Skin (13 page)

‘That which has seen you cross the river alone,' he said without apology.

I glared at him, then burst into laughter.

Then he showed me, more carefully, the art of travelling through water until finally,
with him coaxing beside me, I swam smoothly from one bank to the other and back again.

I had almost forgiven him as we climbed out to dry.

‘What is your greatest fear?' he asked.

We lay back on our elbows in the sun. His questions were like cast stones, falling
straight to the depths.

‘To be alone.' It burst out before I could catch it and I prayed he did not think
me too brittle. ‘And yours?'

‘A witless conversation.'

I stared down at his long fingers splayed in the grass.

‘And your greatest pleasure?' he continued.

In an instant of truth, I realised it was him, but I could not confess
it. ‘Knowledge,'
I answered, thinking of when I was happiest.

‘Mine also.'

‘Hah! What do you love in it?' I had never spoken in such a way with another.

He thought a while. The sun had dried his hair to crisp coils on his shoulders. ‘That
it saves us.' He glanced at me and saw the question in my face. ‘What else is evil
but ignorance?' he said.

‘A brutal assessment.'

‘But true.'

‘And for those who are untaught through no choice of their own, what is their salvation?'

He stared at me. ‘It is a great waste that you have not been made journeywoman.'

‘Why do you say so?'

‘Because you would look so fetching in the robes.'

I shoved his arm and he collapsed onto the grass.

‘Because you have a mind that asks,' he said, sitting up. ‘Like a river that finds
new paths. Such minds are rare as jewels. I am surprised it has not been recognised.'

I reddened under his praise. ‘My tribespeople need me for other purposes.'

‘It is not for the tribespeople to determine. If the Mothers want you, they will
call you to journey.'

‘But skin is needed to journey—' I flinched, almost confessing myself.

‘Of course,' he said, frowning.

I took a deep breath, wondering how long it would be until he discovered how far
from a journeywoman I was. Until that moment, I would drink of the cup he offered.
‘Taliesin, can you tell me of the Kendra?'

His eyebrows lifted. ‘You ask me of your own Kendra?'

‘But Albion is without a Kendra.'

He looked at me with an expression I could not read.

‘Is it so illicit a truth?' I ventured. ‘Might no one speak of it?'

‘How is there no Kendra?' he interrupted, his voice sharp. ‘What has happened?'

‘I don't know—' I faltered. ‘The township is forbidden to speak of her. I am told
she is lost…drowned. There is no other.' I had gone too far with this question. He
would learn too much of my ignorance.

‘Drowned,' he repeated to the river. ‘Then what holds your people to the Mothers?'

‘Why…the same that holds yours…' I floundered. ‘The journeypeople?' I thought of
Llwyd's distress, of Cookmother's words. ‘Perhaps…not enough.'

Taliesin shook his head, his mood suddenly as dark as when I arrived. ‘You know that
the Kendra is the bridge! If she is lost, there is no hope.'

With every question I risked exposure but I had to know. ‘No hope for what?'

He would not meet my eye. Agitation rose off him like heat. ‘No hope for me.'

His words made no sense. ‘Why?' I urged. ‘What does she bridge?'

His expression was incredulous. ‘Surely you know? She opens the gates between the
hardworld and the realm of the Mothers. She stands with the Mothers as they are singing.'

‘And…' I breathed, ‘what does she do?'

He stared. ‘She sings.'

‘How do you know this?' I asked.

‘How do you not?'

I hurried home through the warm evening, my head spinning with him. I could not fathom
how he did not know of our Kendra's loss or why his own hopes hung upon it.

He was as dazzling and unfathomable as the night sky: in equal measure splendid and
despondent, vital and injured, tender and cruel. He had an Elder's wisdom, yet the
wariness of a child, and in the force of these splits, the whole earth turned within
his sprawling frame.

It was almost dark when I stole though the south gates of Caer Cad, my pockets stuffed
with herbs, hastily picked.

Bebin stood as I slipped into the kitchen.

‘Tidings, sister,' I greeted her. ‘Where is Cookmother?'

‘With the queen, thanks be.' She pulled me outside so that Cah and Ianna would not
hear us. ‘I do not know what you have been doing these past turns of the sun, but
I cannot explain your absences to Cookmother much longer,' she whispered.

‘Is she angry, Bebin?'

‘I will not lie—today she smelled smoke, but if you settle quickly we can assure
her that you have been returned an hour or so hence.'

‘Thank you,' I breathed in relief.

She paused, glancing around the queen's compound, then lowered her voice. ‘Where
have you been, Ailia?'

‘Only harvesting,' I said. ‘The heat—it brings such lushness of growth.' I had to
look away from her doubtful eyes. I had never lied to her before. I had never lied
before meeting Taliesin. And yet the lies were in service of something pure: my knowledge
of a man who was awakening me. Surely no harm could come of it?

It was nearly the hour for sleep. We were seated around the kitchen hearth, nibbling
on fresh cherries of sheep's cheese. I fed a morsel to the fawn, lying in my lap,
and he nudged my hand for another. He was growing strong and lively on his food.
It would be hard to let this one go.

The striking of our doorbell startled us all.

‘Who comes now?' grumbled Cookmother. ‘I tell you, I am not going to a birthing tonight.
You go, Ailia—feign that I am not here.'

Smiling, I set down the fawn and went to the door. Outside stood a strangemaid, who
had turned away and was staring out to the night sky. She had some height but carried
it weakly and her skirts were torn and filthy. ‘Tidings,' I said to her bent back.

When she turned I almost gasped at the sight of her. She was perhaps only five or
six summers my elder, but looked much older, as if life-robbed by some means. Her
face was little more than skin draped thinly over the skull beneath it: a wide forehead
and a wasted chin. But behind the defeated flesh were the bones of a face that might
once have been beautiful. Her hair was unbraided and stiff with dirt, her mouth fixed
in a grimace. Festival time brought many wanderers from the outlying settlements,
searching for food or work. But seldom had I seen such a wretch as this even at the
furthermost fringes.

She looked at me from eyes sunk deep in her skull. ‘I am looking for the maiden Ailia.'

It was a shock to hear her speak my name. ‘I am she. What business do you have with
me?'

She took a step toward me, staring. Her stance was unsteady and she seemed to struggle
to make clear sight of me. But despite all this, there was a force in her that set
my heart pounding. ‘You are she,' she muttered. Her gaze steadied on my face. We
both stood trapped in this reckoning of one another.

I reached down to restrain Neha, but her ears were folded back
and she nosed at the
woman's hand. ‘What do you seek?' I asked again.

‘The townspeople tell me you're a favourite of the Tribequeen.' Her voice was rasping,
too loud in the quiet night. ‘I need work and a bed to sleep. Will you ask the queen
for a place in your kitchen?'

I laughed. ‘I'm sorry, strangemaid, but I have no power to refer you. My own place
is held by threads!' My words were true, yet even if they weren't, I would never
commend this maiden. ‘Besides—there is no room.' I lied to soften the refusal.

‘There must be room.' Her voice sharpened. ‘I can do whatever needs to be done.'

The weave of her tattered shawl was unfamiliar; she had travelled far and I knew,
as she would also have known, that there was always need for tenacious workers in
the Tribequeen's hutgroup. Perhaps Cookmother would hear my petition if I made it.
The scent of stale beer and piss rose from her skirts. ‘No,' I said. ‘There is no
room.' I fought a stab of shame at another lie.

She shrank back. ‘Where else might I ask then?'

‘Perhaps the warriors,' I stammered. ‘Orgilos has not long since lost a daughter
to fosterage.' I clucked repeatedly at Neha, who, unfathomably, had settled at the
woman's feet and would not come.

‘The hound, at least, accepts me.' She stooped to rub Neha's head. ‘You know your
own skin,' she cooed.

‘You are skin to the dog?' I asked. I had not yet met one of this totem.

‘Ay.' She straightened.

Where was the dog's strength in this sorry maiden? I bade her farewell but she would
not turn away. Her eyes dropped to the golden fish pin at my breast.

‘Take it,' I said, tugging it free from my cloak. ‘You can trade it for food and
shelter for a few days.'

‘How kind,' she sneered, closing her fingers around it. Her nails
were ragged and
rimmed with dirt. As I turned away she grasped my wrist. ‘Do you not even ask my
name?'

‘What is your name?' I whispered.

‘I am Heka.' Her nails dug into my skin. ‘Of Caer Hod.'

It was an outlying hilltown of Durotriga, known for the purity of its chalk and the
strength of its learning. How had she fallen so far through its web?

‘Is it true that you are without skin?' Still she gripped my arm.

What did she care of it? ‘Let go my arm.'

‘Answer me.'

‘Yes.'

She nodded slowly, her eyes not leaving mine. ‘It is your greatest suffering, is
it not?'

Now my heart thumped as though she were an adder before me. There was something in
her that reached inside me and grabbed hold of the truth. ‘Yes,' I whispered.

The trace of a smile twitched in her mouth. ‘Stupid bitch.' She released her grip.
‘You will regret not helping me.'

I recoiled in shock. Name-calling was punishable by law of the journeymen. I could
have told Cookmother, even Llwyd, and had her brought to justice. I said nothing.

She turned and hobbled into the darkness.

Neha returned to my side.

‘What did she want?' Bebin joined me at the doorway.

‘To come into the kitchen.'

‘Her?' said Bebin. ‘Look how she staggers in her step. She's rotten with drink.'

I peered after her. Indeed she was nothing more than a wobbling drunkard and I was
right to deny her.