Alba, mind still tracing the sheep-edged stream and the path of the rider with the babes, stared silently at the boy who, knowing he was not permitted to talk to her, nevertheless had begun speaking and now could not stop himself from chattering out all the words he had collected sitting by himself in the dark night after night. As he babbled on, she wondered if she should interrupt, if she should explain the story of the boy-king and the overcooked cream and the babes he’d abandoned… but she thought perhaps it was enough she knew the priest who guarded the chamber at night was just a boy, a boy full of words he was desperate to share with another.

IX

NO WORDS

What do babes know of words?

Nothing.

The babes knew nothing of words.

They knew the sensation of warmth. The sensation of an other. The whooshing sound of warmth, the thud-thud of a heart.

They knew, in the warm and the dark, the feel of the other’s hands.

Now there was cold. And light. And quiet. Such quiet.

Discomfort.

Where was the other? Where was the hand, the fingers to hold?

There was a shrieking sound, and that sound, too, was terrible, and it came from themselves, full of heat, rising out of them, and it could not be stopped.

And there was a feeling of emptiness. Such emptiness. How to fill it? The shrieking was full of this emptiness.

They knew the feeling of movement, of rocking, of steady swaying, and for a time, they felt this again. For a time, this was familiar, in the coldness of air and light, so even the hot shrieking subsided. And there was a thudding, not quite like a heart, but thudding enough for comfort. And a low voice, too, though the sounds were just sounds, empty of meaning:

I’m sorry to do this to you, small things.

Oh, forgive me.

I was asked to end you.

My duty.

The word of the king.

It will be quick, little ones.

Oh, gods, forgive me.

And then all was cold and hard and bright, and the shrieking again, full of emptiness, fierce emptiness, bright emptiness, and the light and air swirled around them, a whooshing sound of no warmth, no warmth, no warmth, only the little fingers to clutch growing cold.

X

THE MORNING PERAMBULATION OF THE SHEPHERD, OR THE HAREBRAINED AIRMONGER

No shepherds lived deeper in the wilderness than Mop and Nessa. The nearest village was almost a full day’s travel through the forest. Nessa, though, insisted their flocks fared better at the edge of the hills than they would elsewhere—the ewes’ wool grew thicker when, even in the heat of summer, they drank from streams still fed by melting ice; the lambs grew stronger when they had to graze on sloping fields and steep hillsides and bound from rock to rock. And Mop, too, though he sometimes bemoaned the length of the journey to market, especially now that his knees similarly bemoaned every step, cherished the quiet: It was not entirely the life they had imagined together, but Nessa was company enough for him.