"The Adventures of Tanwin Scathach: Chapter 3: Comfort and Confrontation" by Mary Lynn E Longsworth

There was a faint hint of blue on the horizon when Tanwin awoke, promising the coming of sunrise in a few hours, and a crisp, clear autumn morning. She lay quietly in bed looking through the soft distortions of glass in the bay window across the room thinking on the dream that she had woken from.

She had dreamt of a small village in a green valley, a sparse gathering of buildings made of sticks and sod graced with thatched roofs to keep the rain out, organized in a kind of horseshoe pattern. The grass had grown up rich, thick, and green between them with no sign of any paths, no marks that any foot or hoof had passed this way. She had noticed that one of the buildings was just a simple structure, a thatch roof on a frame of four legs with a kind of gauzy curtain making up the four walls. Pulling aside the curtain she had found a tub of milk so large it could easily hold a man the size of her uncle, and someone or something seemed to be lying just beneath the surface.

She knelt down beside the tub, and reaching into the milky bath with both arms she pulled free a full-grown man whom she cradled in her arms as easily as if he were a newborn child, and a sleeping one at that. Gently, she propped him up against the pillar of the building, wiping his face clean with a cloth, but not recognizing him. He was breathing, though, and that had satisfied her enough. At least there was now another person alive in this empty town.

Something in her dream though caused her to reach back into the tub. Something told her that there was another one within the milky bath, and so there was. Once again she pulled another form free, but this time it was that of a woman, a full-grown adult like her male counterpart, and like her male counterpart sound asleep. A whispering voice within had her slowly return the woman back to the bath, though, telling her that she was not quite fully formed yet, and needed a little more time to grow and develop.

In her dream she wondered if this were a temple devoted a goddess, for incense filled her nose, and candlelight flickered here and there. Hanging above the bath was a set of brightly colored chimes swinging gently in the breeze, remarkably silent, and for good reason. Upon closer inspection, they had not been made to bang noisily against each other. They had not been made to bang against each other at all. From a waning crescent moon hung three ribbons, one green, one blue, one red, and on the middle and ends of those ribbons were tiny gold balls. To the back of the moon hung another gold ball she thought might be a star, and beneath the moon were two wavy ribbons of blue that reminded her of a river.

Tanwin’s eyes had snapped open with the realization of what she had been looking at, bringing her back into the living world fully alert, and wide awake. She had seen the image of the silent chimes before, but only as a symbol in a dream, a single sharp picture that had burned into her mind and into her heart some years back. She had even taken the moon, the ribbons, the star, and the river as her own personal mark, going so far as to have it tattooed on her breast over her heart, as well as put onto her armor. Even the young pages within the Citadel who had not yet learned to read knew her by her chosen crest. Now she had seen it once again in a dream, only this time in a sacred place, a goddess’ bath, above the goddess’ own milk, and she was left to wonder at what it was that this dream was supposed to mean.

The feel of an arm being wrapped around her waist brought her to the present as she noticed she was being tugged a short way across the bed and felt warm, bare flesh being pressed against her own. Smiling, she rolled over to face her gentle abductor under the feather comforter, the golden light from the fireplace washing over his skin.

Originally a luxurious room meant for visiting guests, a page had given the key to Tanwin wrapped with a small packet of herbs in a simple note that read "With Blessings from your Aunt." She never doubted her Aunt Aragwen’s astuteness and almost magical awareness, but wondered if her uncle knew as well. True, her aunt was a priestess of a goddess and like a mother to her, but she had always viewed her uncle as the one who was all knowing of the goings-on around the Citadel. She probably would have worried the whole night if Bran had not kissed her again, silencing her ramblings and fears in the hall on the way to the room.

Now he lay beside her, his arm snug about her waist, pulling her close against him, as his brilliant blue eyes nearly drowned her in their depths. She marveled at how still he seemed, how quiet, as if somehow older and more seasoned by their experience together. She wondered if she looked the same as he did, changed, now knowing the peace and serenity of being well loved, and being more than contented with it, almost beatific. She wanted to promise herself to him, to return from their sabbaticals in a year and be his alone. Together they would finish training to become Chevaliers, and then move on to whatever life had in store for them. She wanted most to serve her uncle, to keep the family she had found at the Citadel together. The thought of the curse kept her silent, though. For all he meant to her, it hurt her to know that she could not ask him to couple with her, for them to be devoted to each other, that to do so would be like tying him to a stone. In less than three years she would have to face curse and possible death, it would be cruel to tie Bran to a future corpse, to hurt him in that way.

"Good morning," she feigned a soft smile, caressing his bare chest. "If we get moving, we might actually beat Hillsfar to breakfast today. Wouldn’t that be a shock?"

Tanwin found she could not even look Bran in the eye, although she had not spoken a lie, she had not spoken the truth on her heart.

"I love you, Bran Godswin," she said quietly, her hand over his heart. "You have given me a most wonderful gift, and for that I am ever so grateful. I only wish I could give you more, promise you more." She paused for a moment. "I don’t want to hurt you, don’t want to trap you," she stammered, then stopped again.

"Trap me," Bran chuckled, "how could you possibly trap me?" It was at that moment, however, that Bran could see a worried look in Tanwin’s eyes. Bran went quiet, waiting for Tanwin to come out with what was on her mind.

She looked up into Bran’s deep blue eyes, her hand still on his chest. "There are only a handful that know of what I speak, and all of them are our superiors. I only learned of it when we were visiting my parents, but I didn’t want to say anything before I found out what it meant." She looked down, suddenly ashamed. "I didn’t want to say anything to you because I didn’t want you to be afraid for me, I didn’t want you to be hurt." Tanwin sighed, once again looking up into Bran’s face. "I’m telling you this because I love you, and you have given me a kind of strength I didn’t have before. I’m telling you now because I need your help to be even stronger once we get back from our sabbaticals."

Sliding back a little, Tanwin took Bran’s hands into her own. "The reason I was upset when I left my parent’s home wasn’t because Torrell Windhollow kissed me." She ran a tongue over her front teeth in memory of the impact of her shield-brother’s sudden burst of happiness. "And it wasn’t because he almost knocked my teeth out in doing so. In truth, I was upset because of something someone I truly trust told me, my old nanny, who’s still in service with my mother. My family is under a curse. I’m still trying to find more about myself so that I can possibly bring a stop to it, to prevent it from ever happening. I don’t know what all it entails, but it hits the day I turn twenty-one, so I’ve got a little more than three years left. Heck, it may not even be true." Her voice tapered off to silence.

Bran looked into Tanwin’s eyes, as if to verify that she was indeed telling him the truth. Satisfied she was, he simply shook his head in disbelief.

"Well," he said, gazing out the window. "I guess that explains a lot then doesn’t it." There was a silence between the two. It was a comfortable silence, the kind that only two people perfectly comfortable with one another could share. Finally Bran pulled Tanwin closer and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

"You’re not doing this alone Tanwin," he said softly. "I will be by your side when the time comes…no matter what."

The two lay there for some time, each in the other’s arms. Only when missing breakfast altogether was at stake did they finally separate themselves, get cleaned up, and head down to join the others.

Arriving at the meal hall together, Bran and Tanwin grabbed seats next to one another at the Chevalier table. It was tradition that those graduates, on the morning after, would join the Chevaliers for their last meals before setting out upon the world. All the graduating squires were in attendance.

"I would arrest him immediately, sir, under the charge of murder, and then confine him securely to his room with posted guards." The answer seemed to pour with a drive and will of its own, and the edge in her voice surprised even her. It was as if the concept of such a thing had raised a kind of anger within her. "I would not make the charge known to the public, sir, not until his father and the woman’s family were notified, and only then before a Council of Judges, and as quickly as possible. It would be for the Council then to decide what is to be done." She paused for a moment to take a breath. "I would also see to it that the woman would be properly tended to, buried with full rites as is due. Then I’d begin work to quell any animosity that may grow because of the situation."

With that Tanwin sat quietly, knowing full well that she had spoken confidently from her heart, but unsure that she had answered the question correctly. She tried to ease her mind. For now this was only a hypothetical question posed by her uncle, a future possibility, but in truth, she would not know exactly how she would react until she actually ran into it. She only hoped that she would do the right thing.

Marcan nodded but said nothing. What he, or anyone at that table thought of Tanwin’s answer she may never know.

Breakfast ended with one last toast from the Chivaliers to the squires, wishing each well in their journeys. That done, the squires filed quietly out of the dining hall and back to their rooms. All would be departing this morning and had looks of quiet determination upon their faces.

Tanwin left Bran’s side for a moment, joining Myrig and Carver at Chivalier Hillsfar’s side.

"Gather your things and be quick," Hillsfar explained. "We ride as soon as all are ready. Meet me at the stables."

"Yes, sir," Tanwin’s response was as automatic as breathing, and she turned on her heal to go.

Myrig and Hillsfar stayed to talk for a moment as Carver and Tanwin headed for the door. Carver, a smile on his face, passed Bran first and whispered in his ear. Bran’s face immediately turned red and he grabbed Carver by his jacket. The two men scuffled violently, throwing one another back and forth. Chairs crashed to the floor and dishes spilled from the table as the two men struggled with one another, jerking each other this way and that by their jackets.

"What in the nine hells?" Tanwin blurted out in a moment of confusion. If she had not seen it from the start, she would have thought she was watching two neophyte pages with more gonads than sense brawling in the dining hall rather than two graduated squires. Discipline had always been the rule, and the rule stated that fights were to be taken out on the training fields. Even then they were more organized than just a raucous brawl complete with referees and official witnesses to keep things from getting out of hand.

Tanwin watched in a mixture of alarm and growing anger, trying to bodily intervene on the dueling pair to get them apart. "Stop it, you two! You’re acting like infants!" she growled. With a near miss of an errant fist brushing lightly past her nose, she was hard pressed not to start landing some blows herself to knock some sense into the two. She could feel herself starting to loose her own temper, and knew it was time to back off.

"Oran! Cedric!" she shouted for her two shield-brothers as she stood back. "Help me get these two apart before someone really gets hurt."

It was Hillsfar’s voice that ended the raucous. "Squires!" His voice was booming and echoed loudly off the high ceilings of the dining hall. Both Carver and Bran separated themselves and straightened their clothing, which had become quite disheveled from the wrestling match.

His eyes boring into the two squires Hillsfar spoke out, his words intended for Tanwin and Myrig. "Leave us, ready yourselves and meet at the stables. And close the doors behind you as you leave."

"Yes, sir," Tanwin’s response was terse, though her glare landed squarely on Carver. She had only a glimmer of an idea of what he might have said to Bran to make him rage so, no doubt something involving her. Once again his lashing tongue had laid a barb deep, and it angered her that he had aimed it at someone not armored like her in defense against it.

Catching Carver’s eye, she felt her own lips begin to twist in an angry smirk that had mirrored his own once. "Don’t cry," she mouthed to him, laying her own barb as she turned on her heel and marched out.

Carver’s grin turned to a scowl and Tanwin was certain that the young squire’s icy gaze was piercing her back all the way out the dining hall doors.

"This does not bode well for our mission," Tanwin grumbled to the towering Myrig as they walked a few strides from the closed doors to the dining hall. Anger made her pace faster than normal, as did her desire to be as far from Carver as possible for the moment. For once it was Myrig who seemed to be struggling a little to keep up with her, but only just a little. "Damn Carver to the nine hells," she growled, barreling through the quadrangle and into the dorms. She only stopped when she reached the dragon-carved doors of her unit, and glowered at the heavy masses of aged oak as if they in some way had offended her. "I’d give my eye teeth to know what he said to Bran to make him fight so, except that no doubt it would anger me even more," she growled, her voice low. "He’s whipped me so many time with his words I thought I was immune, and now this. Myrig, it’s all I can do to keep from lashing out at him myself for all the times he’s hurt me, and yet I don’t know why, and that’s what hurts even more."

Myrig frowned, clearly troubled by this latest event.

"Calm yourself Tanwin," he said to her in his deep, soothing voice. "Remember what Hillsfar has said about the trials. That life represents the true test to the Chivalier. And that while there is never a wrong answer to the problem, there will always be a better one."

"Tell that to Carver," she felt a whine creeping into her voice. Decorum was going out the door with her sense of professionalism, leaving her with a feeling that she was as much an immature child as the two squabbling men had been. "I’ve got so many trials I’m facing just on this trip alone that I’ll probably earn the nickname of ‘Twitch’ by the time we’re through."

Myrig turned to head to his quarters but stopped short. He stared off into the distance, admiring one of the many beautiful stained glass windows that adorned the dormitory ceilings.

"Whatever Carver said to Bran is between them. Clearly it was the most hurtful thing that Bran could have heard at that moment, as I do not think I have ever seen him that angry. Even when Orimear put ink in his tea." Myrig chuckled to himself and turned to look at Tanwin.

"Yes," Tanwin mumbled. Bran had certainly been angry then, and his mood gotten little better until a month later when the black stain on his teeth finally faded away. "But if you recall Orimear at least apologized."

"Something troubles Hillsfar about Caerfyrthen, something he will not tell me. He knows something we do not…and because of that you should be mindful of the mission. Do not let Carver distract you, for you will only be playing into his strength."

"Yes, yes, I know, I know," she waved a hand. "Carver’s the least of my worries."

Myrig paused for a moment, as if he had more on his mind. Those thoughts did not surface though and the towering squire simply turned and walked to his room without a further word.

Tanwin watched him for a moment, frowning with worry, and mentally crossing her fingers. All she could do was pray and hope that whatever bothered Hillsfar, and whatever waited for them in Caerfyrthen had absolutely nothing to do with her, with the man with silver eyes, and with a certain knight in black armor with silver trim. It had not been more than three months since she had crossed his path, and she was eager to not do so again. For although he had challenged Torrell Windhollow to single-handed combat on the festival jousting field for kissing her, he had made it very clear that it was supposed to be a challenge to the death. For good or ill, Tanwin had stepped into the fight fully armored when Torrell had been cleared not only from his horse, but from his senses as well. She had gone in to defend him, and ended up going toe to toe with a knight who was better than her by far. She counted herself fortunate when she came to a few days later in her family’s home that not only was Torrell still alive, but so was she. She also had counted herself fortunate that she had only gotten off with a mild concussion and some very deep bruises. She shuddered with the thought that the knight in the black armor and silver trim might be in Caerfyrthen for the festival there. Not only would she make note to keep in the shadow of Hillsfar for her own sake, but she would keep her eyes wide open as well just to be sure she was safe.

Shoving the door open, Tanwin made her way unimpeded to her bed, pulling her uncle’s sword from its resting place in her footlocker first before gathering up the rest of her things. Her packing went quickly. All she needed was what had already been given to her as a student, a couple of uniforms, a blanket, her toiletry kit, and other sundry items. Personal items were few to be found, she had not had the time to collect anything much, and they all fitted neatly into storage in her trunk to await her return at a later date. As she was packing, though, she had come across a tiny leather pouch strung from a long leather chord that she had made some years back. What she had originally made it for, she could not recall, no doubt she had hung it around her neck, and to be sure that no one could miss that it was hers, she had stained her crescent moon and ribbons symbol upon its sealing flap. It took her no time to pull the thong from the nape of her neck, letting her long hair fall over her shoulders as she unsheathed her knife. It took her even less time for her to cut free a lock of the coppery red tresses, and tuck it neatly into the pouch. Quickly she tied her hair back again as if nothing had happened, picked up her back, and with the leather pouched tucked in the palm of her hand, cradled her uncle’s sword in her arm.

Gathering her things Tanwin exited the dormitory perhaps for the last time. Much could be learned on the sabbaticals but there were always a few squires who never did return. Of the dozen or so squires that graduated each year, it was normal for only two-thirds of that number to return after the sabbaticals. It was a fact of life, and a challenge all squires took up eagerly.

Stepping into the morning light, Tanwin took in one last, deep breath. The cool, crisp morning air of the citadel was always refreshing, and this day even more so. Crossing the courtyard, which was empty as all squires were still in mass, Tanwin approached the stable.

The stable hand, a young page known as Berk, was busy combing down one of the four horses for the journey. As Tanwin approached he smiled and waved.

"Hella Missus Tanwin mam," he exclaimed with a toothy smile and thick accent. "I bet ye be excited te be en yer way?"

"No, I’m not," she spoke honestly, though she could not help but smile at Burk in return. His friendly greeting was a welcome contagion to counter-act the dour mood she felt slipping into her bones. "Not a word to anyone, but although I don’t mind being with Chivalier Hillsfar on a mission, I definitely don’t mind being Myrig Shreeves, Carver ap Hugh’s going be a pain in rump. Needless to say, I’m sure the Citadel’s going to be glad he’s gone for a time."

"Master Vangal was here a moments ago and left ye a sheath. It be on yer horse, the cream colored mare over there."

"Oh, thanks," she nodded, and made her way to her waiting mount expecting to see a simple sword-sheath waiting for her.

"Must be a mistake," she muttered to herself, staring at the black-lacquered sheath with the silver inlays of leaves and vines. No doubt this had been the effort of both her masters. The metal was dwarven forged and formed, but the decoration reminded her too much of the elven bowmaster to be ignored. She tried to tell herself that this thing was far too nice to for a squire to carry. This was something for a knight or a Chivalier! But another part of her argued that not only would it be rude to return it, but that it was doubtlessly a loaned thing and she would give it back when she returned to the citadel. Master Vangal was probably working on a much plainer sheath for her right now, and it would be ready upon her return.

Shaking her head, she set the little neck-pouch safely onto the seat of her saddle, and sheathed her uncle’s sword in its new enclosure. Happily draping it over her back, she quickly secured her bag to the back of her saddle, palmed the neck-pouch again, and waited patiently for the others.

Her wait was not long, shortly afterwards Myrig arrived, selecting the largest of the three light warhorses with which to ride. He gave Tanwin a subtle nod and a grin as he mounted but said nothing.

Moments later Hillsfar and Carver exited the dorms, Carver’s gaze fixed to the ground where no doubt Hillsfar directed him to put it. The two men joined the others, each selecting their respective horses. Hillsfar’s, a beautiful but powerful heavy warhorse named ‘Gorgon’ stamped it’s hoof three times excitedly upon sighting its rider.

‘Easy girl," he exclaimed with a grin, one of his few. He patted the horse affectionately on the neck before mounting.

Turning in his saddle, Hillsfar faced Tanwin and nodded. "Squire Scathach, you have exactly two minutes to say goodbye. You may catch up to us on the road. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," she replied smartly.

Hillsfar nodded and although Tanwin could not be certain she thought she saw a hint of a grin on the Chivalier’s face.

"Oh yes," Hillsfar continued as he turned back to front, taking Gorgon’s reigns from Berk. "And Carver, if I hear you say one word before dinner I promise you your sabbatical will be spent in the kitchen. Is that understood"?

Carver did not answer, but the frown on his face and the bow of his head made it quite clear that he indeed understand.

"Ride," Hillsfar called out, urging Gorgon onward towards the Citadel gates. Myrig likewise spurred their mounts onward, charging after the Chivalier in earnest.

It was only a short time before the sound of galloping hooves faded completely away, and once again the courtyard was silent, with only the whisper of the winds on Tanwin’s ears.

"Missus Scathach mam," Berk said meekly. "Mister Bran is here."

Tanwin, realizing she had been admiring the three mounted men ride off, had barely noticed Bran’s approach. Turning, she noticed his face carried a mask of frustration and disappointment and he could not seem to meet her questioning stare

"I…I’m sorry Tanwin," Bran said softly.

"For what?" she smiled, her heart relieved to see him. She reached out and pulled him close, hugging him to her. "Bran, if it’s about Carver, then there’s nothing to be sorry about. He’s a master at hitting raw nerves, and he most definitely found yours. Gods only knows he’s hit mine more than a few times, but I’ve had the chance to build up calluses against him. I’m just glad I have the chance to see you before I leave. I was so scared that I’d have to send a page to you with a final message, and they’d muck it up."

Tanwin let go of Bran and took a slight step back, holding out an open hand to him. In it was the small neck-pouch on the leather thong, her symbol clear on its closing flap. "It’s not much," she said softly, and sighed. "I guess I’m a bit old fashioned, maybe even a bit of a romantic too. This may even be the first sign that I’ve read too far many books. It’s got a lock of my hair in it, and, well... I just wanted to give you something to remember me by, something that you could carry with you, to know that I’ll always be with you in spirit, thinking of you." She smiled a little. "I’ve even heard such things can keep people safe, protect them. Well, I’m not sure my hair can do that for you, but, well..." Her voice trailed off.

Bran accepted the neck-pouch with awe. Looking up at Tanwin, he reached over and caressed the hair in her ponytail.

"I’ll wear this always Tanwin."

"Be safe, write as you can, and if not to me, then to my uncle, or either Master Peraduer or Master Vangal. They will know how to reach me no matter what. If I cannot get a message to you, then I will send it to them as well. Gods be willing and the creeks don’t rise, we will meet again here at the Citadel in a year. And Bran," Tanwin paused for a moment, looking deeply into his brown eyes. "If ever you feel low, just remember that Carver’s having to answer to Donigal Hillsfar, and with the way things are going right now, Carver’s either going to be a mute for the rest of his life, or he’ll be spending his sabbatical in the kitchens." She smiled broadly.

Bran returned the smile. "The kitchens would be too good for that one."

Tanwin glanced over her shoulder to the open gates, and the mountain valley beyond where she could just make out an outpost tower on the other side. From here she could hear the distant sound of a waterfall as she was reminded of the endless source of fresh water that fed the castle-fortress from a cavern lake in the heart of the mountain they lived on. She would miss it while she was gone.

"I have to be going. Hillsfar may be my Chivalier, but he can be a real disciplinarian when he wants to be. Besides, I don’t want a miss a second being with Carver today, Hillsfar’s told him he can’t say a word until supper, and I’m just dying to see him say something, anything." She laughed wickedly. "You know, after all the years of needling, this trip might just be worth it all."

Glancing over her shoulder at the open gate again, Tanwin half expected to see Hillsfar there, sitting astride Gorgon glowering at her for being tardy. She knew had to go. Her chevalier was waiting, and although he was a great man in her eyes, she also knew him to be a man of punctuality, and low tolerance for lateness. It was time to leave.

"A kiss before going?" Tanwin asked quietly, uncertain she wanted to push the issue out here in the open. "If not, it’s okay, I can wait a year," she smiled.

Bran nearly lunged forward, taking Tanwin in a powerful grip as he kissed her with all the passion he could muster. When the two finally separated he gazed into her eyes and smiled.

"I think that one will last me for a year, how about you?"

"Huh?" Tanwin looked momentarily dazed. "Um, yeah. Yeah, that should last me about a year. I think. Maybe." She smirked, pulling an errant strand of hair behind her left ear. "I better get going, or I’m going to start asking for more. You’ll become as addictive as Mrs. Prennie’s honey-bread." She would never forget sneaking in and out of the kitchens on the quest for the sweetest, tastiest bread ever. She had gotten caught more than a few times, but thankfully Mrs. Prennie, the head cook, was a kind-hearted woman who always complained that Tanwin was just too skinny and needed to be fed.

With that Tanwin mounted up and smiled. "I love you, Bran Godswin, may the Gods weep upon our parting, smile favorably upon our travels, and throw a blessed party in their great halls when we next meet. Fare you well, beloved." Nudging her mare into a trot towards the gate, she glanced over her shoulder and waved. "I’ll see you in a year!"

"A year!" Bran repeated the call back to her. The last view Tanwin would have of Bran was of the young man smiling and waving back as she rode through the gates and out of sight.

Grinning mischievously, she urged her horse through the open gates. "C’mon, Gwen, Hillsfar’s waiting for us, and I’ve got a Carver to watch squirm. Let’s go!" As one, the pair charged down the paved road at full gallop, racing to catch up to the others.