Spirit Sight: Epic fantasy in medieval Wales (Last of the Gifted - Book One)

What readers are saying about Spirit Sight

Spirit Sight is an imaginative novel that makes clever use of medieval Welsh history and legend. Young adult readers will be drawn to the magic powers of Hyw and Cat, transporting them back to a tense and pivotal moment in the history of the United Kingdom, when the last Welsh princes faced down the mighty English army. Readable and well-researched.

— Danièle Cybulskie

Author of Life in Medieval Europe and The Five-Minute Medievalist

Marie Powell is a writer that is able to pull readers into her world and not let them go.

— Eileen Cook

Author of With Malice and You Owe Me A Murder

Marie Powell cleverly explores the possibility of a gift of seeing and has written an intriguing, enjoyable historical fantasy.

— Marion Mutala

Author of My Dearest Dido

Folklore, history, adventure, romance – Marie Powell’s Spirit Sight has it all! The novel is beautifully written, full of lilting language and true-to-the-times characters that made me believe I was right there with them in 13th century Wales. The storylines switch back and forth between Hyw, who can meld his mind with the minds of animals – and a murdered prince – and his sister Cat, who can see the future in water. But are her visions sure to happen, or can they be changed? And can Hyw master his gift in time to save his country and the people he loves the most? Marie’s masterful writing kept me engrossed right up to the final twist ending, which fulfilled the promise of everything that came before. I look forward to learning the rest of Cat and Hyw’s story in the upcoming sequel, Water Sight.

— Sharon Plumb

Author of Draco’s Child

This is a spell-binding, riveting YA historical fiction alive with character, conflict and action. Definitely a blow-your-mind debut novel. Loved it!

— C.M. Janz

Other worldly. History and magic, blended together in such a subtle way that I just wanted to stay in that world. Not only are the characters engaging, especially the two main characters—brother, Hyw, and sister, Cat—and the setting exotic...the castles of 13th century Wales...this book is also well plotted. As the tension builds towards war in the second half, I found myself eagerly reading chapter after chapter. A most engrossing way to appreciate a bit about the history of Wales. It’s obvious that a lot of research went into this book and I look forward to the sequel. I also very much appreciated the glossary and historical note.

— Gabriele Goldstone

Author of The Kulak’s Daughter

Well researched and well written. Spirit Sight is a unique retelling of Welsh history from the points of view of Hyw and Cat, siblings with special gifts. I cannot wait for its sequel – Water Sight!

— Maureen Ulrich

Author of Power Plays

I’ve had the pleasure of reading the first in this series and will soon read the second. They are fabulous. If you love magic, and history, and Welsh mythology, these books are for you. Spirit Sight is a fast-paced historical fantasy for young adults. This story blends Welsh mythology and magic with just enough historical detail to fully immerse you in the narrative world. A quick read that will leave you eager to read the sequel, Water Sight.

— Leslie Wibberley

Award winning author

Spirit Sight

Last of the Gifted

BOOK ONE

Marie Powell

A WOOD DRAGON BOOK

Spirit Sight

Copyright © 2020 Marie Powell

Inside and cover art: Callum Jagger

Inside design: Adin Nelson, Amaya Editing Inc.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner or the publisher of this book. For permission requests, contact the author at: http://mariepowell.ca. Reviewers may quote brief passages in reviews. Neither the author nor the publisher assume any responsibility for errors, omissions, or contrary interpretations of the subject matter herein. Any perceived slight of an individual is purely unintentional.

Published by:

Wood Dragon Books

P.O. Box 429

Mossbank, Saskatchewan Canada SOH 3G0

1-306-591-7993

www.WoodDragonBooks.com

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Powell, Marie 1958—

ISBN: 978-1-989078-36-5

Author Contact:

Marie Powell

http://mariepowell.ca

An earlier version of this book, under the title Hawk, was published by Five Rivers Publishing.

Character Guide

Hyw and Cat’s family

Hywel (HUH--wel) or Hyw (huh-oo) ~ Welsh warrior-in-training

Catrin (KAHT-rrin) or Cat ~ Hyw’s younger sister

Bran (brrahn) ~ Hyw and Cat’s father, Llywelyn’s steward

Adara (uhd-EHRR-uh) ~ Hyw and Cat’s mother

Gawain (GAH-wayn) ~ Hyw and Cat’s uncle

Rhys ap Cadwgan (hrrees ap cad-OO-gan) ~ Lord of Meirionnydd Cat’s betrothed

The House of Aberffraw

Llywelyn (thluh-WEH-lihn) ap Gruffydd ~ Prince of Wales

Elinor de Montfort ~ Llywelyn’s wife (deceased)

Gwenllian (gwen-THLEE-an) ~ Llywelyn’s infant daughter

Dafydd (DAHV-ith) ap Gruffydd ~ Llywelyn’s brother

Elizabeth ~ Dafydd’s wife

Gwladys (GLAH-duhs) ~ Dafydd & Elizabeth’s daughter

Llyw (THLUH-oo) ~ Dafydd & Elizabeth’s eldest son

Owain (OH-wayn) ~ Dafydd & Elizabeth’s youngest son

Margred (MEHRR-grred) ~ one of Dafydd’s illegitimate daughters

Rhiannon (hrree-AN-on) ~ one of Dafydd’s illegitimate daughters

Other Welsh characters

Aeneus (eh-NEE-aas) ~ Head of Llywelyn’s teulu (personal guard)

Cynfrig ap Madog (KUN-vrig) ~ Rhys’ steward

Dai ap Rhys (die ap hrrees) ~ warrior

Drem (drrehm) ~ butcher’s son from Criccieth

Enid (EH-nid) ~ wet nurse

Emrys (EM-rris) ~ warrior, Hyw’s childhood friend

Gwilym ap Einion (gwihl-ihm ap eye-NEE-on) ~ noteworthy bard

Ifan (ee-van) ~ warrior in Llywelyn’s teulu

Maelgwyn (MYLE-gwin) ~ Welsh priest

The English

Edward I (Longshanks) ~ King of England

Edmund Mortimer ~ heir to Baron Roger Mortimer (deceased)

Gilbert le Clare ~ Marcher Lord (from the Welsh-English border)

James ~ Shrewsbury’s son, Hyw’s friend, half-Welsh

Lord Shrewsbury ~ Marcher lord, Hyw’s foster father

Robert ~ training to be a knight, son of Shrewsbury’s cousin

Roger Lestrange ~ commander in King Edward’s army

Stephen de Francton ~ a Shrewsbury knight

William de Valence ~ Marcher lord

Alan Acton, Gerald ~ soldiers who befriend Hyw

Don’t forget to look in the back of the book for:

Historical Note

Glossary

Further Reading

1

December 1282, Gwynedd, Cymru (North Wales)

He raised his arms, feeling bone and feather flatten against the wind, and knew himself tethered to air currents that smelled of salt and fish, somewhere off the horizon.

He ran below the bird, yet his mind and the hawk’s mind moved as one. He could feel the dry December grasses beneath his bare feet, but he saw as the hawk saw: a flash of grey fur in the stubble, the swaying pattern of a tree branch.

He tried to turn the hawk’s mind—his mind—to his will, and for a moment he succeeded. In the distance he could see the stone watchtower of his home at Garth Celyn, seat of the royal court of Wales. But the hawk’s need was powerful, turning him back to scan the ground they circled. If he squinted—just so—at the yellow and russet clumps, he could make out the leaves of each tree. A shadow flitted from branch to branch.

Prey!

His talons ached for the soft flesh and his beak thrust forward—

No, not his. It was the hawk’s beak that longed to rip the flesh from bone and feather. Hyw grasped the bird’s thoughts again and turned its head toward Prince Llywelyn’s tower. There! A streak of movement across the grass. Was it some grotesque beast from the past? He urged the hawk to circle until he could see it more clearly. A single horse and rider galloped toward Garth Celyn.

A messenger! Fast horses in wartime never bring good news. Had the English broken the peace again? Hyw gasped, and his connection to the bird faltered.

The hawk gave a piercing shriek. Hyw felt himself falling, as if he’d dropped from its talons rather than its mind. His feet—the same feet that had seemed to barely skim the ground a moment ago—thudded against the earth. He stumbled and the momentum of his running threw him, over and down until he braced his hands against the mountainside. He almost flipped again and bit back a cry as his fingers buckled, but his shifting weight came to a stop. Tears have no place in a warrior’s world, his father had told him when Hyw had sprained his ankle five years ago. He flexed his fingers. Each one moved, painfully. Nothing was broken.

When he shared the mind of an animal or bird, he often lost the sense of his own physical body. He was becoming familiar with the consequences of coming back to himself. This time, though, he’d taken it a step further. He’d done it! He had made the hawk turn, so he could see what he wanted through its eyes, if only for a moment. It was easier with horses, because they loved him and he them—but they couldn’t see any farther than the men riding them. Hawks and other birds would be more useful in a battle. Now he had proven it. He scarcely felt the dry spears of grass as he pushed himself up.

Hyw’s first thought was to tell his father. But would his da listen? His da was Bran ap Maredudd, a trusted warrior of the prince’s bodyguard. When Da bid him learn the ways and customs of their English enemy by going to foster at the court of Lord Shrewsbury, Hyw had gone. He spent four long years in the borderlands. But he had returned over a week ago. Every Welsh boy in training at Garth Celyn received a red sash on his fourteenth birthday, to mark his warrior status. Hyw had turned sixteen before he left Shrewsbury’s court. All last week he’d waited, but his father had not brought him a sash. Hadn’t even mentioned it.

On Hyw’s first evening home, his mother Adara had seemed glad that his ability had manifested while he was away. It was his inheritance from her family, similar to her brother’s, she’d said. She’d even called it a gift that could help them. Bran had nodded but shushed her, glancing around at the priests and other wagging tongues in the Welsh royal court. He had not called on Hyw to serve the prince at Garth Celyn. But now Hyw had something to offer. Surely, now that he could control the minds of the creatures he bonded with, he could change his father’s mind.

And what word did this messenger bring? If this meant war, Hyw would be needed. Wouldn’t he? At the same time, Hyw felt a nagging doubt. What of James? They were best friends, but James was Shrewsbury’s son and one of the Saeson—English. The enemy.

Fie on it! If his father rode with the prince, Hyw must be by his side. He would work harder to master his gift and to prove its value. He could prove himself—he would—if he could make his father listen. He would win his red sash. His cheeks burned as he sprinted for Garth Celyn.

As Hyw passed through the gates, he heard an anxious neighing. He sprinted across the courtyard toward the barns in time to see a young groom, holding the reins of a lathered horse. The sunlight caught a gleam of metal and Hyw saw a heavy English saddle, rather than the darker leather gear of the Welsh. The messenger’s horse! The man who’d been riding it must already be inside the longhouse.

The groom crooned softly to the horse, but it blustered, jerking its head down. "Hogyn da, he repeated, but the horse reacted as if he was cursing it instead of saying Good boy." Hyw caught sight of its wild eyes as its head reared up again, and its hooves skittered on the packed courtyard. Could it be reacting to the language itself? Hyw felt the wrath beneath the horse’s bay coat like a fist in his own gut. Warhorses were bred to be fighters too. How often had he dealt with their tempers in Shrewsbury’s barns? He took a deep breath and held out his hand.

Would you like me to try? he asked in Welsh, and the groom passed over the reins.

"Why not? He’s one of the Saeson too, after all."

Hyw took the reins and ignored the slur. It was mild compared to some he’d overheard since his return. After so many years away, he was like a stranger to his own people. He’d had to prove himself to the English in Shrewsbury’s court, but it stung to have to prove himself again here at home.

He turned his attention to the horse, reaching out with his mind to make contact with the animal. He relaxed, probing the horse’s mind to find the link that would bond them. He gasped as he felt his head lengthen. His back stretched. His nostrils filled with the smell of sweat and dust. Sunlight filtered across his blinkered eyes. He was all but overcome with a wild urge to kick out and pull away. He bared his teeth and snarled.

At the sound, he opened his eyes. It always felt real, but he knew it had occurred inside his mind and not in his body. He was able to join with the animal’s mind, to see and think as it did. Yet from the look on the groom’s face, he had seen nothing more than another boy calming a horse. Hyw stared into the dark intelligence reflected in the horse’s eyes. Its skin shivered, but it stared back at Hyw with pride and defiance. As if he were an enemy, Hyw realized. Because he was Welsh? Hyw reached out once more, crooning in English as he had to the horses in Shrewsbury’s barns. Gradually it calmed.

I’ll take care of him, Hyw said quietly in Welsh, and the horse tossed its head again. The groom held his hands up in a gesture that clearly said he was leaving Hyw to his fate and backed away to attend other duties.

As Hyw turned, he spied his father’s lean frame by the doors of the longhouse at the other side of the courtyard. Bran was standing with Prince Llywelyn, easy to recognize in his black mourning clothes. The prince had no doubt been training with his men when the messenger arrived. Bran must have carried the news to the prince. Even now, they would be on their way to hear the messenger’s words.

The two men appeared to be watching him. For a moment Hyw felt a faint hope that his father had seen him use his gift. Then he realized the groom standing right beside him had not known what Hyw was doing, so how could his father from that distance? Perhaps he could do it again, and use this horse to convince his father that his gift would be useful to the prince. But before Hyw could wave, they turned and made their way inside the longhouse.

2

Deep breath, Cat’s mam whispered, standing with her back to the heavy embroidered draperies that kept the cookhouse separate from the rest of the longhouse. She held a thin bread platter with an assortment of meats and a mug of the prince’s best ale. Cat stood facing her mam, balancing her platter of cheeses and honeyed sweetbreads. Then her mam backed through the heavy curtain, holding it open for Cat to go ahead of her into the large open room.

Their guest sat cross-legged on the floor. He was one of the Saeson—English—but Cat wasn’t prepared for how awkward he looked, knees akimbo, waiting for his refreshments. She managed to turn her smile into a welcome. After all, Cat and her mam had been hosts of Garth Celyn since Princess Elinor’s passing last summer, and good hosts were expected to serve their guests. True, a messenger would most likely have been sent to the kitchen, but Mam had said this one was a special case. Messengers came and went often at Garth Celyn these days, and most were friendly and courteous. Hadn’t the English Archbishop even stayed with them a fortnight ago? The English priests had looked much the same as the Welsh, and messengers were used to travel and adapted quickly. This tall, silent man in his riding coat and boots looked more like a knight than a messenger.

Cat placed the platter on the matt of rushes in front of the messenger and sat to his left. Her mam set her platter to the right, as she handed him the mug of strong Welsh ale. Then Mam knelt and took up the thicker piece of bread with the hollowed out middle that she’d had Cook save for their English guests—a trencher just as Cook used to make for Princess Elinor and her ladies—and Mam chose the best pieces of meat and cheese and set them into it. Mam was proud of the way she could adapt their Welsh fare to suit English tastes, but when she handed it to him, the man only grunted.

Cat wrinkled her nose and almost tsked before Mam caught her eye. Mam had asked Cat to make the traditional threesome for his meal, but he hadn’t even greeted her yet. She knew Mam would expect her to make an effort, but before she could think of a question to ask, the messenger downed the ale and gestured with his head towards the door.

Where is the prince?

He will attend you shortly, Mam responded, smiling. My husband has gone to let him know of your coming.

At that moment the longhouse door opened for Prince Llywelyn, with Cat’s da close behind him. The messenger stood, heedless of the platters, and Cat and Mam followed suit. Cat took a few steps toward Da, but something made her hesitate. The prince cast a deep shadow as the door slowly shut behind them. His black mourning clothes made him stand out against the colourful tapestries that adorned the walls.

Cat stared up at the prince’s face, noticing for the first time the lines on his forehead and around his mouth and eyes. He had always seemed ageless, but Mam said he had been the country’s leader for thirty years.

The prince smiled briefly at her as he passed, and Da laid a hand on her head in blessing. Cat touched the black band around her sleeve, a sign that she and her family shared in mourning for the Princess Elinor, who had died giving birth to the prince’s first child, Baby Gwen. Cat still missed the princess and her ladies, who had brought so much colour and laughter to the longhouse. Cat ducked her head and said a silent prayer for the princess’ soul, as Da began Llywelyn’s formal introduction, tracing the prince’s lineage back to Troy itself.

Her prayer and Da’s voice were cut short when the bowing messenger began to speak, in English. My Lord Llewellyn—

Prince Llywelyn, Da corrected, pronouncing the prince’s name in the Welsh way.

Erhm—My apologies, but time presses. I bring greetings from Baron Edmund Mortimer, lord of the March, the newly returned heir of Wigmore Castle.

Yes, I knew his father and respected him, said the prince, his deep baritone echoing in the hall. I trust the new Baron is well?

The messenger faltered for a moment, his mouth gaping like a fish pulled out of the lake. Cat realized he must have forgotten his memorized message. What manner of messenger was he? Frowning slightly, the prince gestured for the man to continue.

As he began again, Mam leaned down and whispered in Cat’s ear. Go and see to Gwenllian for me, if you please.

Cat started to remind her mam that she’d already checked on Baby Gwen when the messenger first arrived. What could change in an hour? Besides, she wanted to stay and hear what the Englishman had to say.

Please, Catrin, Mam repeated firmly. Cat knew better than to argue when her mam used her full name. She moved toward the kitchen, but as she passed the draperies separating it from the main room, she lost herself in their heavy folds and stood very still. She often hid there to listen to the kitchen gossip, but today she was more interested in the strange Englishman.

Attack! she heard the Englishman say. She knew that word well enough. Those Saeson! They should have learned their lesson by now. Hadn’t Da and the prince turned them back, time and again? But now they were coming once more. Why couldn’t they just go back to their Saeson hovels and leave Cymru alone? Maybe Hyw would know. He’d spent years and years with them.

Then she heard the word alliance. Did that mean friendship? She remembered the old Baron Roger. They’d had a feast when he visited last year, and she’d tasted her first pigeon pie that night. Cat frowned. She remembered another messenger a few weeks ago, bringing news of the old baron’s death. That made the prince very quiet. Had they been friends? Maybe his son Edmund, the new baron, would visit and they could have another feast. She put a hand over her stomach and willed it not to growl at the thought.

…this letter, the Englishman was saying. Cat peeked from between the curtains in time to see him step forward to hand a parchment to the prince. Llywelyn took the parchment, examined the seal, and opened it. He scanned it, then handed it to Bran. The messenger fidgeted as they read.

Tell Baron Edmund that Wales accepts his offer of friendship, the prince finally said, in a commanding tone. We greet him warmly as the heir to Wigmore Castle. He will be welcome here at Garth Celyn.

My lord— the messenger began.

Your Royal Highness, Da corrected again, his voice threatening. As befits the Prince of Aberffraw, Lord of Snowden, and still the Prince of Wales. Cat noticed her Da’s hand move to his sword, but Llywelyn shook his head slightly.

Yes, er, your highness, my master beseeches you to attend him at Builth, the man said, bowing formally.

Llywelyn stood with his arms folded. Da turned to him, and they exchanged a few words too low for Cat to hear. She was listening so hard, she didn’t notice her mam returning to the kitchen with the platters and ale jug in her hand. Mam opened the curtains and Cat almost fell through them into the other room. Mam shifted the platters, took Cat by one arm, and pulled her through the kitchens to the outside door. The frown on Mam’s face warned Cat not to argue.

Gwenllian, Mam whispered loudly, and pushed Cat towards the hut next door, where Enid nursed the baby.

As Cat stepped into the hut, she found Enid twisting wool threads into yarn on her spindle as she crooned a wordless lullaby. Lullay, lully… The wet nurse had lost her own baby a few days before Gwenllian was born, and she’d moved down from her farm near Rhaeadr Fawr to nurse Baby Gwen instead.

Cat sidled up to the baby’s cradle and stared down at her pinched little face. Baby Gwen’s eyes were tight shut, and she held one fist up to her closed mouth. Cat felt a sharp pang of sympathy for Gwenllian, who had no mam to show her the way, and for Enid, who had no daughter of her own.

On her deathbed, Princess Elinor had made her mam promise she would keep Baby Gwenllian safe. Hadn’t Cat even heard it, when she’d carried more water and blankets to Mam and the other ladies? They had shushed her from the room, but she had waited in the hall. She could hear the princess groan and plead and finally scream until Cat ran outside of the longhouse and wept in the gardens. The next time she saw Elinor, she was laid out for burial, her body shrunken and her face pale and still.

Baby Gwen was all that was left of her princess now. Cat’s thoughts took another turn. If Enid’s baby could die, what about Baby Gwen? No! There had been too much death lately, and it would not touch this baby. Didn’t she have Cat and her mam to protect her? And Enid, too. Between them, surely they could protect one tiny baby. Cat moved the baby’s coverlet gently around her and sat nearby to listen to Enid’s sad contralto.

3

Hyw was brushing the bay’s hide to a mahogany shine when the kitchen boy found him.

"Lord