Consorts of Heaven by Jaine Fenn

for an evening walk shortly afterwards. Sais asked, ‘Will he be all right? It sounds like people are getting a bit restless out there.’
    ‘They would not hurt him. He is a skyfool, remember?’ She wished he would not keep coming out with these odd statements, but his next words chilled her to the core.
    ‘Kerin, I still can’t remember anything about the Skymothers. Would you remind me, please?’
    She would have been less upset had he said he no longer knew how to use a spoon, or how to dress himself. What if he was Abyss-touched, and her growing attachment to him had blinded her to his true nature?
    ‘Kerin? Are you all right? I mean, if you’d rather not tell me—’
    ‘No,’ Kerin swallowed. ‘I mean, aye, I will tell you. T’would be a sin not to.’ Where to start though, when such knowledge was absorbed with a mother’s milk? ‘Everything you see around us is the Creation of the Skymothers, pulled from the chaos of the Abyss by their will.’
    ‘And the Abyss is . . . below us?’
    ‘Tis a place of chaos, ruled over by the Cursed One, Melltith, a creature of unimaginable vileness that opposes all that the Skymothers are. But for their grace we would fall into its foulness, and become nothing ourselves.’
    He nodded. ‘Right. And the Skymothers live in Heaven, above us?’
    ‘Aye. As we could see, if the sky were clear.’
    ‘You can see them?’
    ‘We see the lights that represent their grace, aye. Heaven itself is not something our petty souls can encompass. But each of the Five has a light to focus our prayers upon.’
    ‘So there’re five of them? What are their names?’
    Such innocently asked questions, as though a man could live without knowing the answers! She fought to keep her voice even, ‘Frythil is the sower, the Seed Mother, and keeper of hidden knowledge; her time is dawn, her colour green. Medelwyr is the Weaver and the Reaper, Harvest Mother, ruler of dusk, and her colour is the orange of sunset; Turiach is the Mother of Mercy, who heals and watches over the home and hearth; she rules the morning and her colour is blue. Mantoliawn is the Mother of Justice and the guardian of travellers, who we must ask to bless us when we leave tomorrow; her colour is yellow and her time is the afternoon. Carunwyd is the night’s touch, Mother of Passion, mistress of chance and luck, and bringer of poetry and song; her colour is red.’
    ‘Thank you. I understand better now.’ Kerin had the worrying notion that he was trying to commit what she had said to memory, rather than reclaiming old knowledge. ‘And what’s that gesture you keep making?’
    ‘Gesture?’
    ‘You draw a circle in the air over your chest whenever you mention the names. I saw you do it before eating too.’
    ‘The circle of the world. Tis like . . . a small unspoken prayer.’
    ‘How does it go?’
    She showed him, tracing the circle that showed Heaven and the Abyss with her right forefinger - perfection and corruption in one - then drawing her middle finger across to show the place between, the realm created by the Mothers for their children.
    Though he asked no more that evening, perhaps sensing her unease, he practised drawing the sigil as though it were some sleight-of-hand trick.
     
    It rained in the night, but the day of departure dawned fresh and clear. Kerin rose early and went to bid farewell to those few villagers she considered friends. Then she prepared their last meal, and made ready to leave. Sais tried to help in his inept way. Damaru was flustered and upset, constantly getting underfoot.
    When they were ready, Kerin gestured for the others to go first. She paused on the threshold, taking a last look at her hut, already looking abandoned in the early light. The yearly departure of the drove had always been a bit of welcome excitement in Kerin’s life. This year, she was the one leaving, and she had been so busy planning her departure that she had spared little thought for what she might be heading