The episode delves into the profound complexities of trust and desperation within the borderlands of Powys and Brycheiniog during the winter solstice of 421 BC. In this context, we witness the birth of Irfon, a child whose arrival is marked by both miraculous and ominous events, highlighting the fragile balance between hope and despair. The villagers, caught in a system of governance that favors power over the welfare of the community, grapple with their dire circumstances, as sacrifices and offerings become essential for survival. The narrative unfolds through the lens of Garth, where alliances are tested, and the repercussions of ambition are palpably felt. Ultimately, this tale invites reflection on the nature of trust, the consequences of desperation, and the enduring spirit of those who dare to hope amidst uncertainty.

The Solstice episode immerses listeners in the Iron Age, circa 421 BC, against the backdrop of Garth, a village situated in the borderlands of Powys and Brycheiniog. The narrative artfully weaves the complexities of governance, trust, and survival, as the villagers grapple with the oppressive rule of Y Rhew, which has stifled their growth and independence. As the winter solstice approaches, the village prepares for a much-anticipated feast, a gathering of representatives from five neighboring villages. This event is fraught with tension, as the villagers are acutely aware of their precarious position amidst a web of political alliances and economic desperation.

Central to the narrative is the figure of Llyr Pen Ychan, whose internal struggles reflect the broader themes of the episode. As he prepares for the sacrificial offering, the weight of expectation and the stakes of survival become increasingly evident. The episode deftly portrays the villagers' attempts to project an image of abundance while concealing their true hardships. Conversations among the villagers reveal a rich tapestry of mistrust, ambition, and the fragility of human relationships, as they navigate the complexities of loyalty and sacrifice. The offering of a goat, rather than an ox, serves as a poignant metaphor for their limited resources and the desperate measures they must undertake to appease the gods.

As the feast unfolds, the narrative builds to a dramatic climax, intertwining the themes of birth and sacrifice. The impending arrival of a child amid the sacrificial ritual serves as a powerful symbol of hope and renewal, even in the face of overwhelming adversity. The episode culminates in a moment of profound transformation as both a calf and a child are born into the chaos of the storm, reflecting the resilience of life in a world defined by struggle. Through its intricate storytelling, the episode emphasizes the enduring human spirit and the possibility of new beginnings, even when the frost falls heavily on all.

Takeaways:

• Trust is a fragile construct, often tested in times of desperation and need.
• The tension between Powys and Brycheiniog illustrates the complexities of power dynamics in governance.
• Offering a billy goat instead of an ox reflects the dire circumstances faced by Garth's villagers.
• The arrival of miraculous sheep from Llwyn Madoc raises questions about trust and the nature of gifts.
• The night of the winter solstice becomes a pivotal moment that shapes future alliances among the villages.
• The birth of Irfon signals a new beginning, yet carries the weight of old fears and expectations.

The Solstice, iron age, circa 421 BC.

Garth, borderlands between Powys and Brechaniog.

When tongues hold still in the Gap, the frost falls on all.

We have a peculiar habit of testing what we can verify and place in faith in what we cannot.

A villager will test every fibre in rope their neighbour gifts them, then pray to gods they have never seen that very evening.

Trust breaks easier than rope, and both were tested the night Irfon was born.

The Borderlands operates under Ru the frost, a fitting name for a system designed to freeze things in place.

Neither Powys nor Brycheniog were strong enough to risk direct conflict, so both squeezed the villagers caught between them instead of effective governance those in power called it.

Though I've noticed effective governance rarely benefits those being governed.

I know two bishops quite fond of this model.

The villagers stayed frozen in the gap, unable to build wealth or claim independence.

Gefrin of Beulah had the bravery and ambition to try, and sadly, we know how that turned out.

When I join the drovers for a tankard of Epic Meadow ale, we often toast to the long forgotten tale of Gayfrin as we remind ourselves it's good to dream and drink in moderation.

Each village found its own accommodation.

Garden Duad hid behind sacred authority, which means never choosing sides.

Or rather choosing both and calling it divine wisdom.

Abba Kairos treated loyalty as commodity poorly priced.

Kevin Golrud jumped at shadows for 25 years and was right about threats 24 times, which did not make them any less exhausting.

Garth's competence as the oxmasters made everyone resent them.

Llyn Madoc stayed away for 30 years.

Some called it shame, others wisdom.

Both were right.

Erru made trust impossible by design.

The winter solstice of 421Bc taught Garth that the gods have a habit of answering desperate prayers in ways that test whether you actually meant them.

The knot held tight at dusk.

An hour later, his numb fingers found it again under torchlight.

The billy goat stared at him with beady eyes while he ran his hands over it.

Anyway, it did not need checking.

The billy knew it.

Clea Penn Akhan understood it too.

Clea checked it once more from the pen.

The goat's jaw worked slowly over the last clump of grass, those flat yellow eyes catching torchlight with the vacant expression goats wore when chewing, watching him with the patience of a druid on his deathbed.

Three goats.

Garth kept only three after Beulah's lesson.

Hly preferred it that way.

Safe numbers, easy and manageable.

The Pen had been built for only a few, and that was enough.

Then the carvings failed.

One breach, another premature, and both dead.

Reary was their last chancer this winter, and with the tribute due to both chiefdoms, they needed something to offer the five villagers coming to the feast, something that looked like abundance.

For the first time in known memory.

Garth had 13 goats and tested the patience of Annun.

Four remained in LLIR's pen, cramped in space meant for three.

They sacrificed Billy eyes, watching three others of breeding stock shifted behind it.

Nine others had already been slaughtered with their meat roasting over the fires.

To get even that many, Garth had traded winter furs and firewood they could not spare.

Tonight, after the offering, they would be back to three, a number that allowed Clea to sleep at night without worry.

He moved to the next binding, hands running over the rope already secure.

The billy's gaze followed him.

Its breath came white in the cold air.

Behind it.

One of the does bleated softly, the sound carrying across the frozen yard.

He did not trust goats, never had.

But an ox for the solstice sacrifice would have been impossible this year, not with tribute due to both chiefdoms and Reary, their only hope of producing it.

Brycheniog would almost certainly take the cow and the young calf if they managed to save either or both.

A billy would have to be enough.

Whether Orang accepted goat meat from a village desperate enough to offer it instead of ox was a question better left unanswered.

They would need more firewood the next day, if the weather allowed.

Clear would take a team into the hills, cut and haul until they had enough to see the winter through.

If winter ran long and hard, what they had left would not last.

Ale inside called to him, but he would need to go easy.

Clear head for the next day's work.

Behind him, the roundhouses blazed with heat and noise.

Voices rose and fell over the hide covered doors, laughter that sounded forced with tension, wrapping in tribute planning.

Representatives from all five villages crammed inside for the feast, the first gathering in years.

Cleer's village was hosting and making every effort to show a successful year that had not happened, proven they had recovered from the failed carvings and still had an abundance to share.

They had desperation hidden behind fresh meat and barley Ale.

His shoulders ached from holding tension.

His teeth hurt from hours of smiling at representatives who who watched everything with assessing eyes.

Another knot checked.

It was still as tight as the rope could be.

Kerry was inside, eight months pregnant and holding court near the fire with Enith of Kevin Godwith, probably arguing about unity versus tradition while the men drank and the children ran wild and everyone performed that careful dance, pretending the winter's survival did not depend on tonight's alliances.

Going back inside meant more smiling and nodding, dancing around each word to avoid offence.

His chest tightened at the thought.

Clea Pennachan was no dancer.

Darker than the goat pen, the cattle binding still allowed him to make out Riri's bulk, her sides heavy with calf.

This was going to be Garth's third carving since summer.

The first two had been disasters.

Breech birth cord wrapped, calf dead before it drew breath.

Second came too early, too small, lasted barely the night.

This was her final chance, and the gods had chosen Reary.

Kerri had named her as a calf for her contrary nature, and the name proved prophetic.

She shifted, uncomfortable with the laboured breathing.

He reached through the fence and touched her flank, whispering the old words, Be th poppeth and yown.

Everything will be okay.

The calf moved beneath his palm, still alive and waiting.

Her pen had been checked twice already.

He checked it again.

The wind shifted from east to north, and the smell changed with it.

Iron and ice above, stars disappeared behind clouds rolling in from the east.

Still the billy goat watched him.

A knot that didn't need tightening got tightened anyway.

Clear.

A voice from the roundhouse doorway.

One of the young men breath steaming, cup of ale in hand.

Kerry said, stop hiding and get inside, or you'll turn into one of those goats you seem so fond of.

They're about to make the offering.

The knot had been secure since dusk.

It would probably hold for 20 seasons if left alone.

One more check, then.

He turned towards the roundhouse.

The billy goat chewed slowly, watching him go.

The last stars vanished as freezing rain hit the back of his neck in sharp cold points.

Cleo walked towards the door.

Part 1 the Gathering the problem with hosting a feast is that success brings its own punishment.

Inside the roundhouse, smoke hung thick enough to sting eyes and lined throats like a winter coat.

150 souls from the five villages, each one measuring Garth's worth against their own granaries.

Clea's teeth ached from an hour of unnecessary smiles.

Near the fire, Cadwallan of Abba Kairos bit into goat meat and chewed like he was making a point with his teeth.

His face shifted from disappointment to calculation.

No fat on this meat, just light enough to carry all tendon and muscle.

You fill your belly and wake hungry an hour later.

At least it's not turnip soup, his companion offered.

Even turnips have more fat than this Waru of Kilmeri stood deep in his cups, wooden plate still half full despite three trips to the meet.

Last time we had ox, there was a time when we had two oxen.

Hospitality slides backwards while they claim to lead us forward.

Next time we'll be gnawing bracken and calling it a feast.

The room went silent.

His companion grabbed his arm, knuckles white against black leather.

Outside now, But Warro shook free.

Easy to host when you got meat to spare.

How convenient when the rest of us count stones.

As if they were seeds from near the sacred drums, Gwydion of Ghanduad rose.

Not the tallest man or the strongest, but he had moved with the careful precision of someone who'd practiced this exact gesture to perfection.

His staff struck packed earth once, the sound sharp enough to wake drunk men from their stupor.

His index finger tapped against the wood in the rhythm equal to a druid's incantation.

Perhaps.

Gwydion's fingers shifted on his staff.

Garth's prosperity comes from knowing which gods to please and which villagers to accommodate.

Nobody missed the pause before accommodate, or which direction his gaze travelled.

When the words left his mouth, a voice near the back muttered, he's at it again.

Just loud enough for the closest to hide smiles behind their cups.

Alcun caught Lia's eye from near the ale casks.

Your wife's in East House.

Argue in matters of unity with Aeneth.

Still, Enos convinced Abba Kairos and Ghanduad have drawn borders through Kevan Gorrowith's heart.

She paused.

Terrifying woman in that mood.

I know.

Alsun watched him.

Whatever she saw there made her laugh outright.

Clea looked away.

Too late.

Ten years married, and even the mention of her could do that.

Long years of thinking children wouldn't come.

And now Gideon's been making the rounds all evening, alswyn said.

The man could sour milk with a kind word.

She paused, thought he should know he'd been asking about Rere's pregnancy.

Watch yourself.

Before Clea could answer, the crowd shifted.

A stranger stood in the doorway holding a bundle wrapped in faded linen.

His face had the hollowness of too many lean seasons, cheek sucked towards teeth, eyes too bright.

His left hand was missing two fingers, the scars old and white from frostbite.

Trade goods from Llynmadoc.

The name stopped hands mid reach and cups mid sip.

Lloydmadog, the village that broke away from Beulah generations ago, endured somehow in the shadow of those ruins.

Then thirty years ago, they went silent.

No more traders at gatherings, no answers when the scouts passed through their valleys.

Khlear's hand went to the carving of Frere at his belt, the one he'd been working on for weeks.

This was their third carving.

If it failed, they'd have no tribute for either chieftain come spring.

His thumb found a spot worn smooth from handling.

The stranger unwrapped his bundle with deliberate patience.

What emerged made people forget their ale.

This material was pale and thick, softer than anything they'd felt, and light enough to hold in one hand.

It made goat here look like bundled straw.

The crowd pushed forward and bodies pressed close enough that boots crunched feet without apology, smoke and ale breath trapped between shoulders.

Bledinnapcaradog.

His voice carried without strain.

This fleece came from a single ewe last summer.

What's an ewe?

An old voice from the back, suspicious of new words.

Sheep.

Bledin's hands stilled on the fleece.

Think of them as goats that learned manners.

They give wool, milk, meat.

Everything goats give.

But they're gentler about it.

Easier to manage gentler.

Goats, someone muttered.

Next you'll tell us they apologize before they eat your crops.

Gwydion moved closer, each step measured.

People leaned forward.

30 years of silence from Lloyd Madoc.

We thought Powys had finished what Beulah started.

His fingers hovered over the fleece without touching.

Where did these miraculous sheep come from?

We prayed.

Gladdin's chin came up.

20 years of wild goats from Beulah's ruins, eating everything.

Gardens to wasteland.

We were starving, so we prayed at the springs for mercy.

And he answered.

Gwydion's voice had gone flat.

How generous.

How convenient.

Six sheep appeared at our boundary last summer.

We took them as the gift they were.

Appeared.

Gwydion let the word hang.

Where precisely did they appear?

The roundhouse went quiet.

The eastern edge of our grazing lands.

Gleddyn's voice dropped but didn't waver near what used to be Beulah's territory.

Murmurs rippled through the room.

Beulah's territory.

A plague of goats and too much ambition had ended Gayfarin and ruined the village.

They were grazing on Beulah's cursed ground.

Enid stood from where she'd slept in during Bleddin's unveiling, and eyes went to the rope round both her wrists.

Animals that no one's seen before feeding were Gaythrin's herds once fed.

And you brought them home.

Have five generations of penniths taught you nothing?

Our ancestors taught us plenty.

We learned to survive.

Gwydion began a slow circle around Bleddin, his finger still tapping that counting Rhythm.

Strange gifts from corrupted soil.

Tell me, did any of your miraculous sheep come out different?

Bleddan's face went blank, careful as an Abacairos merchant weighing bronze.

The room turned to Fleer.

One hundred and fifty faces waiting.

Sheep he'd never seen from a village that might be lying about everything.

He looked at the fleece wool, superior to anything they'd seen.

Bleddhin stood there with desperate pride.

Gwydion waited.

I trust the ox.

It's nothing but a goat in sheep's clothing.

Someone barked a laugh.

Cleer found something interesting in his ale, his shoulders shifting slightly.

Or innovation.

Kerri's voice cut through the doorway.

Eight months pregnant and moving with the ease of someone being home.

Her eyes found Fleers across the crowd.

A quick check.

He gave the smallest nod.

Unless we've collectively decided that anything new deserves suspicion simply for existing.

Gideon's attention shifted to her, smooth and inevitable.

Ah, young Kerri.

Still confusing movement with progress.

Your enthusiasm assumes all villagers share your commitment to innovation.

Tradition.

She moved through the crowd without asking, people stepping aside.

You mean the tradition where Ghan Duad provides spiritual guidance without a druid, while everyone else provides the actual food that keeps you alive to guide us?

That particular tradition.

Careful, gwydion said softly.

The gods listen closest on the longest night.

They remember who shows proper respect and who trades reverence for cleverness.

Thunder rolled from the north.

Gwydion turned from Kerri as if she was nothing more than a fly bothering a wolf.

His attention returned to Bleddin.

You never answered my question.

Did any of your miraculous sheep come out different?

Bleddin's hand stayed steady on the fleece as the room waited.

Some of the lambs came out black, bleddon said finally.

Not grey.

Speckled like normal kids.

Black as charred wood.

The word corruption passed through the crowd like wildfire.

But they're stronger.

Lethyn's desperation showed now, stripped bare.

The black ones survive winters that kill the pure white.

They eat less, grow faster, breed true.

Maybe corruption's the wrong word for what keeps you alive when everything else dies.

Maybe, gwydion said, his voice the way bronze is gentle when it slides between ribs.

It's exactly the right word, Beulah thought.

They were special, too, chosen and blessed by Arawn.

We still walk around their ruins and will be stepping around that carcass for generations to come.

He let that settle, then added with calculated softness, thirty years of silence from Lloyd Madog.

Now you return with gifts and expect trust.

Rather like the folk at Kaera Baethae, wouldn't you say?

The room sucked in its breath.

Kaira Baethai.

The settlement that kept to itself, traded with no one, and about which every village had theories but little fact.

My grandfather met one of them once.

Someone from Garth offered into the nervous silence.

A woman named Nest.

She was running from both Powys and Bryceniog, fled south towards Eppin territory.

Never seen again.

And that's because they're cannibals, muttered a voice from Kevin Gorloweth.

Everything's cannibals with you, snapped Kerry, losing patience.

Last month you blamed cannibals for your missing dogs, I guess.

Never found those dogs, did we?

Kerry made a sound between exhaustion and disgust.

Not every disappearance is due to cannibalism.

You can't tell me it isn't.

Kerrie winced, grabbed the door frame.

The baby had found a new spot to press right under her ribs where breathing hurt.

She waved off the concern forming on faces and forced a smile.

The this child objects to old wives tales as much as I do.

Nervous laughter rippled through the room, but many would be dreaming of such things at night.

The difference, Slia said, is that Cloydmada came here to trade in daylight.

His gaze found Gwydion.

Bleddin has brought wool, not mysteries.

Judge what you can trust.

Fear and hunger both make poor decisions.

Outside, the wind lifted.

It was now coming from the north.

We should make the offering.

A voice cried out, but Gwydion raised one hand, a gesture so small and so complete that everyone stopped.

First, let's properly understand what we're discussing.

Cloydmadoc took gifts that materialized on cursed ground, gifts that breed corruption into their very flesh.

And now they come here to Garth's Feast, asking us to accept this innovation, to welcome it, to trade for it.

His gaze found clear again.

Tell us, ox master, you who understand bloodlines and breathing better than any man here.

When corruption enters your herds, what happens to everything it touches?

Thia stood his bench, scraping against packed earth.

The look he gave Gwydion needed no words.

Everyone in that room remembered whose house this was, whose feast, and whose goats they were eating.

Gwydion's fingers shifted on his staff.

His mouth opened, then closed.

He shifted his weight back half a step, telling the room everything they needed to know.

The door burst open hard enough to bounce off the wall.

Young Davydd stood there, snow in his hair, chest heaving from the run.

Riri's down.

She's car Part 2 the yard emptied into sleet and bitter wind.

Despite Rari's complaints from the pen, everyone pretended they couldn't hear what that particular bellow meant Cleer found himself in the crush of bodies moving towards the offering stone.

Beside him, Kerry walked with one hand pressed under her ribs where the baby had decided to lodge an elbow.

She'd insisted on witnessing the offering, eight months gone and moving through the crowd with the determination of someone who'd be damned before asking for help.

The granite stood at the yard's eastern edge, worn smooth.

The crowds kept their distance, arranging themselves in the particular pattern of a mob who wanted to see every detail while staying clear of any actual involvement.

Torches spat and died and returned to flame.

Two men brought the billy forward, neither of them wanting to be there.

His yellow eyes stayed vacant, reflecting torchlight without comprehension.

The goat walked without resistance, which somehow made it worse.

An ox would have been proper.

Gwydion's voice carried despite the wind.

He positioned himself where everyone could see him shake his head in theatrical disappointment.

But we make do with what Garth provides.

The sigh he produced could have stripped bark from a hundred year oak.

The elder of Ghanduad had been cultivating that sound for two decades, and by the gods, he was getting good at it.

The eldest son of Garth, a Frail man of 68 summers, stepped forward with the bronze knife.

His hands maintained a steady rhythm despite the winter ear and Gwydion's performance.

The blade went in, under the jaw and across in one motion.

The goat, dropping before its legs, understood what had happened.

Blood ran dark across the granite, smoking where it met ice.

The copper smell hit immediately, sharp enough to taste, mixing with sleet and wood smoke.

The crowd waited for a sign, some acknowledgement from an un.

Rain drove harder while wind screamed through the fencing gaps and the solstice fire gutted against the assault.

Then the temperature plunged.

The biting cold came all at once, breath going white and hanging there.

No.

Kerry's whisper came through clenched teeth.

She grabbed Clea's arm, nails digging in.

What's wrong?

Cold.

It's.

She doubled over, grabbing her knees.

The baby feels a storm.

Liquid ran down her legs, warm against the frozen air.

Her water broke.

Aelwith pushed through the crowd, took Kerry's other arm.

Get her inside.

Now.

Across the yard, a bellow rose from the cattle pen.

Riri's voice came from deeper in her chest than they'd heard before.

Arawn is displeased.

Gwydion's voice rang out across the yard, stamping his staff into the ground for all to hear.

The crowd's reaction rose to meet the wind.

At least we know the gods are paying attention, a voice muttered from the back that's something, I suppose.

I've seen better omens at a funeral, came the reply.

The snowstorm worsened.

The cow and a woman called Gladys of Kevren Gorwith both at once.

Arawn takes his price tonight.

Well, if we're all going to die, a voice near the door offered, at least we won't have to pay the gap collectors.

A few nervous laughs died quickly in the cold.

Kerry tried to straighten, managed halfway.

Get me to the Eastern House.

I'll carry you, clea said.

You'll go to riri.

She turned his face towards hers.

The cow is our survival.

Without her calf, we have no tribute.

Without tribute she didn't need to finish.

They all knew what happened to villagers that couldn't pay.

Kerry, the women know what to do with me.

You're the only one that might save that calf.

Another contraction came and she breathed through it with teeth clenched.

Go.

Aylwith and two other women took Kerry's weight, moving toward the Eastern roundhouse.

Clea watched them go, his mouth tight on nothing.

Cleer Edith's voice from the cattle pen.

I need you here.

He ran with the gracelessness of someone fighting both ice and urgency.

Behind him, people fled to buildings, doors slamming against unnatural cold.

The cattle pen stank of blood and the particular sourness of animal panic.

Enith knelt in soaked straw beside Reary, her arms wrapped with reddened ropes around her wrists.

Bleddin held the cow's head, murmuring the words people say when there's nothing else to do.

She's dying.

The calf is breached and stuck.

If we don't get it out now, we'll lose both.

From the Eastern Roundhouse came a scream.

Not Kerry.

She'd swallow her tongue first.

Focus.

Enith took his wrists and positioned them inside Reary.

The shoulders caught.

We turn together or we lose them both.

Wind tested every gap in the walls while ice crawled across the water troughs.

The breath hung visible between them like accusations.

Another sound from the Eastern House.

Kerry's voice this time.

The blue jar.

Aylwith.

No, not that one now.

Enid said.

Turn.

Levin watched her unwrap the rope from her wrists.

Never seen anyone take those off.

Then you never had to grab three children and run in the dark.

Same rope that ties a child to your waist.

Can pull a calf, drag a cart, or hold a wound closed.

She wrapped the rope twice around her palms and pulled.

We called them Raphael Parod, enith said, working with the rope.

Ready ropes.

They pulled together.

Reary tried to rise, but her legs had already given up the argument.

Blood Pooled faster now, too much of it dark in the straw.

I have the shoulder.

Enith worked with steady focus, refusing to accept what she already knew.

It's moving.

But Rerey's breathing had gone strange, catching halfway through each breath, like a door that wouldn't close properly in the eastern roundhouse.

Clea burst through the door to find organised chaos.

Kerry on the bracken pile.

Three elder wives moving with practice efficiency, water heating over the fire.

She looked up at him.

Relief crossed her face, then fury.

What are you doing here?

They said you needed.

There's a birth expert with a cow.

You absolute fool.

She grabbed the grinding stone beside her, heavy granite stained with grain the size of a man's fist, and threw it at his head.

He dodged.

The stone cracked against the door frame, splinters raining down.

When I'm done with this, kerry managed through clenched teeth, I'm gonna murder whoever sent you here.

A messenger boy stood in the corner.

It was young Dafydd, studying his feet with intense focus.

He developed a sudden fascination with the particular way mud dried between boot leather and sole.

But she said, fetch the animal expert for the cow.

You said the birth.

Which birth do you think I meant?

Both the births.

The eldest wife's patience had worn through to bare metal.

Can we please focus on the woman actively delivering?

Kerry's next contraction arrived without warning.

Her grip on Clea's wrist tightened until he felt the bones shift against each other, same as a breech calf.

She gasped.

Shoulders caught.

Guide.

Don't pull.

His fingers found the familiar wrongness, the angle that meant the baby couldn't descend properly.

Ten years waiting for this child.

The shaking wouldn't stop.

Kerry grabbed his wrist to steady him.

Fennel smoke made everyone's eyes water.

Women moved with heated water and clean linen.

Through the door came sounds from the yard, shouting, wind, and underneath it all, Rarey's final sounds.

Back in the cattle pen, Enith worked in silence.

Now Reary had gone still, her great body cooling even as the calf inside still moved.

She's gone, bleddin said.

The calf isn't.

Enith worked faster, her movements practiced.

The calf slid free in a rush of fluid and heat, then drew breath when it shouldn't have been able to.

Bleddin stared.

That's not possible.

Tell the calf that.

Enith cleared its airways and rubbed circulation into its legs until the calf's eyes opened, ordinary and brown and impossibly alive.

A shout went up.

People pressed closer to see Reary's miracle child, wet and confused, looking towards its mother.

In the roundhouse, Kerry pushed one final time.

Clea guided as his father had taught him, albeit with cattle, and the baby emerged into waiting hands.

The room went still.

Even the fire seemed to hold its breath.

The elder wives moved with urgent efficiency, clearing earwaves, rubbing the tiny chest, muttering the same words their mothers had taught them.

Then the baby drew breath, opened his eyes, and looked at each person in the room, holding their gaze.

The fire crackled.

Nobody moved.

One elder wife's hand rose in a warding gesture before she caught herself another step back, her face pale.

Around Mark came the whisper.

Irwon Kerry's voice cut through the silence.

His name is Ivan.

The baby made no sound, just watching them with eyes that tracked movement the way newborns weren't supposed to.

From outside came new shouting, not panic, but wonder.

The calf lives.

Dafydd Bach burst through the door, ice in his hair, eyes wild.

Riri's dead, but her calf stands.

Thea looked at his silent son, then at Kerri, who held the baby with both arms wrapped tight, her chin raised in the particular angle of someone ready to fight the world.

He kissed her forehead, tasting salt and exhaustion.

Go see what the gods have done.

He ran back into the storm to see what waited in the torchlit yard.

Part 3 Dyad looked like goats had hosted a war council.

Broken pottery near the offering stone where Waru had tried to demonstrate a harvest dance from his youth.

A torch smouldered against the fence, too wet to catch but still smoking.

Three men slept where they dropped, one clutching his cup.

Khlea stood at the cattle pen, watching Trouble nurse.

The calf had earned her name during the chaos of the night before.

Trouble.

She butted the cow's udder harder than necessary, demanding more.

The cow who'd lost her own calf two weeks back stood there and let it happen.

It was a small mercy.

Behind him, footsteps crunched through the frost, then stopped.

Your son disturbs people.

Gwydion stood with his pack ready, three young men from Ghanduad waiting behind him.

Silent children grow into problems.

Llia kept watch in the calf.

The gods remember everything, those grasping beyond their station, every corruption welcomed as progress.

Each village that thinks itself clever.

And so do we.

Gwydion's grip tightened on his staff while the young men found urgent reasons to study their boots.

One caughtlier's eye and held it just long enough to say something without words, then looked away.

The elder turned to the gate with practiced dignity.

Four steps on ice.

His knee hit first, then his palms.

The staff rolled into goat droppings.

Two of his young men rushed to Help.

The third retrieved the staff, slowly wiping it clean with unnecessary care.

Not all of us follow blind.

The young man glanced back at Gwydion, still cursing in the mud.

That is the elder speaks.

Wisdom, of course, but some of us also he stopped mid sentence, voice dropping to a whisper.

We know who the real enemy is.

Gwydion snatched his staff back and left without another word, his young men hurrying after.

They went through the east gate alongside the stream.

Though Ghaan Duad lay west.

Bledin approached with the fleece bundle standing straighter than he had the night before.

Sheep will save these villages, he said, not asking but informing, as if telling someone that the sun rises in the east.

I'm offering Garth 10 news come spring.

Good breeding, hardy stock, Beulah.

Speckled sheep, one wise fool from our village called them.

Bleddin chuckled.

But don't let that name put you off.

These are a cross of black and the white.

Hardy spirited, but flock together in a way goats never will.

They are the future.

I'm certain of that.

Cleo watched him without speaking, which Bledin took his permission to continue.

We can bind our villagers through wool trade instead of tribute collectors.

He set the bundle down between them, carefully.

After last night, I can't see Garth courting more divine intention for a good while yet.

Your cow died birthing that calf.

My fingers froze off.

I would swap another three for the gift of sheep.

Bledin held up his damaged hand.

The gods don't send gifts wrapped in leather cord.

Wool might help you afford what you need.

He nudged the fleece forward with his foot.

This is yours, regardless.

A small thank you for your hospitality.

We gave shelter in a storm, nothing more.

You shared meat where you had little enough yourself.

Clea's shoulders went rigid.

Bleddin's eyes widened.

I. I meant no offense.

He looked down at his damaged hand.

We know what it's like to struggle, but we fight to keep the hearth fire burning.

He paused.

You will always have help from Claymadoc.

All you need do is ask.

Bledin turned to leave, then stopped.

Your wife understands what I'm saying.

The dying doesn't come from changing, but from standing still while the world moves past you.

Clea picked up the fleece and tested it between fingers.

Worn rough from ropework, it was softer than anything he had known.

Spring, you said.

When the ground thaws, we'll think on it.

Young Dafydd came running from the eastern house with particular urgency.

Rider, come in, Bricken.

Your colours.

Wake everyone who matters, clea said, then added as Dafydd turned.

Leave Carrie Sleeping?

What if she wakes?

Then you'd better hope she doesn't find a grinding stone before he leaves.

The boy's face went through several expressions before settling on terror.

Should I guard the door?

Unless you want to explain to Brykaneog's tribute collector why our women have such good aim when they're angry.

Cleo watched understanding dawn on the boy's face.

Yes.

Got it.

Stand there and don't move until I tell you otherwise.

Dafydd ran back to the eastern house and planted himself across the doorway, his arms spread wide.

His knees shook, but he held his position.

The rider crested the hill.

Clear's mouth went tight.

Legaddon.

Of course he would visit the morning after the solstice, when heads pounded and guards slept.

The horse came first.

Grain fed and glossy, the rider had soft, puffy features contrasting with his beady eyes.

Already counting, he dismounted with ceremony, adjusting his cloak.

His smile had been practiced to perfection.

What a fascinating night you must have had.

His voice went soft as sheep's wool.

Dead cows, living calves, silent babies.

Nothing like arriving the morning after feast night.

Heads, thick, cards sleeping.

I do enjoy the honesty of hangovers.

His eyes found trouble immediately.

Beautiful calf.

The mother.

Dead birthing hair.

Dead birthing hair.

He savoured the words.

How inconvenient for you.

How simple for me.

The tally stick appeared from his belt.

A dead cow means replacement value.

His gaze swept the pen.

Hmm.

Cadfan, your lead ox.

Nobody breathed.

That's three years of ploughing, alcun said.

Is it?

How terrible.

You could pull the ploughs yourselves.

Good exercise.

He ran his hand along Kadvan's flank.

Unless you'd like to argue tribute lore.

I studied in the Halls of Creek, Howl.

He turned to Freyr.

Since you lost the cow, you must have fresh meat.

I'll sample your hospitality while you prepare my tribute.

Wonderful.

But the carcass hasn't aged.

Oh, I'm patient.

I have no pressing visits until the moon turns a crash.

From the eastern house, Dafydd pressed harder against the door.

Someone's awake, legaddon observed.

You had 13 goats for your feast.

Ambitious.

Yet you sacrificed a goat, not an ox.

Financial troubles.

The gods accepted what we gave.

Did they?

He marked his stick.

Storm.

Dead cow.

Silent child.

If that's acceptance, I'd hate to see rejection.

Though I suppose rejection looks like Beulah.

Nothing left but stones and goat droppings.

Bledin stepped forward.

I have wool.

Oh.

Brycheniog wants oxen, not this mottled goat here, though, watching you scramble to help Each other is touching like mice shearing crumbs.

He tied his lead to Cadvan's halter.

Fine.

I need provisions.

Bread, Alex.

Unless of course, someone objects.

Another crash.

Dafydd had gone white.

Is she coming out?

Khlear said, looking for her boots.

Block the door.

With what?

Anything you can.

Find your head if necessary.

As villagers prepared provisions, Clegaddon walked the yard, commenting on their poverty, the weak fences, the thin goats.

How people flinched.

You still believe next year will be better?

That desperate hope.

It's quite moving.

He accepted the provisions without elaborate ceremony.

Barley bread, not wheat.

Times are hard.

He tore off a corner and ate it while counting.

Legaddin mounted his horse.

Cad Van's lead secured.

Tribute's reliability is wonderful.

I'll see you when I return.

Tried to have something left.

His eyes found clear.

Congratulations on the calf and silent son.

He clicked his tongue.

The horse turned towards the east track as Cad Van followed.

At the gate, the ox pulled his head back, looking at the pen where he'd lived for three years.

Then Legaddon spurred to a trot.

Cadfan stumbled, then found his pace.

The eastern house door burst open.

Kerry stood there, boots half laced, hair wild, Irfon calm in her arms.

Was that Legaddon?

Yes.

And you let him leave?

Yes.

She looked at Dafydd pressed against the wall, then at Llyr, then at the ridge.

Probably wise.

She went back inside.

Dafydd's knees gave out.

He sat in the frost.

She would have killed me.

No, she'd have aimed for Legaddon.

You'd have just been in the way.

The villagers left with particular efficiency, understanding they were at risk of outstaying their welcome.

Lloyd Madoc went first, moving through the morning mist with their bundles of miraculous wool.

At the gate, Gladden turned back.

The fleece stays for the child.

Keep him warm through the winter.

He studied Kleir, who gave him a nod without blinking.

Come spring, Thor, I'll return to see if you've reconsidered sheep.

We'll see, clear said.

Kev and Gorowith took longer to organize themselves, still arguing, until Enith ended it with a gesture sharp enough to split wood.

She walked straight to Kerry.

Your son will need friends who understand what it means to be different.

I know, kerry said.

And he'll have them.

My word on it.

Enith opened her mouth to say something else, closed it, then just nodded.

Even Abakiris managed courtesy.

Cedwalan stopped at the gate and said with visible pain, your goat wasn't terrible.

He paused, his compliment, not landing the way he intended.

Better than turnip soup, anyway.

He nodded once, pleased to have shown the proper courtesy.

Old Gladys of Kevin Gorewith had stayed behind, waiting by the wall until the yard emptied.

She walked to the pen where Trouble nursed, then turned to study Irvon in Kerry's arms.

I've seen this before, she said, and everyone still in the yard moved closer.

My grandmother's time.

Animals dying, snows, early tribute collectors taking what little remained.

Another silent child born.

That child grew to lead when others failed, and Kerri asked, lived to.

Greyhair saw his grandchildren.

Gladys Hand rose towards Irvon but stopped short.

The silent ones hear what others miss, see patterns where we only see chaos.

She pulled something from her cloak, then pushed it back.

This is no, I shouldn't.

She thrust it at Kerrie.

Take it before someone sees.

I can't take that.

Look at your hand.

Kerry's fingers had already closed around it.

That calf will need watching, gladys said, turning away.

They both will.

When tongues hold still in the gap, the frost falls on all.

By midday, Garth had returned to its proper size, 60 souls in a space that had held 150 the night before.

The yard still showed evidence of the feast.

Clea stood with Kerry at the pen where Trouble nursed steadily.

The cow who'd lost her own calf stood there and let it happen.

We lost Cadfan, kerry said, watching the empty space where their lead ox should have been.

Spring ploughing without him will be impossible.

We'll manage.

With what hope?

Powers will come before their tribute next.

Take the second bear stocks, and by the summer we'll be pulling the ploughs ourselves, like beasts.

Irwon made a sound then, not a cry, but his first sound since birth.

Trouble's ears turned immediately.

She lifted her head from nursing and walked to the fence, pressing against the rails where Irfan could see her.

They watched each other.

We survived the night, khle said finally.

It's easy for you to say.

It won't be the ox master strapped to the plough come spring.

He put his arms around her shoulders, careful of the baby, and she leaned into him.

I threw a grinding stone at you.

You did.

I'm guessing you deserved it.

Hlya turned to look at his wife and gave a subtle nod, smiling.

I did.

Bleddin will return with his sheep.

Behind them, the villagers started preparing the evening meal.

Others began repairing the fence where the torch had burnt.

Epilogue 10 years after that solstice night, Trouble began her own impossible labour.

The east wind rose once again, stronger and harsher than before.

Cleer stood in the livestock pen on a cold afternoon, watching Trouble.

The cow was ten years old now, showing signs and breathing carefully.

Old for cattle, but not impossible.

What worried him was the memory.

Ten years ago her mother had laboured on a night like this that had not ended well.

She was born on the same night I was.

Irvon's voice came from behind him.

10 summers old now, quiet, watching everything with those two aware eyes that had unnerved people since the moment of his birth.

Yes, the night you were born.

Her mother died giving birth to her.

Were people afraid of me?

Some were.

Few still are.

Crouched by the pen, one hand flat against the frozen ground, his fingers moved slightly, as if reading something through the earth.

It's happening again, he said quietly.

Clear looked at his son.

How do you know?

Irvon didn't answer.

His hand stayed pressed on the ground, fingers barely moving.

Are you afraid of me?

Klear looked at his son, startled by the directness of Vervon's question, then turned his eyes back to Trouble.

Old Gladys once told me of a man in Kevringorwydd who could smell rain three days before it fell.

Saved harvests, warned travellers when to stay home.

It was a useful gift to have.

Khlee checked the binding on troubled Pen.

People still crossed to the other side of the track to avoid him.

They said he made them nervous.

Did the rain care if they were nervous?

No.

It came exactly when he said it would.

Troubled's breathing changed as the labour began.

Cleer's hands moved to check her, falling into patterns his father had taught him, techniques he had perfected over 30 years.

Irfan stopped mid step.

The east wind has risen.

Hlya felt it too, called from the wrong direction.

Get your mother.

Earvan ran.

Hly stood alone in the pen, rope in hand, wind rising from the east and that old dread in his chest.

Trouble groaned, her flanks heaving.

Another impossible birth beginning when the east wind truly came and the Black Tongue swept down from the mountains.

Abba, Kairos, and Garth faced destruction.

Kevin Gorwith and Cloyne Maddock sent aid without being asked.

They offered the best men and the strongest oxen to help.

Remembering that solstice night, Khan Duat, as always, had sacred business elsewhere.

Trust breaks easier than rope, but once mended, it holds where you least expect it.

The villagers that learnt to trust survived what came next.

The Karns still stand at Ghanduad, but little El.

Sam.

Shadows draw together in the camp, stones collecting in the stream, light sharing crumbs in a sack.

Frost is thawing at the sea.

When.

Two torches burned on the ridge.

The.

Beacon of the gods journey to worlds bound at the bridge the winter spread and the fire ceased Red and clay through the mirror face only long surface the gap follow the river's course Shadows gathered on both sides Distant fires burn through fractured gold Pressing close with watching eyes red and play through the mirror Sam.

Thank you for listening to this fireside tale from the Book of the Western vale.