"Chapter VIII-An Unlikely Apprentice" by James P-W

Chapter Eight

An Unlikely Apprentice

Coldly accusing eyes stared at her as the High Lord advanced, wraith-like and inexorable, paying no heed to the blood bubbling up from the wound in his neck. Ceridwen tried to run but her legs wouldn’t obey her. “I didn’t mean to!”she screamed hysterically, shrinking away as the specter loomed in her vision. And then she remembered, “And you’re dead! You can’t hurt me!”

Air rasped through the hole in her betrothed’s neck. He’s laughing, she realized. Trapped, she could do nothing but watch as cold grey hands, stained crimson, closed around her throat. Ceridwen thought she could see mirth glinting in Torsten’s lifeless eyes as he throttled the life out of her.

“You – can’t – hurt – me…” she managed to gasp.

Ceridwen awakened with a start, sweat-soaked and with a taste in her mouth like a musty, rotten tomb. For a moment she didn’t know where she was and looked about wildly for the familiarity of her four-post bed, wrought-iron braziers, fireplace, and writing desk. She saw nothing but straw and golden sunlight streaming through the holes in the hayloft’s roof, and remembered she was at Shrine-on-the-Sea, in the land of Einrue – not Castle Lir in Gueltor.

She sat upright, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and gingerly touched light fingertips to her neck, as though part of her expected to feel bruises. He’s dead and gone…she admonished herself. You are beyond his reach now. Yet that smacked more than a little of a lie, for every night she found herself in his lifeless grasp.

Ceridwen pushed thoughts of Cerdic aside, gave her head a shake, and yawned hugely. She could make out the faint sound of surf pounding against the shore and seagulls complaining shrilly to the salty air.

She had woken the same for the past two mornings, now. And two nights past when she had arrived had been the night of the full moon, yet no knight had come. Upon reaching the seaside town after riding through the lonely wet, Ceridwen had wanted nothing more than to rent the coziest room at The Mere-maid's Purse Inn and curl up by a fire. Dressed as poor boy, however, that would have raised many eyebrows and unwanted questions. So she had pressed a few coins into the innkeeper's palm and said, “For a private spot above the stables, sir, and no questions asked.”

            Luckily, Master Gaelir was an honest man, true to his word. He had asked few enough questions, she had remained safely hidden, and he had provided her with not only a secluded spot in the hayloft but blankets and food as well. “You'll be safe here, lad.” he had told her with a sympathetic smile.   

            Almost as if thinking about him had summoned the balding innkeeper, Gaelir appeared from a trapdoor, puffing and holding a plate of cockles, laverbread, and fried eggs. “Merry morn to you, Kenyon,” he said, dropping down the plate onto the ground. “Though ‘tis close enough to noon, if truth be told.”

            “Merry morning to you as well.” Ceridwen shrugged off the thick woolen blankets that had kept her warm from the chilly sea breezes that blew in at night and rummaged in her belongings to find her leather purse. As always, the kindly innkeeper refused her coin with a shake of his head.

“You like as if you've had few enough favors done for you of late, lad.”

            Thanking him, Ceridwen started on the plate of food. The laverbread was salty and not to her taste at all, and the fried eggs were greasy and only lukewarm. She knew that were she at home, she would be dining on porridge with dried apricots and flat round sweetcakes with honey and butter. However, it would not do to insult Master Gaelir's food nor his generosity, and she was hungry as well, so she ate the food, as neatly as she could without a knife or fork.

            Gaelir intently watched her chew the food and, self-conscious, she pretended not to notice. Though kind and well-intentioned, he still made her feel uncomfortable when he watched her. She had never before conversed with his ilk; the closest she had ever come were those around the castle, like Anna and Myrtle her chambermaids or Wil the stableboy. She was altogether unsure of how to strike up a conversation with him...perhaps she should ask about the weather?

            Luckily he rescued her from her indecision. “So what will you do today, lad?” he asked, curiosity finally getting the better of him.  

            Ceridwen shrugged, mightily resisting the urge to scratch herself where, despite her best efforts, straw had gotten under her shirt. She had spent the past two days wandering about the markets and streets, and also a fair bit of time in prayer at the shrine for which the town was named. Though it was dull, she needed the prayer to keep her mind from her woes lest despair overtake her.

Today would be just the same as the others, she supposed, as would every day until a knight came and rescued her from sleeping in haylofts and eating commoner's food. “Wander about again, I expect.” she answered noncommittally and carefully chewing and swallowing some of the fried egg. She had become wary of the eggs after crunching down on some bits of shell yesterday while breaking her fast.

            Ceridwen could tell from the look in his eyes that he was itching to ask more, but thankfully he respected her privacy and desisted. He left her in the loft, taking the now-empty plate with him.

            By the time she had eaten and gotten outside it was indeed almost noon, and the cobbled streets were bustling with villagers. The fisher-people who lived in the driftwood huts on the shore had taken their boats out onto the grey ocean and were already hauling in nets. Others perched precariously on dark rocks in the ocean and scraped off into leather bags the coarse, flaky sea-salt that had dried on the boulders. A strong onshore breeze ruffled her hair, carrying with it the smell of fish and brine.

            Greasy-fingered and dressed in wool, she felt dirty, and she was itching all over even though she had managed to get all of the straw out of her tunic. She made her way to the town square and at the fountain, washed her hands and face and rinsed the taste of laverbread out of her mouth. The seaweed dish was considered one of the delicacies of the small land of Einrue, yet Ceridwen was glad she hadn't been subjected to it growing up in Gueltor. Though perhaps, she ruminated, her dislike stemmed merely from the preparation. Master Gaelir was only a humble innkeeper, after all, and not a castle cook, as his eggshell surprise had proven.  

            This actually isn't so bad, Ceridwen reflected as she strolled down the cobbled street down towards the shrine. I haven’t been robbed or attacked…To her left a greasy-haired, red-faced sweating boy pushed a cart laden with oysters towards the market, nearly running over her toes as he shouted out warnings to those down the street. Ceridwen stepped nimbly out of the way only to find herself ankle-deep in horse dung. She silently amended her previous appraisal of the town.

            She arrived at the shrine without further incident. As it had been the other mornings, the open-air cloister was empty save for a robed priest, to whom she donated a few coppers. Smiling benevolently – and somewhat condescendingly – at her, and displaying his yellow rotting teeth in the process, the priest pressed a candle into her hands.

Ceridwen lit it at the lamp burning on the ground by his bare feet and walked quietly into the labyrinthine shrine. It was deathly silent amongst the weather-worn granite pillars, and she knelt down in their midst and carefully placed the candle on the floor.

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and offered up a prayer for the old gods, the gods that had held sway before the sorcerer’s cult, the Kindred of the Flame, had proclaimed a new faith a score or so years past. Her father, despite being a follower of the old way, had given generous alms to every Brother that visited their castle. Ceridwen had once asked him why he didn't resist and keep the old religion, and Kairne Lir had laughed. “It matters not, girl,” he had told her. “Holiness is not in how you worship or what you quote, but in how kindly and well you live your life.”

Poor old man. Ceridwen was glad he had his spiritual world in order, for his tangible life certainly could not be at the moment. A lump formed in her throat, and Ceridwen let herself weep at the thought of her family and friends and asked for forgiveness for what she had done to her betrothed. After a long while she opened her eyes and wiped her tears away, and a strong wind rustled through the rough, ancient stone pillars as though the old gods were answering. Whether they offered up encouragement or mocked her, she could not tell.

When her candle burned out she stood and emerged from the shrine to find that the fishermen had hauled in their day's catches and were bringing them up the cobbled streets and into the crowded open-air markets. Feeling like a fish caught in the current she was swept along in the bustling, smelly, noisy crowd, dodging a cart full of slippery cod and carefully sidestepped where a cart had tipped and spilled greenly-wet seaweed across the dirty street. Undoubtedly the seaweed would be hastily brushed off and brought to the market anyway – Ceridwen vowed not to touch Master Gaelir’s laverbread when she broke her fast on the morrow.  

            Eventually she reached the market and wove her way through the shouting hawkers, perusing villagers, and throng of wheeled carts heaped high with the fruits of the sea. A few dirty children darted about underfoot, looking to cut purses from the unwary, yet she had left most of her coin back at the inn and so paid them no heed.

            She finally made her way out of the market after a particularly close encounter with a cart laden with crabs and clams and stopped to get a drink of water at the fountain again. She sipped the sparkling cold water from her cupped hands gratefully, unaware of how thirsty she had been.

When she looked up, a grizzled man was awkwardly filling a waterskin. Ceridwen realized with a start that half of his right arm, from the elbow down, was missing.

            The man looked up and saw her, and Ceridwen nearly gasped. Iron-grey eyes, strong enough to halt a blizzard or shatter iron, fixed her for a moment. She felt utterly powerless in their grasp.

It took Ceridwen a few moments to free herself from this gaze, realize that she was gaping, and then realize that one-armed or not, the man was a knight – a longsword was slung over his back, and the tall fierce-eyed horse standing by his side was certainly no pack animal.

Her heart leapt into her throat. She saw no lily on him, but neither was there another sigil. Perhaps her father had had to hire a knight from another House. She would have to choose her words wisely – something she thankfully had plenty of practice with.

“Good day, sir,” she said carefully. He nodded curtly in return but said nothing. “Do you live in this town?” He shook his head no, and silence ensued as he stoppered the waterskin with his one hand.

 This is getting nowhere, thought Ceridwen. He’s like a stone wall. I shall have to be more direct.

“What House are you from, my good sir?”

“None.” he grunted.

“What quest brings you here, then?”

“Not one that concerns you, I should hope.” His eyes looked into hers again, as though he was irritated at her for having coaxed out that many words from him, and she felt like she was looking in the eyes of a raptor. The smooth white scar criss-crossing his wind-burnt cheek did nothing to lessen her impression of his fierceness.

Ceridwen bit her lip. Perhaps he is withholding information, she reasoned. After all, if I don’t know him, he probably does not know my face either. Perhaps I must reveal my identity…but how? He may not be my knight, after all.

            She would have to pry it out of him, gain his trust somehow. She took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. “With your leave, good sir, I should like to become your apprentice.” His eyes began sparkling with something that looked like…mirth? She fought down indignation. “I’m good with a knife, sir,” she continued, a bit daunted, “and I should like to learn the sword.” I already know the sword. She realized the irony as soon as the words were out of her mouth – unbidden, the image of her betrothed on the ground, surrounded by a pool of blood, and a bloody pen-knife in the corner of her room, sprang into her mind’s eye. She banished it with her utmost self-control and checked for the knight’s response.

            A small chuckle started, deep in the back of her throat, rising until laughter was booming in the salty air. Nonplussed, Ceridwen stood quietly by the fountain.

            The laughing ceased abruptly. “Come with me,” the knight commanded, and began striding towards the cliffs. Despite the awkward imbalance in his gait and the stump of his arm swinging grotesquely in the air as he walked, Ceridwen could sense the strength and grace of his body even from afar. She suddenly realized she wasn’t following as he turned around and asked, “Are you coming? The first thing an apprentice needs to learn is obedience, boy.”

This isn’t going at all like I thought it would…Ceridwen started forward. “What of your horse…master?” she asked, surprised at how unfamiliar the last word had seemed, and how it had irked her mouth to pronounce.

            He seemed amused. “Any horsethief’s welcome to him, if they’re willing to risk a few fingers or so.” Ceridwen looked back, and almost as if on command the midnight black destrier whinnied and flashed white teeth.

            Ceridwen nodded and turned back to obediently follow the tall man. Sensing that he was not the talkative type, she said nothing. Should I be more direct? Perhaps mention my father?

            Wordlessly the grim knight picked out a small foot-path of beaten grass and took it down to the foot of the rocky cliffs. A little apprehensively, Ceridwen followed him as he trudged down the knot-grass slope and onto the wet, rock-strewn beach, as gulls wheeled overhead and pecked at dead crabs on shore. What is he doing? she asked. I didn’t really want to be made an apprentice…that was supposed to be a hint! Suddenly she felt annoyed with the man. Why did my father send someone this thick?   

            Finally they reached the seashore, where iron-grey waves broke rhythmically against the seaweed-covered rocks. The breeze was much stronger here, and she wrapped her arms around herself and bit back shivers. “Well,” he said sharply, “What are you waiting for, boy? Step into the water! Have you never heard of the baptism of steel, blood, and salt?”

            Blood? Ceridwen bit her lip to keep from responding and took a tentative step farther out into the frigid water. This is ridiculous. She took another step out, and the brine splashing about her feet was cold enough to almost feel hot.

Suddenly fear gripped her as she realized she had never before been in the ocean. She looked down and saw her feet hidden by sea-foam and sand swirling underwater, and yet in her mind’s eye she saw slimy creatures emerging from the deep watery depths to snatch her toes and drag her into their lairs… She stiffened with fear.

            “Farther out, boy. The water won’t hurt you.” Ceridwen willed herself to back up into the chilly water until the water was halfway up her thighs. The cold burned like fire. “That’s far enough, boy. Now take off your clothes.” He drew his longsword and held it easily in his left hand. Wind ruffled his hair, raven-black yet streaked with a few strands of iron-grey.

            Motionless, Ceridwen stood in the water shivering, shortened red-brown hair rustling in the wind. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment.

            “Well,” he demanded impatiently. “Do you scorn the sacred rites of old? You must face the gods in nothing but your own skin. Undress yourself!”         

            Still she didn’t move. “I-I can’t.” she managed to say. Cold was seeping into her bones, into her insides.

            He sheathed his sword. “Of course you can’t, you silly little girl.” he snapped, and strode forcefully out into the waves, grabbed a handful of her tunic, and hauled her back onto shore. “Now do you mind telling me why you did all this?”

“H-how did you k-know?” Ceridwen demanded, shivering and embarrassed at having her guise found out. At the same time anger that he had intentionally humiliated her blossomed like an wrathful flower.

            “What?”

            “H-how could y-you tell I w-was a g-girl?”

            He made a scornful noise with his mouth. “A blind man should have been able to tell. I suppose it’s only because most see only what they’re expecting to see that you hitherto haven’t been found out.” Ceridwen mightily resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him and tried to retort but found that she was shivering too hard to respond.  

            With another clucking noise he wrapped his cloak around her and produced a small flask, which she took and regarded dubiously. “Drink, girl.” he said. “I wouldn’t poison you. If I wanted you dead I could have it so in a moment.”

            She gave the flask a small uncertain shake, and the contents sloshed about inside. Preparing herself for something awful, she screwed her eyes shut and took a tiny sip.

A drop of the drink fell onto her tongue, thick and syrupy, and immediately warmth spread throughout her entire body, from her throat to her tingling fingertips. A taste like that of blackberries exploded inside her mouth.

Coughing, she handed the flask back. “What was that?” she asked.

“Druime, brew of the Druids of old.” he answered. “But you’re avoiding my question.”

It took her a moment to remember what that was, and then decided she owed him the truth. She took a deep breath. “My name is Ceridwen ap Rhiannion, from the House of his Lordship Kairne Lir.” she responded, a touch defiantly. Chew on that, grimface! she thought, only to be disappointed by the lack of emotion he betrayed upon learning her identity. “Though where there are other ears I am known as Kenyon. Were you sent by my father or were my…efforts…in vain?”

“I told you, I’m from no House,” he answered slowly with a thoughtful look on his hard face. “I’m not whoever you’re looking for. But times are bad, girl, and mayhap your father was unwilling to risk a knight. High King Roland grows old and sick in his throne, and no heir awaits him. The lords of the entire land are on edge, and war is one every tongue. Your father will probably send word to you some other way.”

Ceridwen nodded wearily. My father hasn’t even tried to send anybody, she realized at last. I made the journey in three days, travelling at night. Even if he had taken a few days to send someone they would have arrived by now. She fought back tears and smoothed her composure. “From whence are you travelling, sir…” She trailed off, inviting a name.

“Gawein Greystoke. And don’t call me sir, girl.”

“Don’t call me girl, and we shall get along like tea and honey.” she responded, smiling sweetly. The cat was out of the bag, and there was no use chasing after her identity – she might as well make the most of her situation. “And a lady doesn’t expect cheek when she asks a question, sir.”

The effect wrought but these words were not what she had hoped for. Greystoke seized her arm in a grip of iron and spun her around so she was facing him. She opened her mouth the protest, but her cut her off. “I am – no – knight,” he growled at her. “I take orders from none, and I do not take kindly to insolence. I am travelling from the lands of Saerid, girl, to the southern lands of Dravnor. The whys of that do not concern you. And as to getting along, most people find me highly disagreeable after any small amount of time.”

“I can hardly see why, sir,” she said acidly.

He sighed and resumed walking. “I have no desire to play silly little games, girl,” he called over his shoulder. “I would suggest running along home to sup with other ladies and play with lapdogs.”

She had to run to catch up to him. “I will not.” she said once they were side-by-side. “I am travelling south to the town of Goathvale, where I shall join their famous shrine and become a silent sister.” This idea had been at the back of her mind for days, yet she had ignored it. It surprised her to hear her suddenly put words to it. “As you are also travelling south, I feel it would be in your knightly duties to escort me there.” she continued. “Besides, I’m sure somewhere a lord is looking for a knight of his who took training, equipments, and a warhorse. It would be regrettable if my tongue slipped.”

The dour man gave her something that was very nearly a sneer. “Twitter away all you want, scheming little girl, but you’ll find I tell the truth when I say I belong to no House.” He gave her a hard look. “And if you’d like to play little games, I’ve heard of a certain High Lord Torsten, murdered by his own betrothed. She is presumed to be dead, but rumor has it that his family is offering a handsome reward for her capture all the same.”

Weary, disheartened, and frustrated that he had outmaneuvered her at every turn, Ceridwen admitted defeat. “Those words are sharp and heavy, sir.” she said finally as means of a retort. “Be careful that you don’t cut yourself with them.” It was a weak reply, and they both knew that he had the upper hand, but it made Ceridwen feel a bit better.

That is, until Gawein laughed aloud. “Aye, I’ll be carefully not to, ah, cut myself, girl.” And with that he unsheathed a belt-knife. For a wild moment Ceridwen thought he meant to attack her with it, but then he began trimming his fingernails with the razor-sharp blade. Ceridwen gritted her teeth and almost growled aloud.

“So, I can depend on your protection to Goathvale?”

“Yes, girl,” grumbled Gawein, annoyed, running a calloused hand through dark hair in frustration. “Just cure that thrice-damned overactive mouth of yours and leave me in peace!”

Ceridwen smiled and said nothing. “I shall see you on the morrow, at sunrise.”

That night she returned to Master Gaelir’s hayloft and gratefully accepted the dinner he offered her – crab strew with a hunk of bread. “I am leaving tomorrow morning, for I have found what I was looking for, Master Gaelir.” she informed him.  

“Really?” he asked, interested. “And pray tell, what exactly was that, lad?”

“Answers,” she said, chewing. “Answers and new beginnings.” She tossed him her purse, and remained deaf to his protests.

“Best of luck, Kenyon, or whatever your real name may be.” the portly innkeeper wished her after finally accepting her reward. “Wherever the road may take you, stay safe and well.” His look shifted from her face, to the purse, to her face again. “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care either. I’m an old man, with no desire for trouble. Know that your secret is safe with me.” 

She inclined her head graciously to him. “Many thanks, Master Gaelir.” She blew out the glass lantern – candles were too risky in a hayloft – as the innkeeper disappeared down the trap door once more.

“Oh, and Kenyon?”

“Yes?”

“Today three knights of House Torsten came into my inn, asking about a runaway girl named Ceridwen Lir. I just thought you might want to know.”

There was a pregnant pause as Ceridwen fought to find words. “Many thanks once more,” she replied. “I hope they don’t find the girl, whoever she might be.” 

He chuckled at that. “You have sharp wit and a fast mind, my friend. Be wary and trust no one.” She thanked him again and he closed the trap door behind him, plunging the hayloft into darkness. Sleep took a long time in coming.

Hopefully the knights won’t turn up in Goathvale, she thought. I’ll be traveling with Gawein, but what use is a one-armed man? An uneasy sleep enveloped her, and she woke several time in the darkness, sweaty and panting.

When Ceridwen awakened for what seemed the tenth time she could see the rays of sun coming in through gaps in the thatched roof. Her head pounded and her neck and shoulders were as stiff as if she had lain on them all night. She hastily rubbed sleep from her eyes and briskly walked to the seaside shrine by the light of the sunrise. Master Greystoke didn’t seem like the sort of man who liked to be kept waiting.

 With the rosy fingers of dawn creeping over the horizon and streaking hues of color across the immensely empty sky, she had offered up a final, simple prayer to the old gods.

I ask of you to keep me on the right path. If joining the silent sisters in your name is unwise, please show me the right way and offer a guiding hand. If father sent a messenger after all, however unlikely that may be, may he find me. Forgive me for the burden I have been to my family. Forgive me for the trouble I have wrought on both Houses. And forgive me for the death of High Lord Torsten.

When she opened her eyes and turned to leave, she saw Gawein kneeling a few paces away among the pillars, praying. He too rose, and saw her looking at him. “Come,” he said curtly. “Lady or not, I don’t have all day to wait for you.” And with that, they returned to the Mere-Maid’s Purse, where Ceridwen had her grey, Einar, saddled quickly. She led him outside and mounted. “Lead on, si…Gawein.”

They rode off into the clear morning just as the sun emerged fully from behind the edge of the world. They didn’t stop for a rest for most of the morning, but Ceridwen, remembering what her traveling companion had told her of her overactive mouth, dared not ask for one.

“Would you like to hear a story?” she asked finally, a few hours later, unable to bear the silence any longer. He grunted, which she took to be his form of consent. “It’s a favorite of mine. It’s called The Lady and the Silent Travelling Companion. In the end she puts a beehive up his backside to make him say something.” This was a complete fabrication, of course, but she had hoped to coax a laugh or smile out of him.

The stony glare never shifted.

Ceridwen turned sullenly back away from him to face the road once more, and unbidden the words of the tale of Iseult and Einar sprang to mind. His hands were hard as iron and his fingers strong as sea serpents. With a rock-hard jaw set firmly and eyes like fire he hurled the spear at the necromancer…With that Ceridwen almost laughed aloud.

A fine Isuelt and Einar we’d make, she thought wryly. A disgraced lady disguised as a boy, and an old one-armed knight with no House…

They finally stopped for lunch around midday, where the winding road neared the edge of isolated cliffs and looked out over a desolate, grey ocean. Ceridwen climbed stiffly off her horse and vigorously rubbed life back into her stiff legs while Gawein looked on in ill-disguised amusement. As he pulled out food from his saddlebags, Ceridwen groaned.

“What?” he demanded.

She sighed. “That’s Master Gaelir’s laverbread, isn’t it?”