Page 2 of Touched By Maen Llia
“But itisn’tthe solstice!” Catrin said. “Ianto has the day wrong, I can prove it! Mid-summer istomorrow.”
“You can prove it, you say?”
“Yes! The sundial and my gnomon stick tell me the solstice is tomorrow. I swear to you, my lady, Ianto has it wrong.”
“Good,” Eira said firmly.
“Good?”
“You said nothing about the sundial and those sticks of yours when Ianto was beating you. I thought that perhaps you’d read it in the stars or some such foolish thing.”
“Magic? I have no magic,” Catrin said swiftly, for Eira had often told her that. “I have mundane knowledge, whichyougave me.”
“I gave you books which I cannot read myself,” Eira replied. “I thought you were clever. Leastwise, you’ve always appeared so to me, with your reading and knowledge. Yet to tell Ianto he was wrong in front of everyone… Poor Ban the goose boy would have known to hold his tongue.”
Catrin looked over her shoulder—or tried to. The twisting movement hurt. She hissed again and straightened. “If I had stayed silent, then the mid-summer feast would take place tonight. The gods would not like that. How can I let Ianto expose the kingdom tomorebad luck, simply because he has read the stars wrong?”
“You’re a bastard and a girl,” Eira said, in a calm way which took the sting out of that fact. “Ianto is a mage and a wise man. Who do you think the court will listen to?”
Catrin slumped. “Ianto.”
“Aye, and they did. The women will bathe in the Afon Llia at sunset, when the Maen Llia comes to drink at the river and bless them. The mid-summer feast will be held tonight, after the sun has gone. Nothing will change, except that now you have a back that looks like those dried vines over there.”
“It will heal,” Catrin said firmly.
“Aye, the flesh will grow back,” Eira said. “I will pray that your good sense does, too. Put your tunic back on.”
Catrin pushed her arms into the openings in the tunic and carefully pulled it up over her back. Unlike the ladies of the court, her tunic stopped at her ankles, instead of dragging upon the floor and trailing behind them as they walked. Her sandals did not tangle in excess folds and trip her up. She got up from the bench and turned to Eira. “Thank you, my lady.”
Eira grimaced as she put the lid on the pot and the pot back in her pocket. “For the salve or the lesson?”
“Both.” Catrin smiled.
So did Eira. Then the Queen rolled her eyes. “And now, I bid you help me up from this blasted bench. It is far too low for me to spring up the way you do.”
Catrin laughed and helped the old woman rise to her feet and put the staff in her grasping hand. Thanks to the salve, Catrin’s back only twinged a little with the movement. She waited until the Queen was steady on her feet once more.
Eira patted her cheek. “Do as you have always done at mid-summer, child. Do not give Ianto more reason to watch you. Do not give him any reason to think you may have powers which threaten him.”
“But I do not!”
“Yet you let him think you knew about mid-summer because of magic, just now. You did not speak of measuring shadows, as you do.”
“He gave me no chance to explain.”
“Nor will he ever. Ianto is a mage. Magic is all he knows. It gave him his position in my husband’s court. He will not deal with sensible, practical facts. Once I have gone, what protection you have against that drunken, womanizing fool will go, too. Learn to hide from his attention.”
Catrin nodded, for they were wise words. “I will.”
II
They had been delayed upon the road and now the shadows were long, indeed, as they cantered south west along the old Roman road. Marcus was among the riders at the back of the company, where the dust of the riders beneath the Camelot banner rose up around them like a dun-colored fog. Even up here among the hills and folding dales, the grass was parched and less than green.
The dusty fog caught at the back of Marcus’ throat, although he resisted the need to reach for his wine flask, for there was little left of the poor, watered wine. He’d filled the flask this morning before they left the little town they had camped outside of.
Bryn, who rode beside Marcus, was having a harder time of it with the dust. He coughed constantly, and thumped his chest with his fist when the harsh hacking brought him no relief.
Marcus plucked his flask from the bag on his saddle and held it out to Bryn as the man coughed yet again, a sound that made Marcus think his throat was being torn out.
