hand.

Pain assaulted her. It twisted as a snake twists, coiling and uncoiling as the curse’s venom filled the joints of his hand with unceasing torment.

Áine did not hear herself cry out, did not see her blank-eyed terror. Deep inside Trahaearn’s hand, she wrestled with the pain, its existence an affront to everything she stood for as a healer. She would not suffer this; the snake must be forced out. She resisted her own gifts enough to feel the hard stone beneath her other hand. Bit by bit she tugged at the pain, dragging it out of his twisted fist and into the uncaring rock. The serpent of pain within uncurled and sank away coil by coil.

Áine came back to herself as the stone under her hand cracked with a strange sound. Her face was gaunt with exhaustion and she had to lick her lips several times before she felt she could speak. She lifted her eyes from the cracked stone and her own pale hand to Trahaearn. He’d removed his hand from under her own and she’d not even felt it.

“Thank you, girl,” he whispered, his eyes wet but far more clear than they’d been before, the rheumy film all but gone and their pupil-less, golden depths visible now. His right hand was straight and perfect with long, strong fingers and clean nails.

His hand’s the size of my head
, Áine thought. She was exhausted, but she couldn’t leave the work unfinished.

“Give me your other hand,” she managed as she shoved the broken stone from the table. The second stone seemed far heavier than it had before as she slid it toward herself, but Áine refused to think too much about her weak and sluggish body. She had worked a miracle and wouldn’t leave it half-done.

Trahaearn pulled his gaze away from his newly made hand. Desire and doubt warred in his craggy features and he chewed at the corner of his moustache with his old bone teeth.

“You don’t look well, girl,” he said. “You didn’t mention there’d be a cost to yourself for it.”

“No,” Áine said, more sharply than she meant. “But what in life comes without a cost? I doubt you can forge with one hand, can you? So lay down the other and let us finish this.”
Preferably before I pass out
, she added silently.

He looked as though he might continue to argue but something in her face stopped his tongue. A strange desperation that mirrored Áine’s own came over his face and he placed his other grotesque fist under her waiting palm.

“All right, healer,” he rumbled, “make an end of this.”

It was at once easier and far more difficult for Áine the second time. She knew what to expect but her strength flagged as she wrestled with the frigid serpent of pain in his left hand. Her heart slowed to match Trahaearn’s and her mind felt frozen and raw like meat scraped from a bone in the dead of winter. She wanted to rest, to flee this battle and go toward the warmth she could sense somewhere far away.

It grew harder and harder to recall her purpose here as she shoved and jammed each coil of pain. There was so much pain and she was so very cold. It would be easy, an inner voice whispered to her, so simple to just let go, let the pain have her. She had the power to end it, to let go completely. There was peace there, a void place that lay just beyond her languid heartbeat. The head of the snake reared in her mind and the pain flared worse than before.

NO!
She grasped at the last tendrils of icy pain.
No more curses, no more hurting. This, this I can end
.

The stone beneath her palm cracked in half with the ringing cry of a breaking bell. Áine jolted out of her trance, ripping free of Trahaearn’s flesh with a strangled cry. The memory of pain hung about her in a strange mist and she forced her eyes to focus on the face of the fairy smith.

He stared at his two beautiful hands as though they belonged to a stranger. Áine smiled to see the joy etched in every line of his strange face. He looked at her with golden eyes and said something. The fog around her swallowed his words and she shook her head. Concern slipped over his features and Áine tried to speak, to tell him that she was all right. Then the table seemed to slip away from her and the torchlight dimmed.
How odd,
she thought, and then she thought no more.

* * *

Idrys crawled out from underneath the warm blankets and shivered in the winter chill. His body tingled as the rising sun edged the horizon. The change would be on him soon. He cursed the unusually deep snows that would keep him from ranging out to look for Áine, though deep in his heart he admitted his search had become more habit than true hope.

I can barely recall the sound of her laugh; how much more of her warmth will time steal from us
?

Emyr roused from his place at the foot of the bed and whined. Idrys shivered and pulled off the thick woolen shirt he’d worn to sleep. His brother’s cold nose pressed into his thigh and Idrys laid a hand on his bony head.

“I wish I could think of something to say, Emyr,” he murmured. “There’s too much silence between us.”

Emyr’s liquid brown eyes were far too sad and full of understanding. Idrys looked away and then the change took him.

Emyr dressed quickly for the day and emerged into a sleepy hall. Caron was already awake and building up the hearth fire. She tossed a friendly smile and greeting at Emyr as he walked outside to cut her more wood.

The exertion took his mind off the slumped form of his brother until he returned to the hall to break his fast. Idrys slipped out the door when he opened it and Emyr almost shouted after the hound not to stray too far. He bit back the words. Idrys wasn’t an idiot; he knew the dangers of the deep snow and unpredictable winter skies. Shaking his head, Emyr stepped into the dim hall.

“Good morning, Emyr,” his mother called to him. She looked healthier than she had, having taken a chill at midwinter. Caron and Melita still babied Hafwyn though her illness only clung on in a lingering cough. She shooed Caron away after accepting a bowl of steaming grains liberally dosed with honey.

“Good morning,” Emyr said as he rinsed his hands and then sat across from Hafwyn. Caron placed a bowl in front of him and he blew on it before mixing in the honey.

“Spring is coming,” Hafwyn said after a few mouthfuls. “I hear tell that the Chief of Rhufon has a beautiful daughter. An alliance with them would expand our powers of trade through the Cantrefi of Perfeddwl.”

Emyr glanced for his brother before remembering Idrys’s defection. He tensed and swallowed. “I know the benefit of an alliance, mother. But I am not so old that time makes the need stronger.”

Hafwyn sighed and dropped her eyes to her lap. “Not all of us are so young,” she said gently, “and it would sit well for the cantref if the chief had an heir.”

Someone to rule who is not cursed, you mean
. Emyr stabbed his spoon into his breakfast.

Even if it weren’t for the dimming hope that Áine would return and agree to wed him, them, there was still the problem of how a wife would handle the curse. Such a thing would be difficult to hide if at every dawn her husband rose and exchanged places with his hound. Better to place a hope on a woman missing for a year and more than to face the unknown, in Emyr’s mind.
A pox on you Áine, for giving us hope and ripping it away
.

“Please, mother, don’t mention this again until I do. I’ll think on it,” he said, rising from the table. He barely saw her nod as he turned and, grabbing his cloak, went out to start the day.

Emyr paused as the door shut behind him and reached into his beltpouch. He found Áine’s smooth pearl tear with the practice of long habit and rubbed it between his fingers before letting it settle once more.

* * *

Áine was warm, blissfully so, and her body rested on a soft surface. She burrowed deeper into the thick quilt covering her and reached a hand out for the twins. Her fingers encountered the edge of her bed instead of warm skin and she jerked awake.

Memory flooded back even as the smell of coal smoke reached her nostrils. She was in a closed-off alcove of the huge hall beneath the mountain, wrapped in a thick if dusty quilt and curled up on a pallet of leather and fur. Through the hide curtain that sectioned off her alcove from the hall, Áine could hear the sound of a hammer beating metal and then the great huff of a bellows.

She got out of bed slowly, her body possessed of a hundred little aches and protests. Áine realized with a start that her dress had been changed. The old one lay in a soiled heap on a rough-hewn wooden chair. She touched the soft blue linen that hugged her body and blushed as she realized that the fairy smith must have changed her clothing.

Beside the bed were two soft leather shoes embroidered with diving swallows. Áine slid her sore feet into them and found they fit quite well once she’d readjusted the laces that pulled them tight to her ankles. She put on her red belt and took a deep breath.

Trahaearn bent over a great pentagonal anvil that Áine hadn’t seen before in the room, making a small adjustment to the shining bit of metal gripped by his tongs. Áine looked around her in disbelief.

Gone were the dusty coverings and the chilled touch of neglect. The entire cavern was bright with lamp and torch light and clean but for a fine dusting of coal and bits of metal debris and slag in the area of the forge. A huge fire crackled in the hearth.

“Good morning to you,” Trahaern called out to her.

Áine walked the length of the cavern to the forge. She felt blind for not having noticed it before, or at least remarking to herself its apparent absence before.

“Is it morning? I did not sleep long, did I?” Áine halted and blushed, thinking again of how this strange giant had cared for her unconscious body.

“Two days. For a while I thought you’d not rouse at all. Then you started thrashing and screaming and tore your dress,” he said and then turned his head away and mumbled. “That’s why I had to give you that other one, once you’d calmed.”

“I thank you,” Áine said. He seemed as embarrassed by the act as she’d been imagining it.

“Dress and shoes were my wife’s. I’ve no need of them now.” He glanced at her and then turned back to his work.

Áine saw the tension in his body and her healer’s instincts told her there was great pain in that statement. She burned with curiosity but took a deep breath. He’d speak more of it if he wished and she was in no position to pry.

“How do your hands feel?” she asked instead.

His face lifted and his eyes lit up. “Good, wonderful. I’ve nearly got your clasps done, haven’t I? There’s a little pain returned today but it’s a shadow of what it was. You’ve given me back to myself, girl.”

Áine smiled. She was back to being called “girl” again. She looked about and saw her pack on a newly cleared table near the hearth.

Trahaearn followed her gaze and said, “Go on then, eat some breakfast and I’ll be done here quicker for you not distracting me.”

Her stomach didn’t need telling twice and Áine went to the table to have a breakfast of apple and bread. She ate and stared at the walls of the cavern.

Racks of forged creations hung there. There was a sword as long as she was tall with intricate scrolling work along its blade. There, a collection of spearheads, the leaf shaped blades evoking real leaves in their almost delicate lines and edges. A line of hooks just above the tables against one wall displayed a perfect set of spoons done in copper and silver. Tiny animals graced the bowl of the spoons and Áine rose to take a closer look. She wandered the length of the hall, her heart lifted to see the smith once again taking joy in his craft.

“You like my work?” Trahaearn came to stand near Áine, wiping his hands on a rag.

“It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. The quality I mean. I’m not even sure what some of these metals are.”

“I thank you for your praise. Here in Cymru-that-could-be there are many things not yet possible in Cymru-that-is. Come, your clasps are finished.”

Áine went with him to the forge and gasped as he placed two delicate clasps in her outstretched hands. Each was forged of the purest silver into an intricate box.

She set one down and delicately opened the clasp. The sides of the box came apart as she pressed, opening to reveal two boxes now with curving edges. Though the metal seemed thin in her fingers, she could feel the strength in it. She slipped the sides back together and they interlocked so perfectly she could no longer make out the seam. The design was a looping whirl that had no end, though it suggested the shape of something. Áine bent closer to the small clasp, it being no larger than the dip of her palm.