The Torc Five Well at World's End

By Gordon M Burns

Arianwyn has turned her back on the crass Occidental world, returning home to seek the peace she desires. Along with her are devoted followers, who have all hope in her vision. Yet, this dream is not clear to her. Facetted by events both light and dark, hope and despair led them towards their utopia only for doubt and failure to dog them and none more so than Arianwyn. Grainne, her constant guide and close companion, in her revelation of Arianwyn’s purpose, becomes detached, enigmatic and cool, making Arianwyn feel alone and unable to achieve the bliss she has promised for the women in her trail. Her love for Talorcan, who is now unpredictably deranged, looks like it can never be resolved. Despite this, once home, Arianwyn begins to shape her kingdom as a place of peace. In this, there is a modicum of success. However, the fester of war, disease and famine press in. Talorcan, although yearning for Arianwyn, is set to destroy her. More than all, Arianwyn bodily desires love. She pines for the love of Grainne and the promise she has given, vague and abstract though it is. Help and love come unexpected but with Talorcan pressing in, how will Arianwyn ever see fruition of her desires? She is Arianwyn, still holy and silver-pure despite her cravings. The world of men, their creeds and cultures, she will not let go unchallenged. If you read no other of Arianwyn’s adventurous life contained in the Torc pentalogy, this book is one you must.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gordon M Burns
• Release date: Jan 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310278228

Gordon M Burns

Writer living in Abernethy Perth Scotland. see my website for more details.

Book preview

A DAY OF NO EVENT

AD 550

Cradled below a blue heaven day of sunlight-wonder, summer’s autumn ripened a berry-red of sparkling rowans - all for the glory of a world’s promise given on a day that few would remember. On that day, the groaner by the loch raised the twisted wit of Noe. "See that gob - ‘where’s my Dada now?’ - it says."

Golistan, if no other, would recall that day of early autumn in which summer did not wish to die. He consigned it to mind as swallows flighted by the High Father. That dread man of no lawful child begat - Pict or Scot - other than those that scrawled the dirt that witnessed their spawning. The embodiment of his rank, the high Father stood foot-rooted and staring into some void seen by him. Golistan sensed the chasm vertiginous in its threat.

Golistan also knew the child at the High Father’s feet evoked sleep. Pillowed by the sphagnum moss the child leaked unto juicy greens from out a pucker-pout in memorial of his mother’s milk; ribbon-red, to catch the sun. Either side of the thumb trigger-clicking of the High father, Golistan’s remembrance would recall the trickling events that led to this blood-burp on a bonnie hoodrum-day. All caused by a halt up there, to whet a blade, when others stopped down here perhaps to water alder trees. Actions upon forgotten movements all colluding in a meeting - just passed the rock - at the loch side’s border grandeur - all miscible in the blood in mind.

Talorcan, High Father and lord of all east of that windswept hillside, hunched with the mountain thyme and bent like cotton grass beside the blaeberry and heather mounds enquiring - ‘Think you not the child resembles me?’

Dozed as by a mother’s sigh of blessing, the young child edged from knowing that puncture deep below the wool and leather coat that brought the heart-stop of fright on broken purpose and made of him - a father’s legacy erased, a mother’s strife poignant and sister’s friend no more. No time to become lover’s lullaby as cooling flesh crooned humdrum for him. His heedrum-day of no remembrance, none other than the pink of campion wind-sent to bring the peg-leg hop of ravens caa-cacking underneath the wheel of eagle wings. A circle of wolves within the woods never once enquiring - how came a child to cross over here? Careless carrion of no conception of child-sight, cat pawed by adults’ tales of creed and myth, which, in sporting at the games the big ones played, he fun-ran into the sun of cruel chaos and calamity.

Only a few minutes earlier armed with his sword called, fear-unknown, that he unsheathed from the scabbard named, no-doubt, he had declared, shielded by innocence and leather-jerkined in infallibility, that he would blunt his blade inside of Talorcan’s - ‘smelly heart!’ Talorcan, the High father, knew the danger of zealous youth. ‘B’s up, wait and pretend you are not looking’ - failed to stop the stun of pain to that young life before him, which signified no maiden would hoes down for it ever. Not now, not then, with the High Father’s knife-reach inside his child’s sword thrust, so that in remorseless fade-out, all the grace that the child received from out that dark-heart, cursed him a runt, a waste of mother’s sacrifice and a father’s melancholy lament.

I ask you, do you think he looks like me? Golistan heard the High Father demand of the man. Now all focused on the blood smeared dead boy’s forehead. Sign of a first hunt kill. The liver in his hand another clue. The young stag at their feet the final proof. Who was he?

Fraoch. My nephew, the image of his mother.

I see myself in him, Talorcan mused. And you thought what, ya houghin hure ya, no deer in Dalriada, so take the lad here into Athflodda? For what, your idea of a hunt?

The stag knew not our boundaries.

Was it then he said those words? Golistan thought he did, though he was soft voiced and obsidian-eyed. Unheard except as a wind-whisper, sung sinister and low:

Now there’s an uncle for you, little son,

Heedrum, hoodrum not for you a slave.

Foxed by uncle from your mother,

Hoodrum, heedrum yawns the grave.

Bar uncle’s,

the tears of this day to save.

Accordingly, Golistan the Pict remembered well that day. He was the head-roller of all but one Dalriadan Scot, which he might never recall because no faeries fables or weefowk visits marred his dreams and none of this was unique except; distressed in ghost-lined fear-shadow, as if a childhood mid-winter brownie pillow-gift now shattered, Talorcan’s eyes glistened.

The High Father throat-bobbed above the one that mirrored him a visage touching. He turned upon the day on which no thunder roll of drums could sound. One word, Noe, and your tongue is stew for you to nibble.

* * * * *

Well? Murthorlic asked.

"Well? Well what? What does well mean? Murthorlic needed no advising that the King, High Father Talorcan was framed between dry-wood beams and soured-ale kegs, a tenor where chance remark or hand put out, showed that wasps therein will sting the wayward enquirer. Is all here well here in this hall, or the weather continues to hold well? Perhaps the table here is set well? The king turned from him. Am I well or, well here’s a thought, how deep is the well at the World’s end?"

From behind him, Murthorlic regarded Talorcan’s snarling manner with his sharp filed teeth exposed below a thin top lip. Golistan marked him, and so the lips shut and pleasantries returned in stiff formality.

You report, High Father, was it another spying party? If so, did you eliminate it or let it escape so that we might expect another visit from the Scots?

Of that I have no recollection. You’ll need to talk with Golistan.

Then I shall, later, just now I have other matters for your ear only.

Golistan left, a signal for Talorcan to sit, lean back and rub his nose. It felt cold despite the weather, this Palace in the Field of Athflodda was dark and damp where summer, an apparition, blinks in-between spring and autumn. It made him think of the slave girl in the night, who from aridness sparked, perhaps because common usage, from her doldrums flowed onto the rock, broke as mush, eased his mind beside the loch and made him reach out for her in comfort for-to-be hereafter. The release, he remembered baffled him. The feeling felt, mystified, for what of that but as common colds where the beginning sneeze was more memorable than the long drawn out hack of coughs and sniffles. Other kike her, were all forgotten faces, bodies all patterned within a slight alteration of form. Some shockingly fat, udders like a cow’s, some snivelling thin, barely budded and more akin a boy. He shook his head dryly and considered he should try to be more circumspect in his choice.

You like them, Murthorlic, don’t you?

Like what, High Father?

Boys.

Murthorlic refused to be riled on this, which was common speculation. The king was shadowed morbidly of late, a state of mind darkened him towards an unhinged and dangerous place and this New-Christian priest thought he knew the reason for its being. In ancient times the Greek saw wisdom in such ways? Undeterred by the look of throat-caught phlegm, sticky deep and catching, the king gave him, the once a druid wizard, now a priest taught on. Woman are God’s creation and, as such, beholden on to only one man as his, soul and body to serves that man’s pleasure.

Pleasure given but none for taking, eh? Some bargain that for women. Some remembrance tickled a smile to Talorcan’s lips. It faded. This new god would appear to be a hard sort of godhead, jealous and self-important in his omnipotence. Certainly self-imposing, is that how he comes before us? Like a worldly king, hard down on women and masterful? Murthorlic refused baiting and let this blasphemy go by. Such a god should find favour within women; a firm grip screws out the wet in wringing, is this what your god tells us?

Paltry beings would be hung for less, spikes skewered and scaffolds swung witness to the bits that remained, but here was the King, Athflodda’s High Father who blasphemed beyond reproach. Unwilling to accept, by Murthorlic’s guidance, that he could be the ear and mouth of God within Pictavia. One head, at least among many others, and Murthorlic could show how to be the one Pictavian ruler. The lord liketh a contrite man, principled in thought and speech and not so debased or crude as any gutter youth can get the meaning of his words. The two men eyed each other.

Sorry if I misunderstood where you were coming from, I’m sure we would be lost without your spiritual guidance, Murthorlic. The keech and sharn you grovel in to find it must be dire. Please continue with your advice. What else does the Lord liketh?

The lord liketh a modest woman, one that lets no eye turn and take a view of men. Such a one would not be tainting her mind, nor her body which, by God’s design by can nurture unclean ailments, secreted festering and her spit of woman’s second nature to defraud manhood.

And that’s your verse or his, is it? Easier for a lamb to pass through the glen of wolves than for Murthorlic to believe the nodding of concurrence of Talorcan. I should take note. I would want defrauded by some racy slave girl, fresh from a rubbing down in the stable. I mean, how would I defend the purity of my honour?

You need to more circumspect, you are our High Father.

True on both counts. This agreed. Perhaps I need a mother or a sister to remind that a woman is not just for Samhain and then hough off. An obvious double-meanning from the past for Murthorlic to spin upon. I should be more selective, and learn that kings should not need to be amused by well publicised displays of raunchiness. The king shook his head on the folly of seeking lewd amusement. I expect all that female meddling is all about that; cleaned for the audience, tightened for performance but killed in the act. Is that the reason for your boy preference? The king’s look both censored and mocked. Murthorlic bore the dubiety until Talorcan flicked it off. You may be right, we should stick with the old gods’ ways. The new one will appreciate it.

Murthorlic, Talorcan knew, chaffed on the inane twaddle emanating from his mouth. The king enjoyed himself, to a point. The druid/priest would sense his obstruction for Talorcan possessed an adept mind, whose equivocal thoughts he never formulated at one simple level. A warlord and handshaker, Talorcan enjoyed circumventing Murthorlic but was nonplussed at his own avoidance. That day he wished to be alone or find the brightness that shared his bed the night before. He even recalled her name - Niamh.

Why he should was an enigma to the king. Retrospective moods, usually few and far between but lately more frequent and of a longer duration, their cause gave him amusement rather than concern. He was where he was, impeccable, yet in a place of little light, a dark and empty nothingness, which, he took, as the vacillation between underlinings and rulers. However, recently the abyss, once a pit of fire and rage, became mawkish grey and indistinct at the edges of his mettle. Last night, within a ruckus hall ringed round with clashing cup-filled chorus, it had opened desolate before him, weakening him and in that weakness made him latch on - as if in a heart-plea begging closeness - and grasp the common-purpose, slave girl’s arm. A limb which, first in fear and then in charm rote taught, relaxed in risqué ease and seized the chance to risk all. She offered him a lurid lift of eye and taunting tongue on lips and something more, she smiled a smile that took him from the edge. She smelt foul, as not her fault she did, as was his core to him, and blindly blanked awareness in his need for sweet-scented soul-succour that he felt she had. He saw, thought he saw, sympathy in her eye. Perhaps a bluff of act but, inexplicably, he wanted it to be and though in the past he would have sacked her body there, then spilled her to the men, he did not.

He drew her away from uncivil sight, if not churlish knowledge of his purpose, and there, finding her pleadings for his sake and not hers amusing, thought nothing of what he did. Yet, she was a comet to him. Her exterior and internal structure of no importance to him as ice and grainy shadows, became fluid-flow of fundamental prescence he felt at odds to despoil and judged he had not. Except, when passed, she turned and wept at his side. Redolent of rank spurge scented, there was an escsence underneath her miasma that throat-caught him to drape his arm around and comfort her in warmth. Then later in the night, when he yearned to be one with her again, he surprised himself with his unison within her tears. They wiped each other’s uncharted sorrow and the shared understanding that by his act and others unto her, she had befouled him. Not citing fear or begging forgiveness for what his reach in her had won him, he could take her life or leave her to the hopelessness of short years before death forlorn.

In the guttering light he beheld her, experiencing no anger and accepted that in this slave girl, the vacuum of his fall breathed life. He asked her name and when told Niamh he became contemplative. She stroking his worries from him and he pressing her to his chest she rekindled a part of him long ago snuffed out. A tenderness that flickered from time to time which, Talorcan suspected, Murthorlic blamed on his mother.

The long lost women-weed of Athflodda, celebrated as eradicated. Talorcan accepted that, if he were not careful, such soft sentiments would be the death of him and did not care.

The old gods are dead now, you, like I, should take with the Christian God.

The old gods died? Talorcan shammed again. Shame I didn’t morn their passing and now you tell me there’s another. Well, wise one, why should I welcome him?

For your legacy, High Father.

Few seem to like what I bestow on them or have you not noticed?

Murthorlic sighed. He had many times before. He set off once more to expound the advantages of being a Christian king. His seed would be set in perpetuity, securely nurture by the blessing of the church. The thirlfowk - slaves but for the land they held in allegiance gave them the illusion of free will - would be beholden, by grace of God’s bestowal, to Talorcan, their rightful shepherd, and as such they, his heaven granted flock, to do with and arrange as he so pleased. Nothing new was in that. However, Talorcan would no longer need to fear their displeasure, which may place another as King and High Father in his stead. With the king’s support, God’s Church would grant this. However, seed must be sown for your legacy to continue and for this you required a boy child.

Ochone, I may have killed one. Half-Scot, does that matter? Never mind, who knows, nine months from last een and I might have another. Granted, it might be hard to tell if it’s mine or not, the way that one was shared around the barrack quarters like a wanking rag. Talorcan sought to lightened up the mood. Cheer up, Murthorlic, I must have some male sprogs somewhere or other around some dung heap that you’ve not bitten into yet. Go and choose one and see if he will fit your crown.

They had argued this point before, Murthorlic considered. Talorcan, once youth-randy and profligate so, there may be children but he was a handsome man who of late had quieted down. His strength, his dark Romanesque features and appointed ranking made last night’s episode all the stranger. An entertaininly pretty, dark haired, slave-girl, Scot had he woken with in the dull-grey of night and felt more than need. She would have taken his shudder in her arms and held him as in a lover-response, a mother-comfort or a sister-savvy - there-there-now-ma-wee-laddie it’s all, all alright. Well, way of the world, and there may l be brats to come, none recorded, but as Murthorlic was concerned, Talorcan needed a legal wife to be his queen and give him a son, so that his line would stretch on down all the ages of the world. It was a point they argued.

Talorcan would only listen as lapping water by his ears. He had reason for not wishing any wife or child. The memory of his mother and twin sister stood testament. Heavens knew why Murthorlic cared who ruled, other than he had ridden down the road so long, first with Alpin, the father, and then Talorcan, the son, that he feared without their protection; unseated he would be and wolf-thrown. Which was, Talorcan decided, exactly what he feared, for Talorcan feared nothing and in automation on any hint of danger, always struck first. Now Golistan was not the one to remember that fine by day by the loch.

His uncle killed him, did you know that? It’s the sort of things that uncles do.

Killed who?

The sweet child boy the loch. A bonnie lad, looked like me, just had his first blood kill and it was a fine stag. Now Murthorlic, I should have brought a lock of his hair, for there was a brave wee soul that might have made for you a fine king, but somehow my knife slipped in between his ribs though I wished it had not. Then again, I expect life had started its little ways with him, already worming at him, turning him into a what - another me? As it happened in his case a Scot, but a child’s a child for all that.

A malaise perhaps, but Murthorlic’s experience of Talorcan told him that this was no madness manifest before him. All plainly told that the High Father was as resolute as ever in his iron rule but she, Arianwyn, who had lured him when he was young, considered then an apparition of chastity, had become entrenched within his mind more scarring than the wounds across his battled body. Actively Murthorlic had been seeking to cure the dark king’s ills, and that day was as good as any to commence the treatment but as the black, rank smelling stink tells any man, you know what will be the saw-blade’s action. Talorcan held a finger to the priest-once-druid, silencing him to attend his word instead.

"I hear she has landed at Dumbarton Rock. Arrived there these five days since and you never thought to inform me? Have I upset you somehow?"

This was not a new disclosure to Murthorlic but was that old affliction still there in the King, High Father? If so, ways to lance it and make Arianwyn’s position clear to him needed finding. What want you of that Silver Bitch? She has been over the water and into other fields and under, who knows, how many ploughs? She was always ungodly and is now Christ-cursed. Beside, if it matters to her, the husband, Galam, lives. Seemingly she has enrolled that Scot, Rory, aye, him you will remember, onto her thigh. A whetting stone his tool for her as Galam never sharpened his on hers. Such as she and the painted whores around her are but for as fancy takes.

"Painted whores, you tell me? Now, you interest me. You colour such an attractive picture of this used-maiden gathering, Murthorlic, I could almost mount my mare this very moment and phwoof! His hand pulled at his collar. And after that, perhaps ride off to comb them personally. I hear that there are a couple as dark-skinned as myself, now there’s a promise worth keeping."

Some do have the throw-back of your blood from the Latin world.

However, Murthorlic knew his student well, they would serve curiosity of interest and no more than something different in the tone of colouring would. In the end, they would disappoint in their conformity. It was she, Arianwyn, that was the niggle-tease, for no day passed that Talorcan’s thoughts were not on her. Arianwyn, Talorcan’s cousin, Nechtandaughter of Forternn, underneath her garments would be just a woman. She would have nothing by-ordinar to give over any other female albeit she was short and plain. Except, something of her was like the blood pulse in her cousin’s veins. Both men knew he had smudged the issue with her. Spoiled his chance on some craze for Grainne, her confidant, which had resulted in Talorcan’s slave grinned red below the chin. Grainne, a besotted fervour, in which a pair of green eyes, Talorcan might still harbour hope. His elaborate rough-wooing for a widowed thirlwife with babe in arms and a young, guileless princess had cost him the quick and easy acquisition of Forternn. Incursions eastward into Pictish Circind had won new possession but at cost of life and treasure. Back then, it seemed a hundred years ago, he should have kissed the princess’s pouting lips and pitty-patted on her dowp then puckered on the thirlwife’s tits and houghed her up the fud, all the while making sure the left hand did not see what right was doing. However, it had not worked like that. Arianwyn, star struck for him, had not the break of faith of Grainne and they cast him aside. He had been wild-oat-young at that time and furious but at this time, with the drip deeping-drip of Murthorlic, he had began to think of harvest. Murthorlic sensed his mood change..

King Morduf has one for you who would serve well and give to you a son. Vanora, King Artuir’s wife. The word of her grace and beauty goes before her, you would not find the prospect unpleasant.

And how, exactly will that work? Artuir has returned alive and is very well I hear. In fact fairly bursting with virility to get his wife back that, I do believe, he is gathering his forces at Dumbarton to move upon his usurper brother. Why, with the speed of news I get from you, he might be marching to Camlann as we whitter on here.

By the Christ God’s promise, before the summer is out Artuir will be dead. The man’s a headstrong fool, so send me south to bring Vanora back for you. Finally, Murthorlic saw he had cleared Talorcan’s dismal mind with a little more medicine for the cure, all would be won.. Await the word of the Fool King’s death - if you so wish - but make Vanora your queen and sire a son. And then the one to set the patient on his feet. As for the Silver Darling. When the salmon run, a fishing outing to The Hern might fetch a kypeless catch and land it on your lap. Talorcan, my King and my High Father.

So that’s your counsel, Christian?

It was, and no more, as the dark lord began to sing a refrain of his own devising. He knew that Murthorlic hated when he did, cringed inside on his muliebrous talent to spin soft-word in an instant-occasion of charm, but when the once-druid heard it sung and thought on the words, the meaning, the now-priest poured out the wine for himself and king.

Whit-whit the dabchick song,

As overhead the burr of panic wings circle,

For is it safe to land,

Beyond the trees, next to the sedge where the lochlan stands?

Queet-queck the hunter’s call,

And brings the frightened flock to land,

Beyond the trees, next to the sedge where the lochlan stands.

Then nothing contends the wind

But feather and dead red-eye,

Beyond the trees, next to sedge where the lochlan stands.

Aye then Murthorlic, a way to go with and drain it to the dregs. I will leave you to sort it out and this, what is her name?

Whose name, High Father? Murthorlic worried that he had been wrong.

The pretty slave girl Scot who served at table. Come on you must remember her. The one whose work up the back passage is to give a quick dicht round the barrack block and the rub down in the stable block. You know, the scrubber I cleaned up with just last night - has she a name?

I know not.

But I do. Niamh, now there’s a bright name to cleave to. Ask her to come me, if she should please.

Murthorlic thought his morning’s work undone.

High Father, she is a giveaway, a taken by all and by all ruined, who knows what rot she may hold in her folds. Take Golistan’s wife instead, there’s none beholden who would hold back what you desire and there is no corruption there.

Take Golistan’s wife? Alas too late and does Golistan even have a wife, and if he did, why would I do that? I would sooner take your wife. Remind me, what is young laddie’s name? As for Niamh, she has passed beyond bed test. It is in your mind lies the cancer-thought lies. I will make her my sister that once was, so see that the women prepare her as such and all know my wish on this. And tell the men, if they but take a had-that look at my sister - their balls will feed the crows and when they’ve seen that, their eyes to swiftly follow.

My King, if it is your wish. The filed toothed priest turned to go.

One last thing, Murthorlic. He waited for the man to listen fully. Find for my sister, Niamh, a treatment. It maybe that she is in need of a cure.

High Father, as you wish. If wishes could be so granted.

Chapter Two

The Debate at the Loch

Those sun-days of rosemary scents and nights of cicada chorus, never to be forgotten by Arianwyn, were inscribed embossments of what is for those from climes where, though the earth may quake and topple buildings down or breakout in eruptions of sulphuric fires and smother in hot-ash deep entire cities, there was one constant never failing; the sun and its welcome warmth. Although rain was no stranger to them, nor winter’s snows, these upsets came briefly as vitality required the land. Always returning, the sun brought warmth. Sometimes indeed, in height of summer, the translucent light surrounding became too overpowering and called for shuttering out. The stifling heat of the day too much other than for dozing through - come then the dark.

Come then the night’s bewitchment time of breezed coolness refreshingly silky in its touch to graze desires that languished underneath the starry prospect or couched in chitchat conclaves mulled on or created amusements that took on sultry heat. A look up and an eye cast down, here and there at the raunchy titter-pastimes until dawn’s rose petals fingered in the sky and revealed who played what with whom.

Back in climate-perfect, heat brought about with it a build of pressurised possessiveness and promiscuity that ended in a clap. It was how those brought up in the south might see it might be in the north, however, for Arianwyn who knew the north, it was not. Something had failed in the close build up and now her worry, scored like a broken bannoch across Arianwyn’s face, confirmed that the long days of heat and sun had ending in a thunderstorm before its time. Over were the oven days and as she eluded to a baked-on upset on something lost, they groaned for clarification on - is-wet-weather-this-never-ending? Thunderstorms lasted as long as needed to cool the blood and no bad thing in the overheated south because, for some, heat turns up the tempo to mock those who thought the night jinkings a side plate tickle, a jolly ripple with no after-mess to clean up. The storm and those caught in the heat-risks of passion would soon drain, returning all to daylight and realisation that black cloth best covers stains.

Just mark my words you will become to wonder when will it ever stop. Arianwyn said, catching everyone’s attention.

Ach, you’re just missing Malachias.

I am not. She protested to the young woman who gave a look that made her think again. Well, if I am, Grainne, it’s only because I got used to him being around, two legs for the price of one to pull.

They all laughed, even Triduanna although Rory puzzled as if a problem had arisen he had just discovered. Even so, suddenely, the man who boiled their blood as Servanius then, in a change of persona, warmed it as Malachias, they all missed. His wounded leg meant he could not travel and he had stayed behind at Culenros. Arianwyn frowned into herself. I am not became I am? and finally I am. Not that she admitted that aloud because the self-satisfied look from Grainne’s was inward reaching.

Just mark my words you will become to wonder. She told them certainly, flicking her head away from the serene smile of Grainne. In the blurred hair-swirl she was her back over the Forthin on the summer trek with Artuir’s dragon army, spinning round and catching a hint of lost longing in the eye of Malachias. At the time it had jerked her into a conciousness only of have its mischieveness dampened by Servanius. Though hidden then, her feelings ached on the the nearest of an all encompassing elation between them that dried as damp on a rock before the sorch of day. Not that at the time she had recognised that emotion and perhaps it was this rain of tears they walked through that had changed her recollection. However, the old Driud’s cell at Culenros she gifted to him. Wither she had the jurisdiction to grant this or condone Servanius’s blessing it as a church - she knew not - but it as it pleased Malachias it contented her.

Just mark my words you will become to wonder when will it ever stop. She repeated, making sure they knew she referred to the rain they endured.

This they did, trudging through days of drop-plop-step by step-plop-drop, caught within deep gorges by sudden spates, drenched constantly from a hodden sky but they persevered and trailed passed flooded farms with pitiable thirlfowk grieving over flattened crops, stalks mired and twisting in the grin of winter’s coming humour. Watching Clotha milk her cows giving that abject people, they asked one another - will this rain ever end? They handed over the milk to those for the ends had come.

Och, this is nothing it’s still summer yet.

Dear me, Arianwyn, I have quite forgotten which month this is. admitted Accalia.

Months? What need of months have we got here? Arianwyn asked and then stated. "Uncertain, jumbled things are months which, for their exaltation looking backward-forwards, were the construct of an emperors whim - I’d like a month - she acted pomp and pap with hand on hip, nose stuck up and the other hand above it all to torque up the parody - named after me, I am so-so famous and pass me down for ever, a once a year minding of me’s required. After all, I was, I was ... I was! What’s that sound like? A spoilt child crying, that’s what it sounds like to me. Well thank you very much, Julius, but late summer floods will aye come at the same time to pee on Augustus, so he, like us, should just get used to that."

This mooted and where, upon at this juncture, the debate became animatedly partisan and, in Arianwyn’s suspicion one-sided, on just how to