Islands in the Mist (Islands in the Mist Series Book 1) Page 4

  “Yes, we have.” Aveta stood up. “Until the morning, then.” She put her hand on Lucia’s shoulder in reassurance.

  Lucia felt tired as well, but her mind was racing, and she knew sleep would not come for some time. She went to the library to read.

  Her late husband, Camulos, had won her over not with wealth or charm—though he’d had a bit of both—but with books and the promise of an education. The Romans had appointed Camulos a procurator. Loyal to the Empire but of strong Celtic descent, they believed him a perfect candidate to keep peace in the region. He was amply rewarded with good land and all the privileges the Empire could provide. Her father had invited him to dinner on regular occasion, and it soon became obvious to Lucia what was going on. He was fourteen years her senior, but, thankfully, she liked him. It could have been far worse. Being a keen man, he must have noticed her eyes light up whenever he spoke of anything beyond the horizon of her small world. She would forget propriety and ask many questions, enthusiastic about any detail he would provide. He soon brought books to her as gifts rather than jewelry when he would visit, and offered to have her tutored in Latin.

  When he asked for her hand in marriage, her father had been quick to agree. Though she was considered a great beauty, she knew her father constantly lived in fear that someone would find out about her “affliction” and he would be unable to find her a husband. That a man of such standing had offered to marry her must have been a great relief to him.

  Lucia chose a book and sat down with it. She put her nose between its pages, and took a deep, slow breath. “Ahhhhhh.” Paper and leather. She smiled.

  She had Camulos to thank for everything she had. Unlike many women, she was happy with the man she had been given to. Sadly, they had only spent a few short moons together before he had gone off to settle a skirmish with raiding tribes from the north and never come home.

  Two years had passed since the day the messenger had brought the terrible news that he had been killed. She had not wanted to remarry. She was luckily in a position where she did not have to, either. She would have been perfectly content to spend the rest of her days as his widow, reading her way through his library, enjoying the land and the company of her adopted family.

  Until Bran.

  Her heart thumped at the thought of him. Now, longing had crept in, disturbing the peace she had found. She found it extremely unsettling that in such a small amount of time, he had come and changed everything.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A Reunion

  The sun rose with the first hints of autumn floating upon the air. Bran and Gethen continued up the river for the better part of the morning, reaching the foothills of the mountains late in the afternoon. From there, the countryside grew steadily less inviting. The path became choked with growth, nearly disappearing completely. They traveled for an hour after sundown through the forest, their path obscured in darkness except for the rare sliver of moonlight that managed to make its way through the thick lattice of branches overhead. They emerged, and the trail began a steep ascent along a series of switchbacks that carried them higher and higher across the stone skirts of the mountainside. Bran looked out over the valley, past the dense forest to where the river flowed out—a mere thread of silver glinting through the landscape far below. Gethen’s breath billowed white against his black coat as they climbed. The night air grew ever colder, flooded with the light of the nearly full moon and the crisp smell of the coming snow.

  They arrived at the mouth of a cave that served as one of the entrances to Talhaiarn’s fortress. It was obscured by rocks and brush, barely high enough for a horse but wide enough for two. Bran dismounted and entered, leading Gethen in by the reins. They followed a narrow passageway carved out of the rock that rose steeply ever upward. Deeper and higher into the mountain they traveled, the echo of Gethen’s hooves reverberating against the close rock walls in a steady hypnotic rhythm. Soon the passageway opened up into a large cavern that served as a small stable. On the wall he spied saddles that he knew well. Belenus and Taranis? Why are they here?

  Belenus and Taranis were chieftains of the clans to the East and North. With Bran’s notorious reputation in battle, he was well-respected by both, and always given a place of honor at their feasts. He quickened his pace, anxious to greet them and hear what news they had brought from their lands.

  He fed and watered Gethen, and then climbed a staircase to a corridor where the beams of the fortress began. They were solid, built into the side of the mountain. He could hear voices coming from the hall, and called out loudly, “Bran of the South approaches!”

  He heard a massive door open. He strode toward the sound. There, waiting for him in the doorway, was Talhaiarn.

  “Bran?” he exclaimed, a pleased yet worried look upon his face.

  Bran felt a rush of warmth at the sight of his old master’s face, but he had aged. I’ve been gone so long. “Lord Talhaiarn, I’ve come seeking your counsel on a disturbing matter.”

  “Come in,” Talhaiarn opened the door widely. “Belenus and Taranis are here as well with terrible news of their own. I suspect it all flows from the same poisonous well.”

  Bran entered and relaxed. The fortress was the source of many treasured memories for him—a place of both refuge and learning. A fire burned in the center of the hall, smoke exiting through a hole in the rock ceiling overhead. Over it bubbled a pot of stew, and the smell of it filled the air. His stomach grumbled.

  “Greetings, my brother!” Taranis smiled at him from across the room, and then approached and grabbed him by the hand and forearm, his hounds at his heels.

  “Taranis, it’s good to see you.” Bran clapped him on the back several times.

  Taranis’ face had become more rugged since Bran had last seen him, and his body looked especially strong and muscular. From working the harvest, no doubt. Taranis and his clan were the most hard-working folk he had ever met, but they celebrated just as much as they worked. Bran tried never to miss celebrating Calan Awst among them, but he had not made it that year. The harvest festival lasted a week, with more food and ale than anyone could eat or drink.

  “It has been too long.” Belenus stood to greet him as well. His beautiful white hawk, Gwyn, was perched upon his forearm. Those of the East often gave their sons a hawk or falcon to train when they were old enough to manage one. Gwyn and Belenus had been together since Belenus was a boy of five, but she had not been given to him. She had chosen him, which was considered one of the highest honors among his people.

  Belenus doesn’t age, Bran thought as he embraced him. His hair trailed down his back in a long, white-blonde braid, and his clear sky-blue eyes peered out from above a fine nose, missing nothing.

  “Come, there’s food,” Talhaiarn offered.

  More importantly, there’s ale, Bran observed gratefully. He filled his drinking horn and sat down by the fire with the others.

  “Bran, what news do you bring?” Talhaiarn asked with a furrowed brow.

  “My mother and Lord Cadoc were attacked by something in the night. Both have died from their wounds.”

  “Gods, no,” exclaimed Taranis wearily. He put his head in his hands.

  Belenus said nothing, but closed his eyes and shook his head slowly.

  Talhaiarn reached over and put a reassuring hand on Bran’s knee, meeting his eyes. “Your mother walks among the gods, now, Bran. Of that you can be certain.”

  “I know she does.” Bran mustered a smile. “My cousin, Gareth, brought me the news. He told me Cadoc and my mother had been attacked by a wolf while they slept. By the time we made it to the village, Cadoc had died and my mother had but a few hours of life left to her. She insisted sorcery was to blame. It was her dying request that I come to you for help.”

  The three men looked at each other expectantly after hearing the news, as if they knew something Bran did not. Then Taranis spoke, his baritone voice deep and heavy with the accent of the North. “We were attacked in the night as well,” he began. �
�The bastards hid inside our mines by day, and then under cover of darkness slipped into our village, unseen and unheard.”

  Bran looked down and saw Taranis’ knuckles were white from clenching his fist around his mug.

  “Cursed bastards!” he boomed, nearly shaking the mountain. “Did they attack our warriors? No. No, they slunk in, the cowards, like snakes, and stole our children from their beds.”

  “Children?” Bran raised his brows. “Why the children?”

  “Why, indeed?” Taranis gave him a disgusted expression. “Some of the poor bairns we found ripped apart in the woods, limbs torn from their bodies, drained of their blood. Some we found eaten down to nothing but their bones and some were simply gone, without a trace.”

  Bran felt a wave of disgust. How horrible! They must have fed them to their dogs!

  “I left the next morning for the Crossroads,” Taranis continued. “I could hear the wailing of our women as they buried what remained of our sons and daughters for at least a mile as I rode away.” He stopped and looked right into Bran’s eyes with a fierce passion. “I swear to the gods, I will tear their throats out when I find them!”

  Bran took Taranis’ mug and poured him more ale, setting it gently by his clenched fist.

  “Strange things have been happening in the forests surrounding our lands, as well,” Belenus added. “We lost a few of our shepherds who had been outside the walls after dark. It was clear they had been attacked and dragged into the forest. We followed the trail and found them in the same state Taranis described. Since then, we have insisted upon everyone being inside the walls by sundown, and we keep our hawks on watch at all times. Though we have seen nothing since, we dare not let down our guard.”

  A cold mountain wind rose up, blowing beneath the heavy oak doors which led out to the lookout. Talhaiarn placed another log on the fire. “Brothers, I believe Agarah was right. We are not dealing with Saxon or wolf. I suspect we are indeed dealing with sorcery, and that Cerridwen may be to blame.”

  “Cerridwen?” Bran exclaimed. He was not familiar with everyone from every clan, least of all the mysterious women of the Sisterhood, but he definitely knew who Priestess Rowan was, as well as her infamous daughter, Cerridwen. Cerridwen had stolen the Sisterhood’s sacred Cauldron and fled with her deformed son, Morvran, some years ago. They had not been heard of since.

  “Yes,” Talhaiarn continued. “Recently tales have begun to spring up among the village folk of a grotesque giant who has been sighted on more than one occasion roaming the countryside at dusk. They call him Avagdu, but I am convinced it is Morvran they have seen, which means Cerridwen has returned.”

  “And you think she’s responsible for the attacks on our clans?” Bran asked.

  “I find it very likely. She has always had an insatiable lust for power. To that end, I suspect she has raised an army and intends to steal the remaining clan relics. She vowed as much when she left the Sisterhood. If she manages to do so, she would be able to control the passage to the in-between.”

  “We cannot allow that to happen.“ Belenus shook his head.

  “No,” Talhaiarn agreed, “we most certainly cannot. We must act quickly, for it is obvious the enemy has been on the move. They attacked in the North, then some days later the East, and now Bran has brought us this terrible news from the South. They are either growing stronger or far more ambitious, for they’ve gone from snatching babies from cradles to attacking and overwhelming warriors the likes of Cadoc, which we all know is no easy feat. We will need your best trackers, Belenus. Send them south to Bran’s village. We must find out everything we can about the enemy we are dealing with.”

  “You will have them in two days, led by my son, Neirin,” Belenus promised. “He is the best tracker we have. If he cannot find them, no one can.”

  “We’ll be honored to host your son and his men,” Bran said, “and as surely as they can find the bastards, I assure you mine can kill them.”

  “I’ll send all the men I can spare as well,” Taranis pledged to Bran. “Believe me, they’re ravenous for revenge, and want nothing more than to slaughter the vermin who murdered their sons and daughters.”

  ***

  Everyone slept except Bran, unable to free his mind from the day his mother had died. He had been on the battlefield far to the East when Gareth arrived with the terrible news.

  “Bran! Thank the gods I’ve found you. You must come home, at once. It’s your mother…”

  That was all Gareth needed to say. They set out early the following morning, but even with good horses it was a long journey before the familiar motherhouse and stables of their village winked into view.

  As they made their final approach across the meadow, a woman ran toward them in the dying daylight, quite tall and slender. As she came nearer, Bran realized it was his sister, her long blonde hair giving her away. She had become a woman in the time he had been gone. He dismounted.

  “Oh, thank the gods!” She threw her arms around him and shot Gareth a grateful glance. “Thank you for finding him. We must hurry, Bran—how much did Gareth tell you?”

  “That Mother and Cadoc were attacked in their sleep.”

  “We’ve tried every poultice and salve on their wounds, but they’ve festered terribly. Father suffered the worst of it—his wounds were so deep and infected he didn’t last two days. Mother has fared better, but she is losing the fight. She doesn’t have long—“ Her voice broke.

  Though his sister had warned him, he was shocked by what he’d seen. His mother’s face was gaunt and ashen, except for the yellow bruised flesh under her eyes, and her hair was wet against her cheeks. Her neck had a poultice of herbs pressed against it with bandages wrapped around to hold it in place. He could still see her in his mind, and was overcome with dread as he remembered the weakness and immense pain in her face. How long had she suffered, waiting for me?

  He went quickly to her side, lifted her up and held her against him, willing the strength of life that flowed through him to enter her body, but knew it was no use. Arawn was coming for her. As he laid her back down, he could feel the great god’s presence descending around them like a massive, black cloud. Bran had felt the god’s arrival many times before, beholding the faces of fellow fallen warriors upon the battlefield, but this time he could almost see him looming over his mother’s bed, flanked by his white hounds and their red, unblinking eyes.

  “Mother, I’m sorry,” was all he could think of to say.

  “Don’t be,” she whispered, putting a hand on his cheek. “You’re here, and now I can die. I have fought with everything in me, but I have come to see it is my time.”

  He had not wanted to hear it, but knew she spoke the truth. She would not last the night.

  “You are our strongest warrior, Bran. The clan will need your strength in the days to come. Whatever attacked us was not a wolf. Go to Talhaiarn and ask his counsel on what has happened here.”

  “I will, Mother.”

  She smiled and closed her eyes. “I want you to build my pyre, Bran. Your hands alone. No one else.”

  “It will be done as you wish. Go, Mother. The Summerlands are waiting.”

  She had then let out a long, final sigh, relaxing into Arawn’s waiting arms.

  He had spent the rest of that terrible day chopping wood and building his mother’s pyre, as promised. How shocked he’d been as he lifted her from her bed—she’d been as light as a child, as if her body were filled with autumn leaves instead of bones.

  That evening at dusk, everyone gathered for her funeral, as they had no doubt done but a few nights before for Cadoc. Seren came and stood near him, quiet and strong. He was proud of her courage. After everyone arrived, he raised his hands over his mother toward the heavens, and recited his clan’s burial prayer.

  He found himself whispering it again, now, to the flames in Talhaiarn’s hearth:

  “Guardians of the South, Keepers of the Flame, recognize your daughter Agarah, and burn the confusion from
her soul with your fire, purifying her heart. Protect and guide her through the in-between, to the Summerland, beyond the realm of Arawn.”

  As he gazed into the fire, the flames began to play tricks on him. He saw an image of his mother on her pyre, burning within the blaze. The flames then changed to resemble her features, flowing in the shape of her body and the contours of her face, undulating in waves forming her hair, until a perfect replica of his mother’s body appeared before him within the hearth. She sat up and shifted, turning toward him, billowing in blue, orange and gold, her eyes watching him.

  Mother?

  He leaned in closer, the smoke and heat making his eyes water, watching intently as the flames turned and flowed lengthwise forming a fiery river, out of which slinking demons emerged, crawling swiftly through the familiar landscape of his childhood.

  The loud crack of a log splitting woke him. His heart was pounding, and he was drenched in sweat. The smell of smoke filled his nostrils, his damp hair, and his clothes. Disturbed and desperate for fresh air, he went outside to the look-out. Talhaiarn was standing there in the bright moonlight, looking down over the valley below. Bran felt the dizziness slowly leaving him, thanks to the cool night air.

  “What did they show you?” Talhaiarn asked without turning around.

  “Who?”

  “The Guardians of the South. They are here, with your mother’s spirit,” Talhaiarn turned to face him. “What did they show you?”

  Bran had hoped it was a nightmare. “My mother appeared to me in the fire, and then I saw what I can only describe as men bewitched, moving through the countryside around my village.”

  “Bran, where is Dyrnwyn? Is it safe?”

  “Only my sister knows.”

  “You must protect them both. With your mother and Cadoc gone, your clan is weak. Your sister will one day be a powerful priestess, but she is still very young with no experience in battle. I fear Cerridwen may attempt to force her to reveal where Dyrnwyn is. You must understand, with each relic Cerridwen gains, the others become easier to obtain. Look what she’s managed to do with the Cauldron alone.”