Consorts of Heaven Read Online Free PDF Page A

on his head; he had been a little like this, his moods changing fast as the sky before a storm, one moment afraid, then angry, then upset. The boy never really recovered, and he died the next winter.
    She loaded her basket with peat from the lean-to beside the moot-hall, then walked round and went inside. The men might already be out. They were due to start bringing the cattle down from the high pastures today. If so, she would have to deal with Gwellys and put up with the inevitable tirade. Kerin wondered if this star-season Arthen might finally take a wife to replace the one who had died giving birth to Fychan, perhaps even one who would be strong enough to stand up to the chieftain’s mother. She doubted it.
    From the sounds coming from behind the curtains, it seemed the men were still here. Kerin smiled to herself, then walked up to the hearth, took a deep breath, and began to speak. ‘In the name of the Mother of Hearth and Home I beg to take the gift of flame from—’
    Gwellys burst out from behind a curtain, her face flushed. ‘Vile witch-blood!’ she shouted. ‘How dare you show your face here?’
    Arthen, following a few steps behind her, bellowed, ‘Mother!’
    Gwellys closed her mouth and for a moment the three of them stood there, staring at each other. Apparently Gwellys was annoyed about more than just Kerin’s failure to help grind the oats yesterday.
    Arthen said evenly, ‘Kerin, how fares your patient?’
    ‘He is awake, though confused.’ Kerin was surprised at how firm her voice sounded. Dealing with a raving stranger put Gwellys’s bitching into perspective.
    Arthen said, ‘What ails him?’
    Kerin decided against telling Arthen that the man appeared to have lost his memory. ‘A fever, from being out in the storm.’
    ‘Just a fever?’
    Gwellys was muttering, ‘My eldest grandson has a fever too, and he cannot stand.’
    Kerin said, ‘If Sionyn is unwell perhaps I could help—’
    ‘No!’ screamed Gwellys. ‘You are a curse on my family!’
    Kerin looked at Arthen, who said, his own voice faltering, ‘Even if I disregard my mother’s wishes, there is little point in you examining my son. Prayer would be a better remedy.’
    Kerin felt as though the ground had shifted beneath her. ‘Wait, you think - is it the falling fire?’
    ‘I believe so,’ said Arthen.
    Kerin circled her breast. ‘Mothers preserve us,’ she whispered. Though it had been many years since the winnowing times had last come to the village, she still remembered the smell of the pyres.
    Gwellys pointed a trembling finger at Kerin. ‘You have brought this upon us!’
    Arthen said, ‘That is not for you to say, Mother! Leave us, please.’
    With a last venomous look, Gwellys turned and swept back to her alcove.
    For a moment Kerin thought Arthen would send her away empty-handed. Then he gestured to the hearth and said, ‘With the blessings of the Mothers, the gift of flame is mine to give, yours to take.’
    She lifted her fire-pot.
     
    In no immediate danger and feeling too drained to move, he calmed down. He looked up when the door opened, expecting to see the woman, but it was the boy. What had she called him? Damsomething—? Damaru, that was it. Trying to sound casual, he said, ‘Hullo Damaru.’
    The boy ignored him.
    He tried again. ‘Your mother tells me you’re the one who found me.’
    He said nothing, just reached into a jug by the door with a cupped hand.
    The boy’s indifference chilled him. Cold sweat prickled his skin. ‘Damaru? Damaru, can you hear me?’ Am I really here?
    The boy finally looked up. He frowned and said, ‘Sais.’ Then he walked out of the hut again.
     
    He was staring up at the tatty, smoke-stained thatch, trying to control his hammering heart, when the woman returned a few minutes later. She was carrying a basket of what looked like clods of earth, with a clay pot balanced on top. She nodded to him, then put down her burden and started to fuss with something on the