Book of Herd, page 12
“You’re talking about geldings,” Urien said.
Leolin dipped his head.
“Scholar,” Urien said, keeping his voice low and measured. “If you’re talking about an uprising…”
“You were at the Battle of Rhagfyr,” Leolin whispered.
“I was, but…”
“You have taken the side of geldings on more than one occasion. If we… If they were to ask for your support…”
“I would not give it,” Urien said.
“Not even consider it?”
“I am commander of the Hingst, Leolin. My job is to quash rebellions, not lead them.” Urien took a breath. “Now, listen. I might not remember your name, but I know of the tattooed scholar of Dinas. I know your work and your loyalty. I trust that we can remain on the same side, as allies,” he said, using Leolin’s own word. “But know this… If you turn against your regent, if you turn against Ceffyl, I will put you down.”
“Because you don’t believe in the gelding cause?”
“Because it’s my duty,” Urien said. He took a step back and then reached for Leolin’s hand. He took it in a powerful grip, and said, “I can’t forget this conversation, but neither will I speak of it, and neither should you. But,” Urien said as he softened his grip. “I will look into things, and I will do what I can for your…” He hesitated. “For the cause,” he said. “No centaur should suffer, and geldings have suffered far too long. There is a hierarchy in the herd, and the Herd is Law.”
“Long live the Herd,” Leolin said, albeit through gritted teeth.
“But laws can change. And if things are done within the law, then, yes, Scholar, you have an ally in me, and you can trust the Hingst will uphold that law.” Urien let go of Leolin’s hand and took a breath. “Now, if you think you can change or influence the regent, or the regents in Ceffyl, I suggest that should be your course, the path you should take. Perhaps you have the regent’s ear, Scholar?”
“Not me,” Leolin said. “I advise him on literary, cultural, and historical matters only.”
“Another, then. Someone who shares your passion.”
“There is one, and she is most passionate,” Leolin said. The tattoos on his face shimmered as he smiled.
“She?”
“Yes,” Leolin said as Urien snorted. “A young mare from the south.”
“Of course,” Urien said. He slapped Leolin’s arm roughly and then nodded at the door leading back into the palace. “Until next time, Scholar Leolin.”
Urien cursed silently as soon as he turned his back on Leolin. With the threat of a small war between the cities of Cae and Brân, Beirniad’s stubborn attempts to start a new war with Tondu, the Bane of Ysbail, and Idris’ concerns about a mysterious power forcing the Marchog to flee their country, the very last thing the Hingst needed was a gelding rebellion. Urien cursed again as he entered the palace, and then once more when the usher said the regent was ready for him.
“It’s bad news, I’m afraid,” the usher whispered as he opened the door to the palace receiving room. “Good luck, Commander.”
Urien spared a thought for the company of Hingst he brought with him to Dinas, and hoped they, at least, were enjoying themselves.
“Because I’m not,” he hissed, as he steeled himself to meet the self-styled regent of Dinas.
23
They slept the first night on a broad beach on the banks of the Saeth Afon. Eirwen built a fire while Rhyfedd covered a patch of sand with evergreen boughs cut from the lowest branches of the asiffrwd trees growing along the banks. They drank from the river and ate food from the palace in Dinas that Rhyfedd had brought in the satchels he wore hidden beneath his cloak. The fallen branches Eirwen collected for the fire crackled and snapped in the flames as they picked at soft breads, a range of cheeses – from delicate to overpowering – and a fruit tart made from the last of the midyear harvest. A small herd of wild horses disturbed their meal when they appeared on the far banks of the river. Rhyfedd said they should watch them carefully if they crossed as they would stick to the shallow waters. Eirwen held her breath as a small mare led the herd across the river. The river came as high as the mare’s chest, and Eirwen pressed her hand to her breasts as she guessed where the depth of the water would be when they crossed it the next morning.
“It will be cold,” Rhyfedd said.
But worth it, Eirwen thought.
The promise of ancient texts hidden in the ruins of the Grey City of Gadael had kept her warm during the day, would keep her warm through the night, and, she hoped, when they crossed the river.
They watched the last wild horses cross the river, saying nothing until they were gone.
“Just because a path is forgotten does not mean it is abandoned,” Rhyfedd said. “The country between Dinas and Gadael is full of life, Lady Eirwen. In many ways, when Dinas and the other cities of Ceffyl turned their backs on Gadael, they presented the wild herds and other beasts with a gift.”
“A country of their own,” Eirwen said.
“With no prying eyes and no one to bother them.”
Rhyfedd’s lips spread into a lop-sided smile, all the warmer for the glow of the fire reflected in his cheeks, and the embers that danced in his eyes. He said nothing for a short while, and Eirwen watched, enthralled by the twitches of amusement and spontaneous thoughts revealed in the deep crease of Rhyfedd’s cheeks, or a sudden spark of light in his eyes. The evening grew dark, and they moved closer to the fire and each other for warmth. The surface of the river, streaming past them with the shush and snatch of sand from the edge of the beach, reflected the moon with dappled patches of light. Eirwen remembered similar times from her youth. She turned her head and pointed downriver.
“Scethrog is many leagues that way,” she said, tucking her hand back inside her cloak.
“You grew up on the river?”
“On a small farm south of the village,” Eirwen said. “Scethrog lies on the third tine of a river fork gushing into the sea. I spent most of my spare time on the beach.” She pressed her fingers into the sand. “The beaches are wide, and you can gallop for half a day without having to stop once. But then the cliffs start, and they rise tall from the sand – sheer and stark.” Eirwen turned to Rhyfedd and smiled. “I haven’t been back in such a long time, but sitting here, beside the river, makes me think of home.”
“We could go there one day,” Rhyfedd said. “I should like to see it.”
“Scethrog?” Eirwen laughed and said, “It’s a tiny village. Nothing grand. Nothing like a city.”
Rhyfedd reached for Eirwen’s hand. “Still,” he said. “I should like to see it.”
Eirwen enjoyed Rhyfedd’s touch, and, as the moonlight shone, and the fire crackled softly, she leaned in close, pressing her nose to his neck, smiling as he said it was cold, before turning her head, brushing her hair across his cheek as she sought out his lips.
The first kiss blistered Eirwen’s lips, charging her body as her hearts pumped as one, flooding her system with a fire greater than the flames crackling on the beach on the banks of the Saeth Afon. They kissed again, longer this time, and she tasted him on her tongue, ever so briefly, before another charge tickled and prickled her skin and they both pulled back, laughing. The firelight danced in Rhyfedd’s eyes, and Eirwen leaned in again for another kiss, only to feel his soft palm on her cheek as he turned her head slightly, running his fingers through her hair, but resisting that third kiss.
“My lady,” he said, softly.
“What’s wrong?” Eirwen said, as the heat of the moment ebbed suddenly out of her body.
“Nothing is wrong,” Rhyfedd said. “Everything is, in fact, perfect. We are on the banks of the great Saeth Afon. Tomorrow we will cross it, and I will take you through the Kachemal to the grey city, and you will be amazed,” he said. “Just as I am amazed by you, Lady Eirwen of Scethrog.”
“But…?”
“But nothing.” Rhyfedd smiled. “I just want to enjoy this moment, and the next. I want to enjoy the whole journey.”
“But not kiss?”
“Yes.” He laughed. “Of course, to kiss. I want to kiss you forever.”
“Then kiss me,” Eirwen said, taking his hand, pulling it gently from her cheek. “Kiss me now, tomorrow, and forever.”
“And I will,” Rhyfedd said. “But tonight, perhaps, we should savour these first kisses, as our first, and then enjoy more in the mountains, and again in Gadael when you see the fair city.”
“Fair city?” Eirwen shook her head as the spell of the kiss was waylaid by Rhyfedd’s words. “I thought it was the Grey City of Gadael? Abandoned, rejected, and lost.”
“You will see,” Rhyfedd said. “But perhaps, as we sit here on this night, might I beg of you, a story, to fit our surroundings,” he said, lifting his head to look up at the trees. “They are not the greatest of trees this close to the river. But they remind me of another forgotten people, and I wondered if you knew a story or two about them?”
“You’re talking about the nymph?”
“Yes,” Rhyfedd said.
Eirwen shook her head. “So little is known about them, and I know even less.”
“Then perhaps,” Rhyfedd said, “it is my turn to tell a story. With your permission, Lady Eirwen?”
Eirwen slid her fingers between Rhyfedd’s and nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Tell me of the nymph.”
Of the Coming of the Nymph
As told by Rhyfedd of Danheddog
Of the Coming of the Nymph
What Rhyfedd, the mysterious centaur from Danheddog, lacked in theatrics he made up for with a soft voice that lulled Eirwen into another world as she settled against his flanks for the story of the coming of the nymph. She felt the gentle rise and fall of his body with each breath, the beat of his centaur heart – and the fainter beat of his smaller, human one – and the audible thump above the crackle of the last logs Rhyfedd added to the fire. He brushed Eirwen’s snow-white hair to one side, revealing her ear and smiling as he asked if she was planning on sleeping through his story.
“That all depends,” she said, closing her eyes. “On how interesting it is.”
Eirwen opened one eye to give Rhyfedd a cheeky look, then closed it quickly as he returned the same.
“I should perhaps start with a description.”
“Of the nymph?” Eirwen shrugged, and said, “They’re small. About a quarter of our size. They live in trees and eat squirrels.” She opened her eyes to give Rhyfedd another cheeky look, only to find him nodding as he chewed over her description.
“It’s not bad,” he said. “Although you said nothing about their long white hair, braided, of course, and threaded with beads. The beads are not the husks or shells of nuts, as you might think. But they are made of wood, fashioned, and shaped by the very oldest of the nymph, and the very youngest, who seem to find it fun to present such tokens as gifts to be braided into their parents’ hair.”
Eirwen lifted her head and said, “You really do know about the nymph.” She wanted to ask how, but Rhyfedd shushed her with a smile and then put another thick length of wood onto the fire before continuing. The river sifted along the banks, tickling more sand from the beach, and Rhyfedd took a deep breath.
“Their clothes are made of leather,” he said, breathing out. “Much like our own. They are more intricate, though, with patterns sewn into them. The leather comes from, amongst other beasts, squirrels.” He paused to look down at Eirwen, waiting for her to laugh, but she simply smiled and nodded for him to keep going. “But wild hogs are the main source, requiring great skill to kill with a bow and arrow, as a hog is twice the size of a nymph. They make beautiful bows, and the keenest of arrows. They string the bows with dried hog sinew, and decorate them with whorls and grooves inspired by the bark of the oldest trees upon which they twist their homes.”
“They really do live in the trees?”
Rhyfedd nodded. “And make homes from the vines. But as centaurs don’t climb trees, the only examples recorded have been the homes – which we inaccurately call nests – that fall down when the Drycin attack.
“The Drycin?”
“I’m coming to that,” Rhyfedd said. He sighed, adding, “Lady Eirwen, I fear you are a better teller than a listener.”
“I just want to know what happens.” Eirwen slapped Rhyfedd’s arm playfully and said, “Go on. I’m listening.”
Rhyfedd punished her with a long pause as he adjusted the wood in the fire, and then he began once more, “Starting with the winds, before the Drycin.”
He paused again and received another playful slap and an exasperated sigh from Eirwen.
“It is said the first nymph came to Ceffyl on the winds. They are not wind riders, but neither can they resist if the winds are strong enough. They are bipedal, and, as you can imagine, with only two legs and two arms, they simply can’t grip onto something hard enough. Given their small size, if the right – or, rather, the wrong – wind blows through a community of nymph, some of them, perhaps all of them, will be blown away. Such was the wind the nymph call gwyllt for it was the wildest they had ever experienced. The nymph say that wind affected all the nymph, every living one of them, as those it did not blow away it killed outright. But the gwyllt, what we call the wild wind, changed the nymph culture in other ways too. They built stronger houses in taller, sturdier trees. If they were hard to see before, after the wild wind, they were nigh on invisible. You have never seen a nymph, have you?”
“Never,” Eirwen said.
“Neither have I,” Rhyfedd said.
“Then how…”
“It is written,” Rhyfedd said, evading Eirwen’s question, and answering it at the same time, “in the Book of Calon, the only work of the nymph to survive the wild wind and the displacement of their people, that a nymph must first live in the canopy, far above the ground, for a small lifetime…”
“How long is that?” Eirwen asked.
“I don’t know.” Rhyfedd took a guess, and said, “Perhaps twenty of our years.” He looked at Eirwen and continued when she caught his eye and nodded. “During that time, the mother sews the child a pair of thigh-length boots. They are otherwise barefoot, and indeed prefer it, but boots are needed if the nymph is to travel down the trunk to explore the ground. The father soles the boots, adds some decoration, and then the young nymph is presented with the boots once they come of age.”
“And they go down the trunk…”
“And explore. Yes,” Rhyfedd said. “There are different rules, I’m sure, but the book is vague, and I don’t recall them.”
“But you’ve seen this book?” Eirwen said as she sat up. “You’ve read it?”
“A long time ago.”
“In Gadael?”
Rhyfedd didn’t answer.
He picked up a long stick and poked the fire. Eirwen waited for him to reveal where he had seen the Book of Calon, but he took a different tack instead.
“Legend has it, once the nymph settled in Ceffyl, they built great cities in the treetops. I find it difficult to imagine, but then, I am a centaur, and we cannot explore the trees. And what we cannot explore, we tend not to believe. But if one is to believe what the nymph scholar wrote – and I want to, Lady Eirwen – then the cities stretched between the trees, perhaps across an entire forest. There is mention of difficult periods with drought when the leaves that protected the nymph from the sun withered and died. Times when a forest fire flushed the game over the edge of a cliff, leaving the nymph with little more than brittle, black nuts and scorched fruit to live on. Heavy rains washed houses from the trunks onto the floor. And lightning strikes would crack a trunk in two and kill all who were caught in the blast.”
Rhyfedd smiled as he caught Eirwen’s eye and read the captive look on her face as she lost herself in his story.
“But by far, it is the Drycin who the nymph feared most.”
“The Drycin?”
Rhyfedd nodded and explained. “They are corporeal, but barely. One could say they are elementals. The nymph describe their skin as greasy, and I think the grease traps the elements of earth and water, molecules from the air, spores of dust – that’s the earth – and water in the form of rain.”
“And the fire?” Eirwen asked.
Rhyfedd nodded, and said, “Smoke particles, turning the Drycin’s skin a pasty grey colour.”
“And they attack the nymph?”
“They are the nymph’s greatest enemy, if one believes what is written in the Book of Calon.”
“This book…” Eirwen said, but Rhyfedd waved the question away.
“The Drycin are difficult to please. One cannot treat with the Drycin as they want for nothing. In truth, it is fair to say they are base creatures, driven by a need to agitate something. Whether it is the elements, or the elements that have combined and become a species, it is difficult to say. But once the Drycin have latched onto something they wish to agitate, very little can stop them. It is written and recorded, but these stories, like the Book of Calon, are from before the herd, or the very beginning of first herd. It is difficult to say, and it has never been proven.”
“But the Drycin exist?”
“Very much so. They are as real as the nymph,” Rhyfedd said.
“And determined to kill, or agitate,” Eirwen said, once she had remembered the word Rhyfedd had used, “the nymph?”
“Yes,” Rhyfedd said with a solemn nod of his head. “They are as formidable as they are seldom, coming but twice, perhaps three times, every herd, leaving generations of nymph doubting their existence, whilst living in the constant shadow of the fear of them returning. But,” Rhyfedd said. “The Drycin are not the nymph’s greatest enemy.”
“They’re not?”
“No,” he said. “That honour is reserved solely for us.”
“Centaurs?”
Rhyfedd nodded. “There have been skirmishes when our species met, and occasional clashes on a larger scale. Once, we came very close to starting a war between our peoples, when Sarn, chief stallion of Mawredd, persecuted a young nymph and the traitorous gelding who helped her.”
