Into the Shadows (Islands in the Mist Book 4) Read online

  Copyright © 2018

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1977613028

  Into the Shadows

  Book Four, Islands in the Mist

  J.M. Hofer

  Chapter One - Caer Leon

  Chapter Two - Northbound

  Chapter Three - Secrets

  Chapter Four - The World is a Cruel Place

  Chapter Five - An Oath is Sacred

  Chapter Six - Praying to the Wrong God

  Chapter Seven - Return to the Grove

  Chapter Eight - Caer Ligualid

  Chapter Nine - Gawyr

  Chapter Ten - Viviaine’s Lament

  Chapter Eleven - Nialedd

  Chapter Twelve - Scáthach

  Chapter Thirteen - Fortress of Shadows

  Chapter Fourteen - Child of Summer

  Chapter Fifteen - The Village

  Chapter Sixteen - A Fork in the Road

  Chapter Seventeen - Mabon in Gwythno

  Chapter Eighteen - A High Price

  Chapter Nineteen - The Grotto

  Chapter Twenty - Seeds of Hope

  Chapter Twenty-One - The Giant’s Ladder

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Into Darkness

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Within the Fortress of Shadows

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Lost Brothers

  Chapter Twenty-Five - Outside the Walls

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Morrigan

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Return to Rheged

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - Over Land and Sea

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - Nothing Else Matters

  Chapter Thirty - The Three Sisters

  Chapter Thirty-One - The Song of Amergin

  Chapter Thirty-Two - Unanswered Questions

  Chapter Thirty-Three - The Race to Caer Leon

  Chapter Thirty-Four - Into the Blue

  Chapter Thirty-Five - Mothered by Three

  Chapter Thirty-Six - The Sun and Moon

  Chapter Thirty-Seven - Ash on the Wind

  Epilogue

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Dear reader,

  I hesitated for quite a spell before deciding to embark on the voyage of telling any story at all about our beloved King Arthur. I knew my telling would be different. Much different. I paced for hours up and down the corridors of my mind wondering, How many will I offend? How many will shrink in horror if I change or omit any of the traditional elements, or, gods forbid, add my own?

  At last, I threw my reservations to the winds. Why? Because Arthur and those dear to him come next in this story. All Welsh myths and stories inevitably lead to Arthur’s realm, where one must kneel before him and pay him homage. As I voyaged through the vast sea of literature about him, I discovered there are countless tellings and retellings of his tale—and not just in his own lands. They wind through France and Germany, up into Scandinavia and even as far as Iceland. There are stories of him journeying to Rome and even to America. I realized my story would be but one little paper boat tossed about on this sea.

  So, now I invite you to come aboard. I’ve kept what I find inspiring and left out what I do not. Enjoy the voyage.

  J.M. Hofer

  March 7, 2018

  CHAPTER ONE

  Caer Leon

  The water seemed to hold its breath as Taliesin rowed his small boat through the misty marshes of Affalon surrounding Ynys Wydryn. The smell of his labored breath and sweating flesh sickened him, so long had he dwelled in spirit. The body’s a crude vessel. Rotting flesh from the day we’re born. He felt as if his limbs were carved of stone. He could scarcely lift the paddle he had made at first, but persevered. His muscles burned from the effort, but it was not as unbearable as the questions that burned in his heart. Nimue, how could you have done this to me? Are you truly so desperate you would seek to keep me prisoner?

  A breeze picked up. Though the trees and grass insisted it was summer, it felt cold and merciless on his wet skin, freezing his grip around the paddle. He felt grateful for the protection his long hair and beard provided. Judging from their length, his body had been asleep for many moons. Perhaps years. The thought made him shudder. Who knows how long I’ve been in Affalon—or even in Knockma, before that. Great Mother, everyone I know might be dead by now. He abandoned such disturbing thoughts and focused on the task at hand—to cross the channel that separated the lands of Affalon from Caer Leon, where he could find out what had happened in the world while he had been gone.

  Hour after hour, he rowed. Occasionally, a pod of porpoises or rookery of seals came and nudged him forward, aiding his progress; yet, even so, it was a difficult voyage. Nothing seemed easy, now. Not even breathing.

  At last, he spied land on the other side. There was still the mouth of the Usk River to find, and then more rowing upriver to Caer Leon, but he could do nothing more. He barely managed to get his boat to shore and pull it up far enough to protect it from the tide. He had neither the strength nor the will to fish for his dinner, or to build a fire to cook it. Instead, he crawled inside his boat, wrapped his cloak tightly around him, and collapsed into sleep.

  ***

  Water. Taliesin awoke with a torturous thirst. I need water. He had been dreaming of chugging cold, fresh water from a goatskin. The salty air burned his eyes. He struggled to crawl out of his hard, damp bed, groaning in defiance against the surges of pain shooting through his overworked muscles. He pushed the boat back into the water and paddled up the coast, seeking the mouth of the Usk river and praying for rain. I must get away from this damned salt and wind.

  He licked his cracked lips and tasted blood. It jolted a realization. I’m alive, and I’m going home. I’ll find Arhianna, and all will be well. He smiled at the thought, splitting his lips further. More blood trickled onto his tongue and he laughed. He looked up at the overcast sky. “Great Mother, bless my stinking, aching, bleeding body!” He let out a hearty bellow, marveling at its reverberation off the water around him. Yes. All will be well.

  Within a few hours, he found the mouth of the river. Soon after that, a thriving market on its banks. He doubled his rowing pace, eager to slake his thirst and hunger. He could think of nothing but food and drink.

  He had nothing to barter with but a bag of silver apples from Ynys Wydryn. They were worth far more than provisions and a horse, but there was nothing else he could do. He had no coin and no possessions. As if he had just awoken, he thought with a start, Oh, Great Mother—where’s my harp? And then, Who plays it now? He winced like a jealous husband imagining his beloved with another man.

  Unwilling to part with an apple for something as meager as food and drink, he sang for his supper instead. After charming the crowd a few hours, he sat down to a hearty meal and all the ale he could drink. It was not long before he found a man in the audience who had a horse for sale.

  “How much for your horse?”

  The man chuckled. “Ye can’t afford him, Bard.”

  Taliesin smiled and gave him a nod. He reached into the bag he had slung over his shoulder and under his cloak, and pulled out a perfect, silver apple.

  The man’s jaw dropped. “Ain’t ne’er seen such a beautiful apple. Where’d ye get it?”

  Taliesin took his knife and slit its skin, ever so slightly, to release its fragrance. It found the man’s nostrils a moment later, and his eyes glazed over with confusion and rapture. “Gods, what is it?”

  The fragrance emanated beyond them, to those sitting nearby. Startled low-toned breathless voices rose up around them.

  “What’s that smell?”

  “Smells like the Summerlands!”

  An old woman pushed closer, her nose in the air. “Ye fools be caref
ul, the Sídhefolk are afoot!”

  Taliesin smiled at the man he was bartering with. “Come with me, away from these people.” He led the way to a more isolated place. “We must do this quickly.” He cut a small sliver off the apple and handed it to the man. “Go on.”

  The man reached over and took it, but did not eat it. He turned it over in his hands, squinting at it with suspicion.

  Taliesin laughed and shook his head. “On the edge of paradise, yet you hesitate.” He cut off another sliver and ate it. A rush of pleasure ran through him. He closed his eyes a moment and then looked at the man. “See? Go ahead.”

  The man ate his piece. A moment later, his scowl faded away and broadened into elation, as if warm summer sunlight were shining on him. “Oh, ho, ho, young man. Ye shall have yer horse.” He nodded. “Ye shall have yer horse. How many of those do ye have, bard?”

  “I’m sure we can strike a good bargain. And, tell me, if you would, as I’ve been traveling abroad for some time, who is king in these parts now?”

  The man raised his brows. “Oh, that’d be Uthyr, son of Constantine. Most just call ‘im the Pendragon.”

  Taliesin felt a wave of relief. Perhaps I’ve only been gone a few moons.

  “Good. I’m glad to hear he still holds the title. Does he still hold court at Caer Leon?”

  The man nodded. “He does, and he’s taken the late Gorlois’ wife for his queen.”

  Taliesin felt a jolt of surprise. “The Lady Igerna?”

  He nodded. “She’ll give ‘im some right handsome sons.”

  “And what of the druid, Myrthin? Does he still serve him?”

  “Don’t know. Never heard of ‘im.”

  Satisfied, Taliesin moved on to bartering on a price for the horse. Within the hour, he was riding for Caer Leon astride a horse as dark as his desire for revenge.

  ***

  The next morning, the mist rolling off the river was so thick that Caer Leon seemed to float upon a shifting bar of clouds. Its impressive fortress, ramparts and church spire reached up without shame, beckoning to all for miles around. It was truly the city of Uthyr Pendragon, the boldest man Taliesin had ever known. His heart quickened at the prospect of seeing him again, and learning all that had happened in his absence. And finding Myrthin. He’ll wish he hadn’t sent me to the Sídhe, for I’ve learned much from my time there. Much indeed.

  “There she is, Chysgod.” Taliesin reached down and stroked the side of his horse’s neck. It felt good to have an animal companion again.

  The former City of the Legions had doubled in size since his last visit, and, even then, it had overwhelmed him. As before, he skirted the city, keeping to the outer roads, only venturing in when he had no other choice but to do so. He rode up the hillside to the fortress gates and addressed the guards who stopped him. “I come from Mynyth Aur. I’ve a message for the Pendragon from Bran of the Oaks.” Knowing his appearance might arouse suspicion, he added, “I’ve had a terrible journey. Lost my way in a storm and had trouble on the roads.”

  The guard closest to him scowled. “You’re not the messenger we normally receive.”

  Taliesin could only guess who normally delivered messages from Bran, and took a chance. “Lord Gareth was unable to come.”

  The guard’s scowl slowly disappeared. He motioned to the other guards to open the gates. “Go on, then, lad.”

  Lad? Taliesin grimaced. He had grown accustomed to a higher level of respect, but dared not reveal his identity until he learned all that had happened since his disappearance. If Myrthin learned of his escape, he would no longer hold the advantage. I pray Uthyr feels the same way about Myrthin that he once did. If somehow Myrthin has earned his trust and confidence, all will be lost.

  He left Chysgod in the hands of a kind-looking stable boy and was escorted to a hall, brought food and ale, and asked to wait. And wait, he did—for hours—giving him plenty of time to think. One face came to mind more than any other. Arhianna. Where are you? Since waking, he had grown increasingly anxious about her safety. It was clear that Nimue’s jealousy had made her capable of things he would never have thought possible. She cannot be trusted. What if she’s led Arhianna into danger? What if she, too, is trapped somewhere in Affalon? Gods, what if Nimue had her killed? No. No. She wouldn’t do such a thing. Would she? Yet, try as he might to convince himself, he simply could not know for certain what Nimue was or was not capable of.

  The sound of footsteps approaching dispelled his thoughts like a startled flock of birds. A moment later, a familiar face walked into the hall, filling Taliesin with a warm feeling of security. Uthyr looked well. He stood tall, his broad shoulders erect. “So, you have a message for me from Lord Bran?”

  Taliesin stood up and smiled. “Do you not recognize me, Pendragon?”

  Uthyr’s smile twisted into a frown, which migrated to his eyebrows. “I don’t recognize your face, but your voice sounds so familiar…Gods, Taliesin! Is that you under all that hair?”

  “It is, Pendragon.” Uthyr’s beard and hair, in comparison to his own wild curls, were well-oiled. He credited Igerna with the change. Uthyr, though never slovenly, had never been particularly concerned with his appearance. Now, he beamed with good grooming.

  Uthyr’s face relaxed again, and he laughed. “Good god, lad! Where’ve you been?” He looked him up and down, shaking his head in disbelief. “We thought you’d left us for good!”

  Taliesin glanced over at the servants who had accompanied Uthyr to the hall. “It’s a long story, which I’ve traveled far to tell you. But it will take time. And must be for your ears alone.”

  “Out!” Uthyr barked. When they were alone, he grabbed the pitcher of ale off the table and motioned toward a few low stools by the hearth. He led the way over and sat down. “Now,” he said, pouring ale into a cup for Taliesin and then his own drinking horn. “Tell me.”

  “First, what news might you have of Bran’s daughter, Arhianna?”

  Uthyr raised his brows. “Arhianna? Oh, she woke from that terrible illness a year ago or so. Came to Caer Lundein with Bran and the rest of his family for the games, looked just as well as ever. Well, she did have a fainting spell at one of the feasts, but I imagine that was to be expected. As far as I know, she’s fine.” His expression twisted with concern. “Wait, was she not at Mynyth Aur?”

  Taliesin shook his head. “I must apologize to you. I’ve not come from Mynyth Aur. That’s what I told the guards so they would allow me to see you.”

  “Where’ve you come from, then?”

  “Ynys Wydryn.”

  Uthyr took in a deep breath and smiled. “Somehow, I knew it.” He took a drink, nodding and gazing into the fire. “I understand not being able to bear this world. Seems all I do is plan and fight in battles.” He looked back at Taliesin. “Seems it’s my destiny. There are ridiculous rumors now that the man I executed at Caer Lundein was not actually Octa, son of Hengist, but rather a servant of his. My spies in Armorica tell me a warlord claiming to be Octa is raising an army in Jutland, swearing it will be larger than his damn father’s, and plotting his revenge. If this proves true, I’ll have to move my seat to Caer Lundein to keep a closer eye on the Saxon settlements. I fear the day I can finally lay my sword down will be the day it’s buried with me. And I’m not keen on leaving Caer Leon. Igerna is happy here. We both are.”

  Taliesin felt dismayed by the news. “I’m sorry to hear this. I suppose it doesn’t matter if the man claiming to be Octa is actually Octa or not—as long as the men following him believe it.”

  Uthyr held his palms out. “Exactly. And I confess, though I love a good fight, I’m weary of battle. I can only imagine how this world must weigh on a poet.”

  Taliesin shook his head. “You misunderstand, Pendragon. I’ve not been in Affalon by choice. I’ve been trapped there. Before that, I was a captive of Finbheara.”

  “Finbheara?” Uthyr paused. “Who’s that? I’ve not heard that name.”

  “He rules the Daoine S�
�dhe of Connacht from Knockma, in Eire.”

  Uthyr’s brows shot up and his eyes widened. “The Daoine Sídhe? You must be joking.”

  “I’m sorry to say I’m not.”

  “You’ve been to their lands, as well?”

  Taliesin nodded. “I have. They’re grand and wondrous, as the songs say, but a gilded cage, no matter how beautiful, is still a cage.” He lowered his voice, wary of eavesdroppers. He had never forgotten how many times he had seen Myrthin suddenly emerge from the shadows, or found him staring with cold, unblinking eyes from across the room, as if he could hear every word he said. “This brings me to what I’ve come to tell you. It was Myrthin who trapped us there in Eire, Arhianna and me. He traded us like cattle or slaves to Finbheara for the sacred blue stones that now stand at Ambrius.”

  “Traded you?” Uthyr grimaced. “How?”

  Taliesin shrugged his shoulders. “A binding magic of some sort.”

  Uthyr furrowed his brow. “Binding magic?”

  Taliesin nodded. “A magic I despise. Using such power offends the Great Mother.”

  “That conniving bastard,” Uthyr muttered. “I knew it was a mistake to make him Pen Bairth. I should have refused and sent him back to Armorica.”

  Taliesin shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, now. We’ve escaped. But he cannot know it. You must treat him as if nothing has changed. And you cannot let him know I was here.”

  Uthyr shrugged. “He’s all but left Caer Leon. He lives in a grotto by the sea an hour’s ride or so from here. I send for him when I feel I have need of him, but that’s rare. Truthfully, it’s only because my wife is fond of him that I keep contact with him at all. You were who I longed to keep at court.”

  Taliesin did his best to conceal his resentment. “How long have I been gone?” The question had been burning inside him from the moment he had left Affalon.

  “Well, that depends...”

  “On what?”

  “Whether you consider yourself “gone” from the time we found you, limp as a fish, on Mt. Killaraus, or the day you woke from that terrible sleep and left your father’s castle.”