Islands in the Mist (Islands in the Mist Series Book 1) Read online

  Islands in the Mist

  J.M. Hofer

  Copyright © 2013 J.M.Hofer

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 149092633X

  ISBN-13: 978-1490926339

  Contents

  Chapter One - A Stranger

  Chapter Two - The Crossroads

  Chapter Three - The Sight

  Chapter Four - A Reunion

  Chapter Five - The Island

  Chapter Six - Ruins

  Chapter Seven - Chieftain of the South

  Chapter Eight - The Sisterhood

  Chapter Nine - Firebrand

  Chapter Ten - What Lurks

  Chapter Eleven - A Warning

  Chapter Twelve - Into the Caves

  Chapter Thirteen - Neirin

  Chapter Fourteen - Taranis

  Chapter Fifteen - The Bonfires of Samhain

  Chapter Sixteen - Prophecy of the Three Kings

  Chapter Seventeen - Lucia

  Chapter Eighteen - The Crystal Cave

  Chapter Nineteen - Ula

  Chapter Twenty - Islwyn

  Chapter Twenty-One - The Legend of Arthfael

  Chapter Twenty-Two - The Mist

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Caledgwyn

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Annwn

  Chapter Twenty-Five - Lost Daughters

  Chapter Twenty-Six - The Journey Home

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Bran’s Return

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - The Alliance

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - Talhaiarn

  Chapter Thirty - The Trees Speak

  Chapter Thirty-One - A Call to Arms

  Chapter Thirty-Two - Lost and Found

  Chapter Thirty-Three - The Grove

  Chapter Thirty-Four - Farewell

  Character Index

  AELHAEARN (ile HAY arn) - iron brow

  ARAWN (air-a-oon) - ruler of the Otherworld/Otherworld, Annwn (AH-noon)

  AVETA (ah-VET-a) - goddess of healing waters and childbirth

  BELENUS - (BEL-an-nuss) - brilliant, to shine, god of the sun, god of reason

  BRAN - raven

  CADOC (KAH-dok) - battle

  CAMULOS (KAH-mulos) - Gaulish god associated with the Roman god, Mars

  CERRIDWEN (KER-id-wen)

  CORDELIA - Celtic goddess of summer flowers, love, the “May Queen”

  CREIRWY (CREE-wee) - a token or jewel

  DYRNWYN (DUHRN-win) - white-hilt

  ELAYN (ee-LAYN) - maiden aspect of the Goddess

  EIRWEN (IRE-wen) - snow white

  EINON (EYE-nen) – anvil

  EIRCHEARD (ER-chart) – master craftsman

  ENYD (EE-nid) - soul, life

  FFRAID (fryde) - Welsh form of Brigid meaning exalted one or high goddess

  GARETH (GAH-reth) - spear-master

  GETHEN (GETH-in) - dark, swarthy

  GWION (GWEE-un) - fair boy, little innocent

  LUCIA (loo-CHEE-ah) - from the light, born in the first hours

  LLYGODEN (hluh-GO-den) - mouse

  LLWYNOG (hluh-WIN-og) - fox

  MEILYR (MY-lur) - man of iron, leader

  MORVRAN (MORV-ran) - legendary son of Tegid

  NEIRIN (NIGH-rin) - all gold, precious

  ROWAN (ROW-an) - little red one

  SEREN (SEH-ren) - star

  TALHAIARN (TAL-hayrn) - iron forehead

  TARANIS (TER-an-iss) - thunder

  ULA (OO-la) - gem of the sea

  PROLOGUE

  Bran lit the pyre he had built with blistered hands, watching in a trance as the fire devoured the dry grass and twigs he had tucked between its logs. The flames licked his mother’s body like ravenous demons, engulfing her in heat and smoke. Soon, the smell of burning flesh and hair assaulted his nostrils, but he did not flinch or look away—he would stay until the last ember died, and nothing but her bones and ashes remained.

  What had killed her and their chieftain, and why?

  The clan told him it had been a wolf, but she had insisted on her deathbed it was not. “I don’t know what it was,” she told him, “but I swear to you it was no wolf—it was something far more cunning than that. You must go to Talhaiarn.”

  Now, his sister would take his mother’s place as priestess, their clan was without a chieftain, and he was left hungry for answers and revenge.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A Stranger

  “Someone’s coming!” Gwion called, running toward the house.

  The sun shone like a torch off the boy’s golden hair as he loped awkwardly up the hill toward where Lucia stood in the doorway. She smiled. How did he get such hair? His mother, Aveta, had very dark hair with deep brown eyes. Lucia often teased Gwion about it, saying the Roman sun-god Apollo must have fathered him by filling his mother’s womb with sunbeams.

  She stood in the doorway and watched cautiously as a man led a black horse up the path that ran along her fields, slowly making his way toward her. She determined from his clothing that he was not a Roman soldier, and his horse was too fine to be from any of the surrounding villages. As he drew nearer, she noticed he was enormous—at least a head taller than any man she had ever seen. He seemed to be traveling alone and he did not look like he meant any harm, but just in case, she slipped a kitchen knife in the pocket of her apron.

  “Are you the lady of this house?” he asked gruffly when he reached her door. He had a month’s growth of beard on his jaw and smelled strongly of sweat and wood smoke.

  “I am,” she answered with a half-frown, a bit offended that it was not obvious.

  “I must ask you if my horse and I can sleep in your stable for the night. He’s exhausted and recovering from a few wounds, and I’m not much better off.”

  Lucia fondled the knife handle in her pocket as she considered his request, knowing that every man, even the best of them, could become dangerous when desperate. She glanced over at Gwion, who was stroking the man’s horse looking very concerned. The animal obviously needed some attention. She knew if she gave him food and shelter, he would have no need to take them by force.

  She nodded. “You’re welcome to stay in the barn, if you like.”

  “Thank you.”

  The look of gratitude on the man’s face helped ease her apprehensions somewhat. He began to walk off toward the stable. After a few moments of consideration, she called after him, “You must be hungry. Come to the kitchen and I’ll find you something to eat.”

  He turned around. “I am,” he nodded. “I’d be grateful for whatever you can spare. Let me tend to my horse and I’ll come.”

  Gwion had caught a few rabbits that morning. She had put them in a stew which had been simmering for hours, so there would be more than enough to spare. She enjoyed being in the kitchen. Next to the lake and the library, it was her favorite place to be. Whenever her late husband’s duties took him away, she always asked him to bring back whatever spices he could find for her to experiment with. She had pestered Aveta into teaching her about herbs and all of their uses, first for cooking, but later for medicine. In a short time, she grew quite skillful at using all of the herbs and plants from the surrounding woods and meadows.

  Within the hour, the large visitor came striding across the garden toward the house with Gwion at his heels. He entered stooping, his head barely passing underneath the doorway. She thought back to the stories her husband had told her of savage giants hailing from across the sea who pillaged their shores. She wondered if that was where his people were from.

  He leaned a long spear against the wall and then tossed a large satchel from his shoulder to the floor.

  “Please sit down,” she offered
awkwardly, a bit nervous about making conversation. She set a bowl of stew in front of him, along with a board of bread and cheese. Gwion brought him a large mug of ale, causing his eyes to light up considerably.

  “Thank you, again—“ He sighed. He drank the ale down first and then began wolfing down his meal.

  Gwion filled a bowl and sat next to him, and then she joined them. She did not regard Gwion, or his mother, Aveta, as her servants, though that was the role they played. With only the three of them there to take care of the villa and each other, they had become like family over the past few years, and that was the way she liked it. Gwion had recently come back from a five-year apprenticeship and had been with them for a season. Though only twelve, he could do the work of a grown man and was just as mature. Unlike a husband, she did not have to answer to him. Having him there brought her both joy and comfort.

  “What brings you this way?” she asked, not knowing what else to say.

  “I have business north of here.”

  “I see.“ She studied him. His chest was broad and his arms were large, with thick arteries running through his forearms feeding strong, calloused hands. Soldier? Blacksmith?

  A cold breeze interrupted their conversation, gusting in through the cracks in the windows. “Winter will soon be here,” she said, getting up to add a log to the fire.

  “Lady, is your husband away?” he blurted.

  She knew it would be prudent to tell him her husband would soon be back, but decided to risk the truth instead. “My husband died in battle a year ago.”

  He looked up at her. “I see. I’m sorry for your loss.” He waited until she began to eat again, and then tore off a piece of bread and went back to his stew. “This is quite a large villa. How many slaves do you have?”

  “I have no slaves. Aveta, Gwion and I manage well enough,” she answered without thinking. Damn. You stupid girl. Now he knows there are only three of you—two silly women and a boy!

  He raised an eyebrow. “And you’ve not been set upon?”

  Her heart pounded, wondering what he might be implying. She gripped her knife again under the table, ready to stab him in the eye if necessary.

  “We are all quite good with a knife.” She raised her chin at him. “And there are many strong men within earshot who work my land. I have but to call out and they will come to my aid.” She kicked Gwion under the table as a signal to be alert.

  The stranger nodded. “I see. Well, that’s good. I hope they can run fast enough. I would caution you against telling strangers that you live here alone. Say your husband is out in the field, or somewhere close by. Though the Saxons stay mainly in the east, it won’t be long before they force themselves into our lands.”

  “Yes, I know.” She swallowed, fear still sticking in her throat. “What about you? Do you have a wife?” It would ease her fear to know he was a father or a husband.

  “No.”

  She hid her disappointment. “You look to be a warrior,” she ventured, glancing over at his spear. “For whom do you fight?”

  “I fight for my own people, and the clans we consider friends.”

  She eyed him with more scrutiny, growing more curious. “I’ve not seen anyone like you traveling this way before. Your village must be far from here.”

  “Not so far. A hard two days’ ride. Some call us the Firefolk. Perhaps you’ve heard of us? Many come to us to commission swords and buy horses.”

  She had heard this name used occasionally by those who farmed her land, but never knew if the people they spoke of were real or not, like the faerie they sang of. “I’ve heard of your people, yes,” she said, searching her memory for any bit of information it might hold. She noticed her guest kept running his bread around the bottom of his bowl, sopping up every last drop of his meal, so filled it again.

  “Thank you,” he murmured.

  She noted a bit of shame in his voice. His grateful look as he pulled the bowl back toward him plumbed a well of compassion in her heart, dissolving what remained of her fears. Gods, but he looks weary. He had washed his face to reveal quite a handsome profile, though it seemed older than it likely was.

  “I am going to make you something that will make you feel even better than that ale,” she told him.

  “That I can’t imagine,” he said, smiling for the first time. His grin shocked her, for he suddenly looked ten years younger and capable of more than a fair amount of trouble.

  She smiled back at him, pleased to see it, and got up to make him a tonic. She soon returned with a cup of steaming liquid and set it in front of him with pride. “Drink this,” she commanded. “You’ll be glad for it.”

  He picked up the cup and smelled the brew. “Gods, woman!” He winced. “You mean for me to drink this?”

  “I know it smells dreadful, but I promise it’ll help to restore you.”

  He looked at her with skeptical brows, but put it to his lips. She tried her best to keep the conversation going, but it dropped off as he sipped. “I fear your brew is doing its job,” he mumbled, his eyes heavy. “I’ll leave you now.”

  She nodded. “You should sleep well tonight.”

  “Half-way there already. Hope I make it to the barn.” He collected his spear and satchel. “I’ll find a way to re-pay you for your kindness,” he added. “Perhaps with some work when I pass through this way again.”

  “That would be welcome,” Lucia offered a sincere smile. “I’ve need of strong hands like yours. There are certain things mine simply can’t do.”

  She glanced again at his hands. He could crush my skull. She shuddered and then added, “Gwion, will you take our guest some blankets?”

  “Of course.“ He stood up from the table.

  The stranger made his way toward the door, then stopped and turned toward her. “Might I ask your name, Lady?”

  Instinctively, she almost said Lady Camulos, but chose not to. “Lucia,” she replied.

  “Loo-CHEE-ah.“ He smiled. “What beautiful names the Romans give their daughters…I’m Bran.”

  “Thank you, Lord Bran,” she replied, a bit flustered by his compliment. She busied herself with the dishes to hide her blushing face. “I wish you a good night, then.”

  He nodded toward her and left her alone with her thoughts.

  ***

  The next morning, Lucia woke just after sunrise and found Aveta in the kitchen cooking breakfast.

  “Good morning,” she said to her groggily. She went to the window and peered outside, watching Bran pace outside the barn.

  “Good morning,” Aveta replied, setting bread on the table. “I see we have a visitor. What do you know of him?”

  Lucia shook her head. “Not much. His village lies two days from here. Says he’s of the Firefolk. Horsemen and blacksmiths, apparently. He was on his way north, but his horse was wounded and needed attention. Gwion’s tending to him.”

  Aveta’s expression changed, her brow wrinkling slightly. “Did he give his name?”

  “Yes. Bran.”

  “Bran?” Aveta said with surprise, pausing a moment. She joined Lucia at the window, tucking the wayward hairs out of her eyes into her hastily-twisted chestnut bun to get a better look. “He must be Lady Agarah’s son.”

  “Lady Agarah? Who’s that?” She focused eager eyes on Aveta.

  “Agarah of the Firefolk. They’re people of Sarmatian blood who live in a village to the south. Came here as Roman cavalry a few generations ago. After their service to Rome was fulfilled, they chose to remain here.” She paused and watched Bran, who was still pacing. “I’ve traded with their people on occasion. The story of Agarah was well-known to me as a girl. She’s something of a legend where I come from.”

  “Really?” Lucia prompted, intrigued. She looked out the window at Bran with renewed curiosity.

  “Her village was attacked by giants from across the sea when she was a young woman. Though her clansmen were skilled warriors, the invaders were massive and fought with a brutality they’d not seen
before. They say the Firefolk would have been wiped out that day had it not been for her bravery.”

  Lucia loved hearing stories of strong women, and turned from the window to give Aveta her full attention.

  “When the invaders were spotted, Agarah led the women of her clan into the surrounding forest. The strongest archers among them took to the trees to provide cover, and Agarah led the rest of them into battle alongside their men. They burst out of the forest bare-breasted and shrieking with rage, hair flying and spears held high. The enemy was stunned by the sight of them, and the men of her village seized the advantage.” She paused and reflected a moment. “Unfortunately, Agarah paid a high price for that advantage. They say the enemy chieftain was overtaken by mad desire when he spied her leading the charge across the field. Drunk with the excitement of taking such a wild creature, he gave chase. Agarah ran back into the forest to lure him as far from her village as possible. She managed to evade him for some time, but he pursued her tirelessly. Eventually he captured her. She was no match for him in combat, and he stole her away to his land. No one really knows how, but she managed to escape and return home to her village. She refused to ever speak of it. Nine moons later she gave birth to a son.”

  Aveta handed her a mug of tea.

  “And you think our visitor is her son?”

  Aveta took another look. “Yes.”

  Lucia went to the door and called out to him. “Lord Bran—please come in and have some breakfast!”

  He hesitated a moment, glancing back into the barn, but then made his way across the garden and ducked under the doorframe.

  “Bran, this is Aveta, Gwion’s mother,” Lucia announced, motioning to her.

  Bran nodded respectfully toward Aveta. “Your son’s been a blessing to my horse, and to me. I’m grateful.”

  “He’s a wonder with animals,” Aveta agreed. “Please, sit down. I trust eggs are welcome to you?”

  “More than welcome, thank you.”

  Lucia found herself relieved that Bran did not ogle Aveta’s large breasts as she leaned over to serve him. Most men did. At times, even she was guilty of looking at them, but with envy rather than lust. Though over twenty, Lucia felt she still had the body of a girl in many ways. Her breasts were not much bigger than apples and she had narrow hips. Aveta, on the other hand, truly had the body of a woman, like the statues the Romans favored.