Chapter 11: Expectations

Herrwn was still standing at the window when Madheran emerged from the shrine’s lower gate almost directly below him.

Although reconciled to this unexpected turn of events, he was bemused to see his just-discharged pupil sprinting toward a gathered group of mounted horsemen, having already shed his gray disciple’s robes in exchange for the brown leggings, black tunic, and forest-green riding cloak that Rhedwyn had adopted as emblematic of his troop.

Rhedwyn held the reins of an extra horse with a hunting bow and quiver tied to its saddle. As if sensing Herrwn’s eyes on him, Rhedwyn looked up. When their gazes met, he shrugged and smiled the self-effacing smile that had always melted away any reproach, however well deserved. Then, while Madheran was taking the horse’s reins and scrambling onto its back, Rhedwyn shifted his gaze to the shrine’s upper walkway where Feywn and a coterie of the younger priestesses were standing and raised his bow in a sweeping salute before he turned his horse’s head, kicked it into a gallop, and led his men, now including Madheran, off to their hunt.

Glancing over at the cluster of girls and women waving silk scarves in farewell, Herrwn’s own gaze lingered, just for a moment, on Feywn’s younger sister, Annwr, before he turned away, went to get his harp, and began his practice for the evening’s recitation.

He’d skipped the opening ode, as it was straightforward and undeviating from the traditional formula, and was concentrating on the lines of secondary characters that he’d been expecting his erstwhile disciple to deliver when the doors to the classroom cracked open and a tall, gray-robed figure slipped through. For a moment, Herrwn thought Madheran had reconsidered and returned, but it was Labhruinn, back early from his lessons in the healing chamber.

When he’d started his formal training at the age of three, Labhruinn had been the youngest pupil they’d ever had in basic studies. Now, at nineteen, he was the oldest. Despite those extra years of instruction, he showed nowhere near the skill of memorization required of a bard and had even less promise for discipleship as an oracle or a physician—angering Ossiam with his carelessness in letting the birds and snakes escape on the way to the sacrificial altar and annoying Olyrrwd by fainting during amputations.

As none of them were willing to say there was no hope for the brother of Feywn’s consort, Labhruinn’s lessons in healing, prophecy, and oratory dragged on—falling mostly on Herrwn, since whenever Olyrrwd or Ossiam got frustrated, they sent Labhruinn back to the classroom, claiming the excuse that some critically ill patient or some particularly arcane incantation required their full attention. Olyrrwd, in particular, was always grumbling that if he didn’t personally watch every single root and tincture Labhruinn put into a potion no patient would leave the healing chamber alive, so Herrwn could easily have taken Labhruinn’s abject posture and downcast gaze as evidence of some toxic error Olyrrwd hadn’t caught in time. Instead, feeling the tingle of a teacher’s instinct, he asked, “Did you know Madheran was making plans to leave his studies?”

“Did I … er, hmm … Did Madheran … er, I, I couldn’t say … I mean, I, he …”

Either unwilling to tell a lie or unable to think of a convincing one, Labhruinn stumbled to a halt. He looked, just for a moment, directly into Herrwn’s eyes, as if appealing for understanding, and shrugged—raising his right shoulder higher than his left, a mannerism that was, so far as Herrwn could tell, the only family trait he shared with Rhedwyn.

Seeing that gesture gave Herrwn the seed of an idea, one which sprouted and blossomed so quickly he could almost see Labhruinn’s gray robes changed into brown leggings, a black tunic, and a forest-green riding cloak, and he could already hear Olyrrwd congratulating him for coming up with a practical solution that provided a face-saving way out for everyone involved.

Thinking how to phrase the suggestion that Labhruinn join his brother’s horsemen without being too blatant, Herrwn beckoned for Labhruinn to come with him to the window where the departing troop of riders could be seen galloping up the hillside toward the meadows and woods beyond. Assuming his most gentle and understanding tone of voice, he began what he hoped would be the conversation leading to Labhruinn’s decision, more or less of his own free will, to leave the studies for which he was so clearly unfit.

“Do not be troubled. Madheran’s choice to ride with Rhedwyn is a noble one in its own way, one of which no one should be ashamed. Now be assured that you, too, may speak to me of anything that is on your mind.”

Labhruinn shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other and cleared his throat. “I …”

“Yes?”

“I think …”

Several moments went by, during which Herrwn began mentally composing his speech assuring Labhruinn that there was no disgrace in choosing to join his brother’s followers. In a moment of inspiration, he decided that he would borrow and adapt the words of Madheran’s declaration. He was preparing to say, “Of course, I understand how you would prefer to have adventures than talk about them,” when Labhruinn finally managed to finish his sentence.

“I think it was music.”

This was not the opening Herrwn was waiting for, and he could think of no response except, “What was music?”

“The kingdom … er, the achievement that Pwendordden, I mean Pwendorwn, called on his warriors to defend.”

It had been two weeks since Herrwn had dismissed Labhruinn and Madheran from their deteriorating lesson, directing them to return prepared to tell him which great accomplishment of humankind was symbolized by the kingdom of Llancerddysul and why the greatest warriors of all the human tribes had rallied to defend that achievement. He had, however, given the order in an uncharacteristic fit of pique, and he hadn’t questioned them about it further but had simply gone on to the next section of the saga—which, being an account of the battle itself, had held their attention better than most.

Equally surprised that Labhruinn had been pondering this for the past fortnight and that he’d answered correctly, Herrwn stammered, “Wh-why, yes, how did you guess?”

If he hadn’t been caught off guard, Herrwn would have done a better job of keeping the astonishment out of his voice. As it was, he did his best to cover it up by clearing his throat, giving a few thoughtful hums, and saying with due seriousness, “That is, how did you come to that well-reasoned conclusion?”

His effort clearly failed, as Labhruinn looked crestfallen and mumbled something barely audible about comparing the sounds of the sacred names for the things that mortals had achieved—growing crops, working metal, weaving cloth, healing, keeping a calendar, conducting rites and rituals, and making music—and that of all those, only music could not be stopped by giants.

It was an answer as profound as any Herrwn had ever thought of himself, and—this time making sure his tone was approving instead of incredulous—he said so.

Labhruinn looked up, his expression quite as astonished as Herrwn’s must have been.

Still hopeful of Labhruinn’s choosing to leave of his own accord—and thinking this was a positive moment on which to move forward—Herrwn smiled encouragingly. “And is there anything else you would ask now?”

Having apparently exhausted his store of words and capacity for coherence, Labhruinn sighed and shook his head.

Answering Labhruinn’s sigh with one of his own, Herrwn changed the subject. “Well, the recitation for today is …”

Although Labhruinn’s oration was as garbled as ever, Herrwn felt that he must somehow make up for the slight he’d unintentionally committed. While he was not so remorseful that he was willing to give the boy actual lines to recite in public, he solemnly entrusted him with the shrine’s second-best harp and spent the afternoon listening to him strum the two alternating chords to be played in accompaniment to the saga’s opening oration.

It was hard to say which of them was more nervous as they made their way to the main hall that night—or which was more relieved when they found that Rhedwyn had returned already and the evening’s story was to be postponed to the next day.

The celebration of Rhedwyn’s return from one of his outings—whether a single day’s hunt or a weeklong raid—with music and dancing had become a custom over the past several years. In place of the bardic oration, Rhedwyn and Feywn would lead the younger priests and priestesses in a revel that would go on until the pipers and drummers were too tired to play.

That night, Rhedwyn and Feywn rose as if to begin the dance but instead remained in place—Feywn looking as radiant as the day Ossiam named her the living goddess. She said nothing but put her hands on her belly, drawing everyone’s eyes to the slight mound where it had always curved inward. Rhedwyn stood erect at her left side, his face glowing with pride and his chest thrust out.

“Looking as if he’d made a score of women pregnant.” Olyrrwd whispered the gibe in a voice that only Herrwn and Ossiam could hear.

“And what makes you think he hasn’t?” Ossiam muttered back, and, for a brief moment, the two shared a smirk.

Then Ossiam composed his face, stood up, and—spreading his two arms in a gesture which seemed to embrace the entire chamber—restated his earlier prophecy that Feywn would join together with Rhedwyn in a union that was to change their destiny, before going on to pronounce his certain vision that “the child that grows within our Goddess is marked for surpassing renown, a child destined to outshine the stars themselves!”

At the time, Herrwn thought there was an undertone of something that might almost be spite in a prophecy that foretold Feywn being eclipsed by her unborn child. It worried him to think Ossiam would abuse his position to such a petty purpose—and to see the shadow of disquiet that passed over Feywn’s face as the rest of the room burst into cheers that seemed to shake the stone walls of their shrine to its very foundation.

Six months later—four weeks before the winter solstice and three weeks earlier than expected—Feywn entered the birth chambers. The labor went swiftly—the first cramps started at midnight, and the infant was born, dried, and handed to her wet nurse before dawn.

In keeping with Ossiam’s prediction, the baby girl, named Arianna for the heroine of the Forest Queen’s Tale, was born beautiful—a perfectly formed infant with a full head of bright red curls and blue-gray eyes that would turn emerald green before her first birthday.

Standing before the gathered crowd, Ossiam declared, “This child will ever be beautiful, ever graceful, ever wondrous to behold,” in his most portentous voice. The solemn silence that followed this pronouncement ended when the chief midwife, Rhonnon, who was not known for her sense of humor, quipped, “This child will ever be in a hurry.”