Her thoughts and feelings were like tangled threads but there was no time to waste on unravelling them now.
“Then you must go.” She nodded. “Tell her— Tell her I love her too,” she said, her voice cracking. She was surprised by the warmth of the Annisith’s palm as he placed a pale hand on hers. Then, as she locked eyes with him, a jolt crashed through her so that she nearly fell off the bed. She thought she heard a distant voice call out her name – but perhaps it was only the sound of the wind. The Annisith staggered backwards, looking confused. Soft as a summer breeze, a word drifted into her mind and she spoke it aloud.
“Gaoth.” As her lips formed the word, she heard the call of an owl, faint as a memory, and she thought of moonlight hinting at the shapes of many trees – a small, stone chapel – the gurgling of a stream – a figure lying still on the ground, cloaked in shadow.
“You know my name?” Shock registered on the Annisith’s face, an expression which made her feel like she had trespassed somewhere she did not belong.
“I don’t know how.”
Then, as quickly as he had appeared, he faded out of sight again, drawing a gasp of air with him, making her shiver. Hearth fire and moonlight still reached out to her, touching her skin, yet her inner world was plunged into darkness. She felt as though her insides were caving in, leaving behind an aching emptiness. Is it true? She asked herself, though she didn’t want to listen to the quiet certainty within her which threatened to answer her question.
Pushing fur hangings aside, she passed through into Gwyn’s sleeping area. “Wake up,” she said. She could make out the edges of the bed, the curve of Gwyn’s shoulder. She shook her. “Wake up.”
“What is it?” said Gwyn, her voice groggy.
“An Annisith was here.”
“You’ve been dreaming—”
“It’s Morwena.” Kaetha’s voice was strained but she wouldn’t let herself cry. “She’s dying.”
Gwyn was silent for several moments. “You’ve had a bad dream. That’s all.” However, the chill edge to her voice carried her doubts.
“No, Gwyn. You must believe me. An Annisith was here. He said Morwena is my mother. Is she?”
“She can’t be dying.” Gwyn’s voice was muffled by her hand which was pressed up against her mouth.
“But is it true? Is she my mother? If he was right about that then perhaps—”
Gwyn got up and grasped Kaetha by the arms. “What else did the Annisith say? Where is she? What happened?”
“I don’t know what happened. But I think she’s by the chapel in the woods, east of Ciadrath. Please, answer me! Is she my mother?”
Gwyn broke away from her and started pacing, taking in deep, measured breaths.
“Gwyn?” Frustrated at her silence, Kaetha raised her voice. “You’re still trying to keep the truth from me, aren’t you? You’ve lied all this time.” She shook her head as if she could shake away this fact.
“Kaetha—” Gwyn reached out towards her.
Stepping back, she held up her hands, blocking herself from Gwyn. “What matters now is getting to her. I need to find her before it’s too late.” She crossed through the hall, paying no attention to the hushed mutterings of the servants.
“Kaetha!” called Gwyn.
She grabbed a torch from its sconce and lit it in the hearth. Beathag woke up, her eyes round with alarm. “What you doin’ lass?” she asked. Though Kaetha didn’t say a word as she slipped on her boots, heaved the door open and left the hall, her eyes adjusting to the cold darkness outside.
She’d already got to the stables, planted her torch in the ground and mounted her chestnut mare, Lossie, by the time Gwyn had caught up with her.
“I don’t think you should go,” said Gwyn. Kaetha refused to let her guardian’s fretful tone affect her. “We don’t know what’s happened,” Gwyn continued. “You could be putting yourself in danger. I shall go but you must stay here where I know you’ll be safe. Please don’t—”
“Do what you will. I’m going all the same.” She kicked Lossie who whinnied in surprise and started off from the stables. Leaning down to the side, she grabbed her fiery torch, holding it forth as she rode away from Feodail Hall.
THREE
Horsemen
The pounding tread of hooves behind her subsided as Kaetha raced far ahead of Gwyn. She took a shortcut through open fields of rustling grass, silver in the moonlight, guiding Lossie to jump over a stream and skirt a hill. She made for a path, a whisper of grey in the dark, and followed it into the deeper darkness of the woods.
Holding out her torch, she pushed the shadows back as far as she could. However, the turns of the path seemed oddly unfamiliar, as if night had shuffled them out of sequence. In time, she heard the trickling of a stream and an owl’s cry cut through the air. The chapel must be nearby.
She started at the murmur of hooves ahead. They grew louder, moving fast. She pulled back the reins and Lossie halted just as a figure on a horse appeared from around a bend. Lossie whickered, backing away.
Noticing Kaetha and Lossie just in time, the rider thundered to a halt. Kaetha held out the torch. There was alarm in the man’s deep-set eyes and anxious lines furrowed his brow. “The woods are not safe, lass,” he said. “You must go back. Swiftly as you can.”
“I can’t,” she said, squinting up at him. She knew she ought
