The Sword of Light - Chapter 2

Summer sun beat down on the open field of the second highest peak in Loch Coill. The fragrance of lush grass perfumed the air mingling with the musk of sweat and horses. A northern breeze swept over the vast, glassy lake at the foot of the hill, cooling the moisture on the back of Ceridwyn’s neck. Her waist length ash-blonde hair was tightly bound into a braided crown about her head. It was secured with the ultramarine ribbons her husband, Ferin, had given her as a wedding present. In the three years hence, not a day had passed that she did not thread the ribbons through her hair, facilitating the intricate plaiting she favoured.

A woman of twenty winters, Ceridwyn was unquestionably beautiful. Delicate, elfin features looked out from her heart-shaped face. Long, pale lashes shaded doey blue-green eyes, her lips tinged pink against an alabaster visage. She had a lean figure, standing ten and seven hands tall, with powerful arms and legs from years of riding and racing horses.

Ceridwyn was the eldest daughter of a large familyone of the largest in Loch Coilland her father, Ailbe, was the horsemaster of the tatha. He had begun teaching Ceridwyn to ride almost as soon as she could walk. She had lived among horses most of her life, and there was little Ceridwyn delighted in more than a morning ride before beginning her chores.

A judge called for the riders to go to their marks.

“Come, Eiocha,” Ceridwyn cooed to the sea-foam white mare at her side. Eiocha was a flukethe last and strangest foal Ailbe’s prized draught horse had given birth to in her long life. Eiocha had been born perfectly white from head to hoof, with large red eyes that blazed with an inner fire. Ailbe had thought to slaughter Eiocha, fearing her blazing gaze, but Ceridwyn had convinced him to let Ceridwyn keep her. She worked with Eiocha from the time they were both little things, riding, leaping, running, until they knew each other better than themselves.

Ceridwyn adjusted the rough-spun breeches she’d patched the night before in preparation of the steeplechase that day as she and Eiocha moved towards their starting position. She’d worn her sleeveless jerkin that day to flaunt the azure woad tattoo on her left shoulder and bicepa piece of intricate knotwork made to look like the neck and face of a rearing horse. She earned it through years of competition such as this one.

She stood before the pale mare, patting Eiocha’s neck and nose as she cooed affirmations. “You’re going to do wonderfully, my beautiful girl,” she said at length. From a pocket of her jerkin, she drew a bright green apple and fed it to Eiocha. “Here you are,” she said. “For luck.”

Ceridwyn looked to either side of Eiocha as the horse masticated gleefully, surveying the other riders and mounts. Her heart sunk. Eiocha was a powerful steed, and together, she and Ceridwyn had won many steeplechases in years passed. This year, however, the competition was fast. Bays and cobs made up much of the other steeds, each of them quick and agile. They were good jumpers. Many of the riders, too, were men and women who had not competed previously. Many of them were lean and small, perfect for competing in the steeple chase. Ceridwyn eyed a few of them who had donned new riding boots or sat atop new saddles, eager to flaunt their affluence in the games. Gold arm rings, neck rings, and earrings glinted in the sunlight. Ceridwyn wore no such finery. The boot that she slipped through the stirrup as she swung up into the saddle was old and cracked. It had been years since she’d had new ones, but nothing was as painful as breaking in new riding bootsaccept breaking in a new saddle, which Ceridwyn did not have.

She thought about the wall-worn shoes on her feet, the old saddle beneath her. These things moulded to her, to Eiocha, like second skins. They were one and the same in that moment, rider and mount, sister souls. She allowed a smile to grace her lips. Perhaps victory is not so out of reach, she thought.

“Riders ready!” one of the judges called.

The red flag was raised.

Ceridwyn lowered herself in her seat, preparing. Eiocha counted impatiently beneath her.

The flag dropped and the riders surged forward with cries of delight and ferocity. Ceridwyn found herself laughing as she kicked Eiocha into a run, the wind whooshing past her ears. Those first moments were the hardestriders and mounts crowded together, a mass of bodies in a storm of dust, running pell-mell until the first obstacle could separate the true riders from the layman.

Ceridwyn saw it just aheada low fence decorated with feastday flowers. “Come on, Eiocha!” she called to the mare. Eiocha put on a burst of speed, trying to distance herself from the other riders. She leapt. There was a sensation like flying, and Eiocha touched down on the other side of the fence, taking the lead.

It was too soon to celebrate victory. The other riders were close behind. Ceridwyn and Eiocha rounded a bend, having to take the outside line or lose their speed. A willowy boy with golden hairhis name was Grouseastride a chestnut-coloured bay found the inside track a stole the lead. They danced through the barrels, winding with practiced speed and precision. Ceridwyn narrowed her eyes, calling commands to Eiocha who followed the bay closely. They caught up to them at the next hurdle, touching down on the other side together.

Ceridwyn sought to lose her rival at the ditch, but they leapt over this with speed and grace that Eiocha could not match. The bay was the faster, but Eiocha had experience and stamina that the bay did not.

“Go!” Ceridwyn called. Ceridwyn and Eiocha’s hearts beat as one as they thundered ahead. They sped through the second barrel obstacle, kicking up dirt and grass. A blur of chestnut-brown sped past her as Ceridwyn guided Eiocha towards the next hurdle. Grouse was whipping his horse with a stick hard enough to make the animal bleed along its left flank. “I’ll kill you if I lose!” he promised the horse.

White hot anger flashed across Ceridwyn’s skin, filling her with a sudden nausea.

“Let’s go, Eiocha,” she said to her mare. Eiocha gave a snort of acquiescence and sped off down the track, eager to beat Grouse as much as Ceridwyn was. They cleared the next hurdle, and the next. They were neck and neck with Grouse and the bay. There was only one obstacle left.

Ceridwyn felt Grouse’s eyes on her as they sped for the final hurdle. She ignored him. There was no way she could let someone who treated their horse that way to win. She couldn’t stand for it, couldn’t

A sudden, sharp pain exploded above her right eye, sending her sideways and nearly off her saddle. She caught herself before she could fall, holding onto the saddle with one hand and leg. Eiocha sped onwards as Ceridwyn fought to regain her wits. The cut above Ceridwyn’s eye was bleeding into her vision, forcing her to close one eye.

Clenching all the muscles of her stomach, Ceridwyn curled and lifted herself back onto her saddle, righting herself before Eiocha took her over the final hurdle. By then, Grouse and another racer had gained the lead ahead of her.

Eiocha cleared the hurdle and dashed to the finish line to take third place. The crowd was cheering. Grouse was whooping and hollering with victory. His bay panted, exhausted and in pain.

“Ceri!” someone called. She looked and saw Saoirse, her sister-in-law coming towards her. Three young girls followedSaoirse’s daughters, Na and Aisling, and Ceridwyn’s younger sister, Aine. Ceridwyn swung down from Eiocha. Her legs wobbled beneath her as she touched the ground, but Eiocha was there to steady her. She pat the horse’s neck lovingly. “Thank you, my friend,” she said.

“Let me have a look at you,” Saoirse said when she was near enough. She forced Ceridwyn’s face up towards the light. The brightness sent daggers into her eyes. She winced.

“I’m all right,” Ceridwyn assured her, gently pushing her hand away and lowering her gaze. The stabbing pain subsided into a dull ache.

“I saw Grouse strike you with his stick,” Saoirse said angrily. “I have a mind to go to a judge. You would have won if he hadn’t”

“It’s all right,” Ceridwyn interrupted gently, though her own blood was boiling, “but thank you. Stand with Eiocha for a moment?”

“Where are you going?”

Ceridwyn didn’t answer. She strode towards Grouse with a steady gait. The soft grass had been warmed by the summer sun, and yielded beneath her stride. She felt like she were sinking. She felt heavy with wrath, as though it were a weight that could bow her shoulders. Her heart was in her throat as she closed the gap between herself and Grouse.

He stood in a circle of his friends, laughing and celebrating his victory. They didn’t care that blood was leaking down the side of the bay’s leg from long gashes in its flank where Grouse’s switch had opened the skin.

How can he treat an animal this way? she wondered. She had to speak with himthe make him understand that he couldn’t do this.

Ceridwyn stood in an opening of the circle. Grouse’s back was to her. She tapped him politely on the shoulder. He turned to regard her, and Ceridwyn watched the colour drain from his face. “Y-You’re” he stammered uselessly.

Though she wished nothing more than to strike Grouse where he stood, she forced herself to instead take the reins of Grouse’s house in her hands. “Grouse,” she said, her voice kind, yet firmat odds with the fire burning in her eyes. “I wanted to congratulate you on your victory.”

“Ooh. Thank you”

“And to warn you,” she interrupted him. The bow cowed beneath her gaze as she rose to her full height and informed him in a voice suited for speaking of the weather, “If you ever draw blood from a horse of Loch Coill again, I shall ensure that you never ride again.”

She didn’t wait for Grouse or his companions to respond. She led the bay away from his abuser and back to where Saoirse and the girls stood waiting with Eiocha. Saoirse gave her a knowing nod. “Such diplomacy,” she mocked gently. “As expected from the sweet little Ceri.”

Ceridwyn sighed, tired. “I can’t deny that II thought of striking him. But I couldn’t. That’s justnot know I am.”

Saoirse chuckled. “I know.” She stepped forward, cupping Ceridwyn’s face and planting a sisterly kiss on her brow. “I would have hit him.”

Ceridwyn couldn’t help but laugh. “I know.”

Saoirse stepped back and turned to the girls. “Aine, take your sister to the healer, I’ll take care of the horses.” She gave Ceridwyn a significant look. “You ran a good race. A fair race.”

“Thank you.”

She took the reins of the bay from Ceridwyn. “Will we see you at the glma match later? Faolan is wrestling.”

“Perhaps. I want to clean up and change. These breeches are terrible. I don’t know how to stand them.”

“Funny,” Saoirse said with a bright, beautiful smile, “I was going to say the same about your dresses.”

They kissed and parted ways, Saoirse, Na, and Aisling leading the horses towards the stables, and Aine leading Ceridwyn towards the healer.

A small pavilion made its home in a corner of the field where the athletics of the Midsummer festival were taking place. A small fire burned just outside, ready to warm water or honey if the need arose. Not far off, a mule was tethered next an empty cart, nibbling on some grass. Inside the pavilion were several sleeping matstwo of which were filleda basket of herbs and bandages, some blankets, and a stooped old crone.

This was Grandmother.

Grandmother was, perhaps, the eldest person in Loch Coill. She’d lived there all her life and sired but one daughter who died in childbirth, leaving Grandmother to care for the little orphan. Her name had fallen out of use and memory. All who knew her called her Grandmother.

She sat on a pillow with her legs beneath her. In her gnarled hands, she held a chain on flowers which she was stringing together into a crown, like the one she wore on her head like a circlet of fine gold. Her long white hair was the colour of fresh snow and draped over her shoulders in thick dreadlocks. Her skin was old and leathery, bronzed from years and years toiling in gardens under the summer sun. Deep wrinkles made crags of her features, making her look more ancient than she truly was. She wore a worn but clean feastday dress and apron of blue, green, and gold, and all through her hair and around her throat and wrists were circlets of flowers.

Her watery blue eyes lifted from her work when Aine and Ceridwyn approached, and she set her work aside. “That’s a nasty cut you have there, Ceri,” Grandmother croaked. Her voice was like the windsoft, quiet, breathy. Like everyone in Loch Coill, Ceridwyn had known Grandmother all her life, and like everyone in Loch Coill, Grandmother knew her by name.

She knelt before the crone, showing her the cut. “It’s not so bad,” Ceridwyn insisted.

Grandmother dipped her hand into a nearby basin of water and, with a soft cloth, began washing Ceridwyn’s face. “The face and head bleed a lot,” Grandmother explained as she did so. “It’s hard to see what damage has been done until we can wash away the gore.”

Ceridwyn made a sound of acknowledgement, but said nothing. When Grandmother was done cleaning, she moved closer to examine the cut. Ceridwyn could smell the mint and honey of her breath and the fragrance of the flowers around her head and throat.

“Hmm, not much left to be done. The blood is thickening already.” She pressed a bandage into Ceridwyn’s palm. “Keep some pressure on it until the bleeding stops. You’ll be just fine. Hard to believe a sweet girl like you getting into a fight, though.”

“I wasn’t in a fight,” Ceridwyn explained. “I was struck.”

“And you did not strike back?”

“No.”

“Hmph, you should have.”

Ceridwyn suppressed a smile as Grandmother finished her work. Aine helped Ceridwyn to her feet and she pressed the bandage Grandmother had given her to her brow as she made her way home. Absently, she thought of her husband, Ferin, and wondered how he was fairing on his hunt.

I wonder if he’ll catch anything