“So you’ll let me come? To Annwn? You can forgive me?”
“I can’t forgive you,” I said. Belis looked down, hope dying in her face. “I can’t forgive you for hurting your sister, that’s something you will have to work through with her. For myself, I can’t pretend to understand why you did it, but I know you are trying to make it right. I’m grateful that you told me, and now that there is no lie between us I think we can work together and try again.”
Belis stuck her hand out towards me. “Peace? Pax Brittanica?”
I gripped her forearm and smiled. Her arm was warm under my hand, and I could feel the muscles contracting. It felt strange to touch a human in the full strength and vigour of their life. Her skin was softer than that of the fae, and as I met her eyes I noticed that her irises were speckled with silver the same way her skin was covered in freckles. I replayed the memory of findingher and Cati in the glade.
Strange to think that I had once found all humans so similar that I couldn’t even tell them apart. Now that Belis’s face was more familiar to me than my own, I would have known her anywhere.
Belis dropped her gaze. I leaned back on the bench, noticing that the feeling of indigestion in my chest had come back and was burning worse than ever. The seawater must have turned my stomach. Then I realised I had forgotten something.
“Belis,” I said, sitting up. She looked back up at me.
“Thank you for rescuing me from drowning. It is not a pleasant way to go.” She smiled and started rowing again.
“You’re welcome. Thank you for coming back.” I snorted at that.
“I was worse than useless. All I did was jump in the water and almost drown.”
“Nevertheless,” said Belis, still smiling, “thank you. For rescuing me, too.”
Belis Before
3
She is fourteen years old and radiant with excitement. Her father has brought her with him to meet with the new governor in Londinium. She flicks her heels against her pony’s sides and the beast trots forward, almost as eager as its mistress to take in the new sights and smells of the city. She has never been so far from her father’s hall at Icenorum. Her father laughs as she surges past him and calls out.
“Not too far, Belis. Gods know I don’t have the energy to chase you after two weeks in the saddle!”
She reins in her horse and looks out over the valley. Londinium nestles against the riverbanks, squatting in the low ground between several small hills. The skies are grey and the wind carries the briny smell of the saltwater of the lower Thames. Her father stops beside her.
“This is a very important city,” he says. “Sacred and ancient for many years before the Romans came. It will last long after they have gone. It is larger than our home and you must not wander off.”
Belis nods seriously and her father grins.
“But there will be time for some fun as well. Stay close and we will explore once our business is concluded. Hurry now, it looks like rain.”
As they ride nearer she begins to make out the old ditches andthe new walls budding up above them. The Romans have been busy. The freshly placed bricks are an orange colour, so bright that the city seems to glow in the morning sunlight. There is a constant stream of people entering and leaving the city: Britons, Gauls, slaves, Romans. The king barks an order and the warriors and scribes accompanying the Iceni keep the crowds at arm’s length.
They pass under an arched gate wide enough for a team of carthorses to walk through. She stares at the flash of a red cloak, her first city Roman, a legionary, leaning on his spear and yawning. He hardly blinks as the Iceni ride past.
The king stables the horses near the gate, swapping a bronze coin for a parchment chit that attests to their ownership. Belis pats her pony before they lead her away, taking comfort in the familiar equine smell. Londinium is so loud, so smelly, so much. She half wants to call the stable boy back, jump on the horse and ride all the way back home. But she is a princess, her blood is royal and so she straightens her spine and prepares to turn away and step into the street.
Londinium is squalling with life. Small factories hum with the sound of brickmaking and the heat of glass furnaces. Slaves hurry in and out, carrying neatly packed crates of glossy red pottery and smoky glass goblets. When they turn to the right, to head towards the temple district, she sees a slave trip and drop his burden. Hundreds of tiny glass tiles, intended for the mosaic in some rich man’s house, spill out into the muddy street. A second slave, taller and with an overseer’s paunch, smacks the unlucky man into the dirt, yelling at him to pick them up, quick smart.
She bends to snatch a handful of tiles from the dirt, holding them up to her face as they stroll away. They are as bright and colourful as butterfly wings and she pockets them to show Cati when she gets home.
Her father walks comfortably ahead, barely looking at the strange sights. Belis hurries after him, gazing up at the houses on either side of the street. High walls separate them from the muck of the public areas and bored-looking guards slump innarrow porticos. They give way to a cart loaded with cages full of miserably damp chickens and Belis tugs at her father’s arm.
“Is it far from here?” she asks, trying to keep her voice steady. He nods and keeps walking. Belis glances at the others, none of whom seem to share her nerves. She pushes them down and follows.
They pass a cluster of temples, old and new, the cart of chickens stopping to deliver the creatures intended for sacrifice, then turn through the food markets, where animal carcasses swing gently in the sun. She pauses to look at a stall selling caged songbirds, unsure if they are for food or entertainment.
When she turns around her father is gone: no sign of any of the Iceni. She spins on her heel, looking around for a glimpse of them. She is tall for her age, already almost six foot, but in the close market with the stalls blocking her gaze she cannot see. She darts back and forth and realises she cannot even see the way she came into this market, let alone find the exit. She begins to panic, her heart thrumming in her chest.
Someone touches her arm and Belis yelps, bringing up her fists in defence. A young woman stands beside her, a baby balanced on her hip. She looks Roman, with her hair pinned up in what Belis vaguely recognises as the Latin style.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you,” she says. “You just looked upset, and I wanted to see if you needed help.”
