Consorts of Heaven by Jaine Fenn Page A

Traditions say that the winnowing times come to the whole land at once. Could this one man truly be the cause of the falling fire appearing everywhere throughout Creation? Is it not more likely that his appearance is a matter of chance?’
    Kerin was pleased to see that this satisfied some of the dissenters.
    Fychan raised his hand again. ‘Even if this is so, might this man not be a reiver, and therefore an enemy?’
    ‘It is possible,’ conceded Arthen, ‘though I would have thought a reiver unlikely to throw himself on our mercy as this stranger has.’
    Howen, never known for his generosity, said, ‘Even if he is not a criminal or outcast, this is no time to entertain guests! We do not want strangers here. We should do as Bodfan suggested and send him back up into the mountains.’
    Cadmael spoke up. ‘That would be as good as a death sentence, even more so in the winnowing times.’
    ‘If that is what the Mothers will,’ said Howen piously.
    Sais stood still as a tree, his face stricken. Kerin got the impression that any move, any gesture, would lead to total collapse. Though he might not be a creature of evil, nor the cause of their afflictions, he was still a threat to the usual order, and they wanted him gone. They would not let reason or compassion get in the way. And in the end, Arthen would do what was best for the village.
    The silence stretched. Finally Arthen said, ‘I do not wish to have this man’s death on my conscience.’ He looked round the council. ‘And neither should you.’
    Kerin began to let go a slow, relieved breath.
    Arthen turned to Sais. ‘Stranger, you have leave to speak. Tell us how you came to be here.’
    The breath caught in Kerin’s throat.
    She wondered if Sais had not heard the question. Then he said, in a small, uncertain voice, ‘I don’t know. Honestly, I can’t remember anything before I woke up in Kerin’s hut. I don’t even know my name. I’m sorry.’
    People looked surprised and confused. He spoke with an accent none had heard before, establishing him as a man from afar: they had anticipated a tale of interest, not a denial of knowledge.
    Fychan had his hand up again. ‘Why should we believe this? Is this memory loss not a convenience that one of ill intent might affect?’ he asked.
    Arthen frowned, perhaps tiring of his son’s troublemaking. When no one else spoke up, Kerin raised her hand. Arthen nodded to her, and she said, ‘Masters, I believe I know who he is.’
    Out of the corner of her eye Kerin saw Sais’s head whip round. She kept her gaze on Arthen. ‘Not his name. But I believe he is a noble from the lowlands.’
    ‘Why do you say that when your knowledge of such places comes only from others?’ asked Arthen mildly.
    ‘My husband told me that the rich men in the lowlands live very different lives to us, and many do not have beards. My guest has had a life with little hard work, he has no beard and his ways are strange to us. And then—’ she fumbled in her apron for the pot she had taken from her hut, and stuck her hand inside it ‘—then there is this!’
    She had intended to produce the fabric with a flourish, but ended up dropping the pot. The appearance of the shining cloth still had the desired effect.
    Into the rapt silence Kerin said, ‘I found this with him. A man who can afford such cloth will have been missed. His people would be grateful for his return.’
    She passed the cloth to Arthen. He felt the weave, then gave it into Fychan’s eager hands. The etiquette of the meeting temporarily forgotten, Fychan said, ‘Was there more of this stuff?’
    Kerin felt a weight lift from her shoulders. Greed would overrule suspicion. She kept her voice uncertain. ‘I found a smaller piece as well, so there may well be more. I have been too busy tending my patient to look.’
    When it had gone around everyone, Arthen nodded to show that the fabric should be returned to Kerin. Then he said, ‘We can search the mere later. This is