Chapter Twenty-Three: A Toast To Sarmatia

'Sorry!' Irri stuttered. 'I just need to talk to you!'

'It's fine, Irri,' Cavan said. 'Come, let us go to your room.'

'No, I'll leave.' The words came from Gawain. 'I'll be at Vanora's.'

He left the room awkwardly, smiling at the apologetic look that Cavan gave him.

'Now,' said Cavan, turning to Irri. 'What's so important?'

'Dagonet!'

'Dag? What has he done?'

'Nothing! But I think I might…' Irri started, then she sat down heavily in a chair. 'I think that I have feelings for him.'

Cavan sat down opposite her, taking Irri's hands and smiling.

'Oh, Irri! I am delighted for you!' she began, but her voice trailed off as Irri frowned. 'Why are you not happy?'

'He will never return my feelings! He is too beautiful and kind, I do not deserve him! Why would he love one such as me? I am scarred, I am not -'

'Be quiet!' Cavan snapped. 'If you believe he will not love you then you are a fool.'

'But my burns…'

'Are just as much a part of you as the heart that beats inside your breast,' completed Cavan gently, placing her fingers over the afflicted skin of Irri's wrists.

However Irri looked unsure still, so Cavan pulled up the sleeve of her dress and invite Irri to look.

'This brand was given to me by the man who held dominance over every breath I took, for ten years. And here,' she said, showing Irri the burns over her chest bone and shoulder. 'Gawain said my scars were beautiful.'

'Dagonet… he said that he didn't even see the burns when he looked at me,' Irri admitted, biting her lip.

'Well then. Whatever is there to worry about?'

'I… I wouldn't know what to do. If it came to…'

'Laying with him?' Cavan asked, smiling tenderly at her. 'That I can help you with.'

'If you don't want to do this, then I understand!' Irri rushed to reassure her.

'Of course not! I honestly would love to help you. And if there is anything else, please, simply ask.'

Irri embraced Cavan and kissed her cheek impulsively, thanking her over and over again.

'Come to my room tonight, after the festival,' Cavan continued. 'I will have to get a few things.'

'Cavan, do you think it possible that he… that Dagonet feels for me?' Irri asked, after a moment's pause.

'If he doesn't, he is a fool.'

It was just before midnight, and the Samhain bonfires were still burning brightly, casting a flickering orange glow over the faces of the townspeople who stood around them. Stars shone in the depths of the sky above, glimmering gently. The smell of roasting pork and apples drifted through the air, accompanied by the sound of low chatter and muted music.

Cavan was returning to the fires after being with Irri. She had brushed Irri's hair, and rubbed lavender on her skin, and shown her what to do with Dagonet. Then, she had taken Irri to Dag's room and pushed her softly through the door, repeating an earlier statement in a whisper: 'Take control.'

It was awfully cold in the open air. The people who were still outside were all clustered around the bonfires, taking advantage of the warmth given out from the flames. And still, many people wore cloaks in an attempt to stay off the chill wind.

All of the knights - save for Dagonet - and Hani, Sansa and Vanora were stood beside a large table covered in empty pitchers and cups, about ten metres from the bonfires. Halasir and Osolet were both stood by the fire. Cavan raised a hand to Halasir and he returned the gesture, smiling.

Lancelot spotted Cavan and called out to her.

'Hai! Come hear the news!'

Cavan joined them, taking Gawain's hand and leaning into his chest.

'Vanora is with child!' Lancelot continued.

'Again,' added Galahad, grinning.

'How will I survive?' Bors moaned, running his fingers over what was left of his hair. 'Last time Vanora was carrying, she evicted me from our bed… I'll have to come and stay in that freezing building with you miserable scuts and your mewling harpies!'

Vanora hit him lightly on the arm, and he turned to her, looking guilty, as though he had forgotten she was there.

'You might think it was he with the child in his belly. He is complaining as much as Vanora does!' Gawain said. Everyone laughed, save for Tristan, whose lips barely twitched.

'How many will this make?' Cavan asked.

'It'll be the eighth,' Hani replied quietly.

'There are only two years left for us now,' Gawain said suddenly.

Lancelot held up his cup.

'We shall drink to home!' he announced.

The rest of the knights raised their goblets, holding them there for a few seconds, and then downed their wine in a toast, echoing Lancelot's words.

The conversation the group had been having before Cavan had arrived restarted again - plans for the winter now that Woad season was over. Lancelot's input - unsurprisingly, due to the amount of wine he had consumed - was three words: women and wine. Hani laughed and said something about it being any woman but her.

Tristan's mind was, as per usual, elsewhere. He was, in fact, thinking about Daenerys. He knew he had treated her wrongly - she was a slave, only doing what she had been commanded to. Ever since he had beaten Cavan nearly to the point of death, he had viewed females differently. Of course, he had interrogated quite a few Woad women - and had been forced to use violence on them - but now, something was different.

The white-haired slave could never have fought back. She didn't possess the physical - or mental - strength to do so. Maybe that is what makes it different, Tristan thought. But Cavan - she could have fought back. And, while he was hitting her, it had felt… right, almost. It was only now - now he knew they were brother and sister - that he had a problem with it.

'You are scaring me.'

The words brought Tristan from his musing. He looked around to see who it was who had spoken and his eyes alighted on Cavan. She looked beautiful; her raven hair was hanging free save for two thick locks - one from either side of her face - that had been pulled behind her head and tied there. Her eyes were bright, and she wore a loose dress and a cloak in a deep red colour that set of her skin prettily.

'You are scaring me,' she repeated.

'Why?' Tristan asked quietly, avoiding her fierce gaze.

'First I find that you have told Arthur of our relationship without consulting me, then he orders you to lie to me - which you have done - and then when you returned from Coccium, I realise that you are hiding even more from me, and that all of you know! Tristan, you have to tell me what is happening!' she said angrily.

'I can't.'

'I don't care how much you respect Arthur, how much you owe him -'

'I can't!' Tristan cut over her. He grasped her arms and looked straight into her eyes. 'I can't.'

'No, Tristan. This time, I will not let this go! You have to tell me! You have to tell me!'

'I will not!' shouted Tristan.

Suddenly Lancelot was beside him, and Gawain and Galahad too. Sansa was holding onto Galahad's arm, gazing at the pair of them like they were lunatics.

'What is between you two?' Lancelot demanded.

Tristan spat on the ground and glared at the knights surrounding them.

'You may as well tell them. They all think we are lovers anyway!' he hissed. Then he turned his back on Cavan and pushed between Hani and Arthur, and disappeared into the dark.

'Cavan?' Gawain mumbled.

Cavan turned to him, tears in her eyes. As he gazed at her, they overflowed and trickled down her cheeks.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered. 'I can't. Arthur, tell them.'

And she too pushed past Hani, and fled the field, sobbing.

'Arthur?' Bors urged him quietly.

'Tristan…' started Arthur. 'Tristan is Cavan's brother. The one she thought had died here.'

It was very early morning – just after midnight. Dagonet was lying awake in his bed, furs drawn up to his waist, one arm behind his head and a contented smile on his face. It was cold outside, but in his room, the fire was lit, causing Dagonet no need for clothes under the sheets. A warm orange glow emanated from the flames, and the soft smell of wood smoke permeated every inch of the room.

Dagonet was thinking of Irri. Recently, he had been able to think of nothing else. Since the day they had returned from their mission in Coccium, and she had walked straight to him, her eyes wide and full to the brim with relief… something had changed between them, and inside his own body.

Dagonet was not like Lancelot and Galahad, a different girl in his bed every night. He had only taken two girls to his bed in the time he had been at the fort – but those same girls had returned again and again at his request. Erina the cloth-merchant's shapely daughter, who Dagonet had bedded the first night her and her father had come to the fort – and then every time they returned, at least thrice a year, until their visits had ceased. Then, two years later, Aislinn, as fiery and red-headed as her sister, Vanora, had arrived unexpectedly at the fort. She had caused quite a stir with Lancelot when she had left his bed for Dagonet's. It had been a harsh blow to the flirtatious knight's pride, but he had been soothed by the countless warm bodies waiting for him back in Vanora's taproom.

But Aislinn had left, less than three years ago – simply collected her belongings and vanished. No-one knew why – not even Vanora could shed light on her sister's disappearance. Dagonet sobered a little at the less joyful memories.

Suddenly cold, he pulled the furs over his bare stomach. His thoughts returned to Irri, and her beautiful mouth, curved like Tristan's bow. Dagonet summoned up Irri's image in his mind's eye: moonlit skin, fawn-coloured eyes, that unusual rounded mouth. He wanted to touch her again, to feel her soft hair, like smoke between his fingers. However did the Goddess Branwen conjure up such beauty? Dagonet wondered.

He sat up in bed and gazed at his hands, shadowed from the fire. Thick lines running across his palms, large calluses at the bases of his fingers. Hands like these do not deserve to touch skin like hers, he reflected bleakly. And if she wanted my hands, what could I give her? Marriage, sons – indebted to Rome from the day they were born? What kind of a life is that?

Dagonet lay back down, angry with himself for being so pathetic. He wished he had more to offer her than a life of pain and heartbreak. Forlornly, he realised that he had not thoughton the prospect that she did not return his feelings.

The oil-lamp on the table beside his bed flickered as the door opened. The gentle smell of lavender reached Dagonet's nose. He sat up again as Irri came into his room, wearing a loose-fitting white nightgown that seemed to float around her. Her flaxen hair tumbled over her shoulders, long and free of tangles.

She was silent, standing before him, statuesque and radiant. Dagonet whispered her name as a gasp as Irri took two steps forwards and sat on the edge of his bed. She leant forwards and kissed him gently, laying her palms on his chest. The knight kissed her back, equally as gentle. He took her face in his hands and gazed into her eyes as they broke apart.

'You are so beautiful,' he murmured.

Irri kissed him again, harder this time. She climbed onto his lap, straddling him, and took Dagonet's hands in hers. She lay them on her thighs and returned to kissing him passionately.

Dagonet pushed Irri's dress over her hips and slid the furs off himself. Then Irri placed herself over him and traced his mouth with her fingertips and moaned as he slid into her. They breathed together, his hands at the small of her back, hers around his neck and moving over each other like water.

Her body was warm and moist with sweat. He kissed her lips and neck and face and heard her cries and felt the desire she held for him in every brush of her skin against his. All their thoughts melted away, the space left behind encompassed by the delicate passion and glowing heat and flare of bliss that rose through their limbs and exploded through their mouths as they were brought together once more. Their skin shivered and Irri cried out with pleasure and Dagonet held her to him like a drowning child holds the arm that saves him.

She traced her finger over the scar beneath his eye and the smile she softly gave him filled the silence like the roar of the ocean. Dagonet couldn't bear the ecstasy and longing in her eyes so he kissed her again and again and felt her breasts beneath her dress, warm against his chest.

They lay down beside one another, out of breath. Irri rested her head over his heart, feeling the steady beat beneath his skin, calm like the night.

'I was so afraid,' she whispered. 'That you did not feel for me.'

Dagonet ran his fingers through her silken hair, trying to quench the feeling of unbounded triumph that was rising inside him.

'Have I proved to you that it was wrong to fear that?' he asked, caressing her cheek.

Irri touched the scars over his ribs and let her fingers linger there.

'Yes,' she replied.

Dagonet's arm tightened around her and he pulled the furs up to cover them both. As the fire died down and the lamp beside the bed waned and dimmed, the only sounds left in the room was the gentle murmurings of the lovers in the bed and the sigh of the wind.

Cavan was asleep, wrapped up in her blankets to keep from dying of cold. In her dreams, a warm breeze rustled through the trees to either side of her as she rode on Falada's back through a green forest. They came to a clearing with a lake, and Cavan dismounted. Beside the water there lay a girl, naked, with white-blonde hair, her arms outstretched. Cavan walked slowly towards the girl, then gasped as she realised that she was dead. Blood pooled around the body and dribbled into the lake, mixing with the water and creating twisting patterns on the surface. Then Tristan appeared, a knife in his hands, his face and bare chest covered in blood.

'Come with me…' the dream-Tristan said, holding out his hand to her. 'Come with me!'

The dream swirled and the background of trees and water dripped into nothingness. Pure whiteness encompassed Cavan, and she fought against it. Then strong hands took her and she gave up fighting, letting herself be carried through the light and into the darkness of the world.

'Tristan?' she asked, as her eyes focussed on the man who stood before her.

'Come with me!' Tristan repeated, tugging on Cavan's arm.

'No!' she replied angrily, batting him away.

'Come with me now!' Tristan hissed. 'Or I swear to your God that I will tie you to my horse!'

Cavan jumped out of bed and went to slap him across the face. Tristan grabbed her hands, quickly spun her around and held her wrists tightly behind her.

'Let me go!' she cried.

'No! You're coming with me. Please, Cavan, I'm trying to save… to help you!'

Tristan pulled her out into the corridor and down the stairs, her struggling the whole way. He had trouble holding on to Cavan's wrists as he crossed the courtyard and marched her down the road to the stables.

It was early morning and the sun hadn't risen, but there was a pale tinge to the sky, hinting that dawn was approaching. The fort town of Castellum was empty, eerily quiet and pale with mist. The only things that moved were the pair fighting their way to the stables and the black-and-white cat that watched them from the shadows.

As they entered the stables, Cavan realised that what she was doing was useless. He wasn't going to just let her go: in fact, with her limbs so stiff, it was almost easier for him to move her. She let her muscles relax and her limbs went floppy. Tristan couldn't hold her up and she fell to the floor. Almost immediately she had climbed to her feet and performed the maegis lojat so well that Halasir would've been proud. Cavan knocked Tristan's arms aside and swung her arm up so that the elbow crunched into her brother's cheek. Then she pushed her hand forwards and trust the heel of her palm into Tristan's nose.

Her brother's hands flew to his face, and he cried out in pain. Cavan pushed past him and ran towards the door but Tristan was already steady, standing with a length of thick rope in his hands. He caught her arm and - as she fought hard against him - wrapped the rope round her wrists and tied it tightly.

'God's truth, Cavan, why must you fight so?' Tristan muttered.

He knotted the rest of the rope around a post and turned away from Cavan, saddling and bridling Maura. Tristan strapped two blankets and two bulging water skins to the saddle and filled his clothes with small knives. Tugging hard on the rope that bound her to the post, Cavan watched as he placed the blades in his clothing, memorising their positions.

Then Tristan turned to her and slowly unlaced the rope, retying it to Maura's reins. Then he pushed Cavan up and onto her back and climbed into the saddle in front of his sister.

'We can return as soon as it is safe,' Tristan said, then urged Maura forwards and out of the stable.

The black-and-white cat narrowed its eyes at the receding horse, licked its paws with an air of boredom, then turned and loped off in search of breakfast.

I really can't believe I'm nearly there... twenty-three chapters and sixty thousand words, and I've almost reached the climax! I am so excited! Thank you for reading this, it really means so much!