A splash of cool water in his face brought his attention to Lainn, who stood on the other side of the fountain, a mischievous grin on her face. Instead of reacting, Conall wiped his face calmly and gave her a half-smile. “Thank you, kind sister. The mead made my f-face too warm. The chill is a welcome respite.”
Judging from her frown, his unwillingness to answer her mock attack displeased her. Still, when she glanced back at Gemmán cleaning out his mead mug, she nodded with calculated patience. Conall knew exactly what that meant. She would get him back, but not now, not yet. He’d have to watch his back for the next few days. Her revenge would be creative and unexpected.
Better to give her as little opportunity as possible. “I should get back, Lainn. Mother will need my help on the farm, and I’ve no duties with Sétna today. Will you need me to come to fetch you at the usual hour?”
She gave him a nod as Conall turned to Gemmán. “Thank you, D-d-druid Gemmán, for allowing me to be part of my sister’s trial today. I greatly appreciate the honor.”
He gave a small bow and turned, uncertain how to exit the grove to an area he knew. With a sheepish grin, he turned back. “Uh…how do I find my way out?”
Gemmán gave a low chuckle. “See the river? Just follow that, lad. It meets up with An Bhóinn about a league north of here. You should know your way home from there.”
Resisting the urge to knock himself on the forehead for his own idiocy, Conall nodded in formal thanks and walked along the riverbank.
More clouds chased the first, and soon the sun hid behind a solid bank of gray. By the time he reached familiar ground, the air had cooled to the point he wished he had his brat with him. More foolish he, to wander around the countryside in early autumn without something warm to wear. The clouds darkened and he glanced up several times, waiting for the first drops of rain.
The anticipated downpour didn’t come, but when he approached his house, someone stood in the front yard, staring at the door. From the back, Conall recognized Adhna, his ragged brat dangling with several pine needles and a small pine cone.
“Adhna? Were you looking for me or for Lainn? She’s at her lessons.”
The man didn’t turn but continued to stare at the door. “There’s something amiss here, lad. Not yet, but soon.”
Confused, Conall stood next to him. “Not yet? I don’t understand. If something’s wrong, isn’t it wrong now?”
The old man shook his head. “Time isn’t so straight, my boy. Not in the slightest. Still, you should be strong enough to cope with the change.”
Just as Conall turned to ask for clarification, his mother emerged from the barn, her hair pulled up in a messy bun and two full milk pails in her hand. “And just where have you been, Conall? I looked for you for far too long. I need your help now. Your father is due back soon, and I’ve only half the chores done. Oh, I suppose you’ve been dallying with…with this.”
She flicked her hand at Adhna as if trying to shoo away a horsefly. The old man grinned, showing a few ragged brown teeth. “Ah, Ligach, you’re looking well.”
She didn’t answer, but looked him up and down, her lip curling. “I realize you had dealings with my husband before he died, old man, but in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve remarried. My new husband is much higher status. It wouldn’t do to cater to vagabonds and miscreants, and I’ll not have my household sullied by such as you.”
Adhna raised his eyebrows while Conall’s mouth dropped open, horrified at his mother’s rude words.
The old man cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “Ligach, I’d never cause you grief. You enjoy your new husband, but I’ve a duty of care for the lad here, as well as his sister. I vowed to Fíngin that I’d watch over them both after he left, and I do not break my vows. You should be well aware of this.”
She put both her pails down and crossed her arms, glaring at Conall until he dropped his gaze and shuffled his foot on the path. “Fine. You can watch after them from afar. I’ll not have you in my house, you filthy thing. Now go.”
“As you wish, good lady.” Adhna nodded, and before Conall could look up, he’d vanished. Was the old man really that quick? Or had Conall lost some time? This wouldn’t be the first time he’d missed a few minutes of memory, but it didn’t happen often.
“You, young man, need to muck out the stables and feed the pigs. Now.”
With a quiet voice, Conall answered, “Yes, Ma.”
“I told you before to call me Mother now. Ma is for peasants.”
“Yes, Mother.”
While he swept out the horses’ manure and the old straw, Conall tried to make sense of the confrontation. He knew his mother cared a great deal for appearances and status, even more so now that she’d married well. A fisherman wasn’t exactly low status, but lower than a mason. What had Adhna meant about a vow to his father? Why did he say his father had “left” instead of “died”?
Could his father be alive somewhere?
Conall shivered, possibilities rushing through his mind as he performed the mindless task of feeding the pigs and chickens. He swept out the chicken pen, absent-mindedly petted the nanny goat, and drifted into the roundhouse, his thoughts still in a crazed dance.
The thunk of stone on wood jerked him out of his ruminations. He glanced into the eating alcove to see his mother, her head down on the table, a stone jar in her hand.
“Ma? Are you alright?”
A soft snore greeted him.
With a practiced hand, Conall extracted the stone jar from his mother’s now-lax fingers and peered into it. Empty. It had been full just two nights before. He let out a heavy sigh and wrinkled his nose at the odor of strong cider. He sat on the bench next to his mother to see how drunk she had become.
She wouldn’t open her eyes, even when he called her name or shook her shoulder. Very drunk indeed, then. He sincerely hoped she’d sober before Sétna returned. In the meantime, her back would hurt less if he could get her to her cot.
With a mighty grunt, he pulled her right arm over his shoulders and lifted carefully, pulling her limp body with him as he inched toward her sleeping alcove. When he got close enough, he gently lowered her into the cot and covered her with the woolen blanket. He made certain she remained on her side in case she vomited.
His mother settled, he eyed the rest of the roundhouse. It appeared in relatively good order, but a few dishes needed cleaning. He straightened the cooking area and boiled some dried beans for a few minutes. Then he set them to soak for the evening meal. That done, he went out to the yard to feed the horses.
By the time he’d completed his farm chores, Lainn needed collecting. Conall glanced at the sky, but the sun still hid behind darkening clouds. He frowned and grabbed both his brat and his sister’s. The rain might fall before they made it home.
As he trudged down the path toward the oak grove, the wind whipped up, lashing the dried leaves on the ground into a swirling maelstrom. Conall shivered and drew his brat more tightly around his shoulders, his steps quickening. He kept his head down into the wind and, as a result, didn’t notice the figure in his path until he ran into him.
“G-g-g-g-g-going somewhere, Stone-b-b-b-boy?”
“I don’t have time for you right now, Tomas.” Conall tried to shoulder past the solid lad, but Tomas moved too quick and stepped back in his way.
With a quick peek around him, Conall noticed Tomas stood alone. His normal pack didn’t appear to be in attendance. That made his decision easier.
“Out of my way, T-Tomas.”
Tomas crossed his arms. “M-m-m-m-make me. Maybe if you ask really nice, I’ll let you go, but when you come back with your sister…well, I won’t be so generous. She’s growing up to be rather pretty. A bit fat for my tastes, but her breasts are big enough.”
Conall balled his fists and called upon the brooch’s power. He daren’t perform visible magic, but his father said nothing about using the power when it couldn’t be seen. He concentrated on the arch of his fist toward
Tomas’s face, and just as flesh met startled flesh, he threw his magic behind the punch, making his adversary fly into the thorny bushes to one side of the path.
Proud of the seamless illusion, Conall allowed himself a private smile as Tomas spluttered and flailed, trying to drag himself out of the bracken. Conall walked away, his head held high at his accomplishment. The wind rose again, blowing strong against his back, and he picked up his pace as Tomas’s curses faded into the crackling leaves.
Lainn perched on a low stone wall next to the oak grove arch, drawing pictures into the dirt with a stick. When he walked into the clearing, she jumped up. “Conall! I’ve been here forever waiting for you. What took you so long? It’s going to rain soon.”
He held out her brat with a silent smile, which she returned, flinging the small cape around her shoulders. “I ran into Tomas but escaped unscathed. We’d best hurry.”
Rain sprinkled on most of their journey, but the promised storm never came. Their hair was barely damp by the time they arrived home. The roundhouse remained silent and still as they entered, shook off their brats, and hung them on hooks by the door.
Conall glanced into their mother’s alcove, but she still lay on her side, one arm flung up over her head. He checked to ensure she drew breath before he walked into the cooking area. He cut up several turnips and some herbs before remembering to ask Lainn to build the hearth fire.
His sister added kindling to the banked and smoldering peat, coaxing a cheerful blaze into the central hearth. She then swung the heavy iron pot into place on a tripod stand. He dumped water into the pot, and they both sat, waiting for it to boil.
Lainn poked the peat bricks with a stick, making them glow more brightly. “Is Father due back today, do you think? Or will he stay overnight?”
“He’s not our father, Lainn. He’ll never be our father.”
“Fine. Our stepfather. You know he’d cuff us if he heard that.”
“I know. It doesn’t change the fact.”
They stared at the smoldering peat for a few more moments before he answered. “I think he’ll stay overnight. It sounded like he meant to.”
“Good.”
Their mother stirred in her alcove. Conall glanced up, but when nothing else happened, he shifted his gaze back to the peat glow.
Lainn shoved the stick into the fire, causing sparks to flutter. “Are all the animals cared for?”
“All but the horses’ evening feed. I usually do that after we eat.”
The water bubbled in the iron pot, and he rose to fetch the turnips, rosemary, and garlic. He carefully poured these into the boiling water, along with the water-softened beans. With their stepfather out of town, they would eat no meat. That would have warranted a harder blow than Conall wished to incur for a bite of chicken.
He glanced at his sister’s pensive profile. In a low voice, he asked, “Do you ever wonder what happened to Da?”
She shrugged, her gaze still fixed forward. “Da got sick and died. I wish he hadn’t, and I miss him terribly. What else should I wonder?”
“Adhna said something…something that made me think maybe Da didn’t die.”
Now she turned to stare at him. “Conall, have you been eating mushrooms from the faerie rings?”
“No, Lainn, I’m serious. This isn’t a jape. Adhna argued with Mother earlier. He told Mother that Da had ‘left’, not that he’d died.”
She rolled her eyes. “Wishful thinking. You’re just trying to twist his words into what you want to be true.”
Conall pressed his lips thin. Lainn spoke the truth. He hadn’t wanted to believe his father had died and grasped at any slight hope. Adhna’s words haunted him. He still couldn’t shake the idea that Adhna’s words had hidden depth. Perhaps the old man spoke in allegories? Lainn had explained the term to him last month, and now he saw them everywhere he cared to look. Or Adhna was simply batty, forgetful, or both.
With a grunt, he tested the stew and decided it was fit to eat, if not delicious. Delicious would need several hours of simmering, hours they didn’t really have. He filled a bowl for each of them and ate. His own herb-craft meant his food ended up more tasty than their mother’s efforts. Despite that, he didn’t relish his food.
It tasted of ashes and false hopes.
Chapter 3
Conall burst out of his deep sleep when the crash echoed through the wood of the roundhouse. His cot, attached to the wall, resounded with fading vibrations from the slammed door.
The only light came from the sullen glimmer of the banked peat fire. Within this limited view, Conall watched his stepfather stomp into the roundhouse, shake the rain from his travel brat, and fling his boots off.
“Ligach! Ligach, wake up!”
A painful moan from his mother made Conall sit up with sudden concern. She might still be drunk from the night before, and his stepfather didn’t seem in a tolerant mood.
With silent prayers, Conall urged his mother to respond coherently. He slipped his Maelblatha on quietly in the near-darkness. He poked Lainn awake, but her eyes already glittered out of the gloom. She waited as he did.
Another crash made him jump. “Ligach! Get up, lazy woman! Get up!”
His mother slurred her response. “Go ‘way, Sétna. Not tonight. My head hurts.”
Sparks scattered as Sétna kicked the peat fire. Grárhund whined as sparks flew toward him, and he scuttled away. Sétna swore and stalked to the alcove he shared with their mother.
While Conall could only make out vague shapes in the firelight, his mother’s screams made it clear he’d yanked her out of her cot by her hair. The pleading screeching, mixed with angry curses and whining, cut through any harmony that may have remained in the household.
Conall saw shapes more clearly now. Perhaps the dawn finally arrived. He clenched his fists, wanting to defend his mother, knowing Sétna would only beat them both if Conall interfered. Instead, he pulled on his brooch’s power. With a small push of his will, he stirred the peat fire as if a breeze caressed it, making it flicker brightly.
From this increased visibility, he watched Sétna relinquish his grip on his mother’s hair. Conall concentrated on his stepfather’s feet and, with a moment of regret for the need, directed it to step on Grárhund’s tail.
The resulting yip of pain redirected Sétna’s rage into concern for his beloved hound and Conall’s mother scuttled away from Sétna’s reach. She crawled into the alcove with her children, and they stood together in front of her while she retched in the corner. The stench made Conall want to join her. They needn’t have bothered, as Sétna became full of solicitude for his wounded dog. His rage at his wife had evidently been forgotten, for now.
Conall listened for Grárhund’s whine, but the dog made no noise. He hoped the poor creature hadn’t been badly hurt.
As the sun rose, Lainn nursed their mother to a semblance of competent sobriety while Conall kept their stepfather occupied by asking about his trip.
“You would think a well-known blacksmith would have a wide selection of implements. He carried barely any quality chisels at all! The price he asked for each item was exorbitant. What with the added cost of no work for the day and feed for the horse, I think I wasted my time with him. I might as well have bought from the local idiot for all the good my trip did.
“I’d just started the trip home when the horse, out of sheer spite, threw a shoe. I needed to turn back to get him re-shod, which of course, he charged another premium for.”
By the time he finished, their mother looked tired and wan, but presentable. “Sétna, would you like to break your fast? Or would you prefer to rest after your long journey home?”
Sétna’s brow furrowed and he clenched his fists, but Lainn broke in, “I picked blackberries. They would be lovely in some fresh cream. Shall I go fetch them?”
He gave her a curt nod, and she dashed off with a smile of forced cheer. Conall wanted nothing more than to escape this tense encounter and sit beside the river to colle
ct his thoughts, but he must remain as a shield in case Sétna’s anger roused once again.
Sétna frowned at Ligach, tapping his finger on the wooden table. “I’ll rest after eating. Just some porridge, nothing fancy. The berries will be a nice addition. She’d better have enough.”
The silent moments grew long as the three waited for Lainn to return with her sweet bounty. When she arrived, the prior skip to her step had sunk to a shamed shuffle. She held a small purple-stained cloth in her hand, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “A raven ate them all! I told him to leave the berries alone, but he stole them anyway!”
Conall cringed inside. He’d warned her many times never to mention her abilities with animals. Normal people didn’t sing with bees or talk to ravens. He glanced at his stepfather, waiting for the explosion.
Grárhund whined and nudged his master’s hand, making the older man smile. Conall wondered if the hound had distracted Sétna on purpose, or if he merely reacted to the tension in the room. Either way, Conall sighed with gratitude as Sétna ignored Lainn and her sorrowful face. He turned to their mother and said, “Just add honey to the porridge. I’m exhausted and should sleep through the day.”
Conall helped his mother clean after Sétna went to his alcove. They both made certain to make a minimum of noise. When he and Lainn escaped into the mid-morning day, the mist still clung to the mossy tree trunks. He walked Lainn to her lessons and took the long way home, along the riverbank.
Rocks and fallen trees littered the shore, but Conall treated it as a puzzle, something to solve as he made his way along the edge. Taking the path would be the easy way; figuring out the more difficult way occupied his mind. His stepfather’s temper had never been even but seemed worse lately. He didn’t wish to think about his mother and the danger she might be in from Sétna.
Conall found a warm spot on a flat rock jutting into a curve in the river’s path. He sat down and shredded a fallen branch, tossing the crumbled bits of red leaves into the swirling water while he thought.
Age of Saints: Druid's Brooch Series: #7 Page 4