Misfortune of Time: Druid's Brooch Series, #6

by Christy Nicholas

  Étaín nodded. “In case Airtre should come home while we’re out searching for him, yes. He hasn’t been home in a while, and I don’t want him to think disaster has struck. It’s an important task, Maelan, and I trust you to do it well.”

  Somewhat mollified, the boy picked at a dark spot on the table. “Can I at least eat supper while you’re out? I’m starving.”

  She served him a large bowl of spiced pea soup and a small loaf of rye bread with a fond smile and caressed his hair. Étaín stooped to pick up the small hand lamp she kept and lit it with the hearth fire. She and Cadhla put on their cloaks against the rising cool of the night and walked out.

  She halted as soon as they went outside. “I don’t have the faintest idea where to look for him, Cadhla.”

  With a chuckle, he said, “Start at the last place he’s known to have been. I would say the hostelry is a good beginning. From there, we might get a clue to where he went.”

  They walked in silence as the blue twilight encroached upon the forest. The odor of damp leaves and soil interlaced with the fresh evening breeze. No moon yet rose tonight, but it would be only a sliver. Her familiar full moon remained a fortnight away.

  The path grew darker as they walked, despite the hand lamp. Rustling in the leaves set her on edge, and she jumped at each crack of a twig.

  “Étaín, I’m here to protect you. There’s no need for fear. I swear I won’t let him harm you again.”

  She shook her head. “That’s an impossible vow, Cadhla. He’s my husband. There is no world in which you can be there to protect me from him every hour of every day. I simply must learn to behave more correctly.”

  He stopped in the path, forcing her to stop and look back at him. She held up the lamp to observe his face. He looked stricken in the flickering light, but he said nothing. She gave him a sad smile and turned toward the abbey. After a heartbeat, his footsteps followed.

  The hoot of an owl almost made her jump from the path until Cadhla’s hand fell on her shoulder. The touch bolstered her, and they walked on together.

  By the time they reached the abbey gates, full night had fallen. She shuddered as they passed the place where she’d been attacked, but pushed on through the fear. They walked inside the walls and found the hostelry. A solitary candle flickered in the far corner, tossing shadows of strange shapes against the rough walls.

  Cadhla left Étaín at the entrance and went to discover who had the candle. When he returned, he led a young, nervous monk. “I’ve not seen your husband, my lady, I swear! He’d already gone when I came to my post at Vespers. Usually, he waits right here, and is sure to chide me if I’m even a moment past time.”

  The older monk raised an eyebrow. “He left the hostelry unattended?”

  The boy shook his head hastily. “No, not completely, not at all. That would have been dire, most dire indeed! No, he left another monk in charge until I arrived. The other monk went to his bed hours ago.”

  Étaín asked, “Which monk? Do you remember?”

  With a frantic nod, the young monk said, “I do, my lady! Bressel. But you mustn’t ask me to wake him, please! He’s much too important for me to wake him, my lady.”

  Cadhla smiled. “I’m familiar with Bressel, Brother. You carry on your duties here. You’ve done well in helping us. I’ll be certain to put in a good word.”

  He bobbed his head several times. “I thank you, Father!”

  Back out in the night, another monk approached them. The moonlight revealed Odhar.

  “Étaín? What are you doing here so late? Is aught wrong with Maelan?”

  She shook her head. “No, nothing with Maelan. He’s home and well. We’re searching for Airtre. He’s yet to come home, and we’re growing worried. Have you seen him?”

  Odhar picked at his lip in contemplation. “I don’t think so, not for some hours. He spoke with Bressel before dusk, though.”

  Étaín turned to Cadhla. “Will you be the one to wake the dragon, then? I daren’t. Bressel tolerates me, but only as one would a useful dog.”

  He chuckled. “I have no fear from the toothless old cur.”

  Odhar nodded. “And I’ll see if I can’t find the clark. The abbot might have sent Airtre on an errand.”

  With a speculative frown, Cadhla nodded. “You might be right, Odhar. Étaín, will you wait here, or would you rather meet me at the gates?”

  “I’d rather wait near the gates. I can at least look out for anyone passing. Airtre may just be about on the abbot’s business, as Odhar suggested.”

  “Wait there, then, and stay near the light! I’ll bring Bressel.”

  Neither Odhar nor Cadhla returned quickly. The evening chilled as she stood next to the gates. They stood open in the darkness, a black maw waiting to swallow whatever monster approached. Étaín shivered at the image, and stood with her back to the stone wall, drawing comfort from the solid structure.

  A sound to her right made her whirl, alert to danger, but she spied nothing. After chiding herself for her jumpiness, she slid down the wall until she sat on the damp grass rampart. She closed her eyes, briefly wishing to be home, to be sitting in front of her glowing hearth, the aroma of burning peat and stew filling her nostrils. Instead, she sat on a hillside, waiting on men to help her find a wastrel husband.

  Where had Airtre gone? Had he been hurt? Attacked? So many possibilities flitted through her mind, each more dire than the last. While she never loved Airtre, she respected him and the family they’d built together. He had taken care of her throughout her winters in this place. She’d be grieved to find him hurt or dead in some ditch in the woods if only for the security he provided. A brief flash of yearning for the freedom of being single was quickly doused with practical thoughts. She’d have to find another protector until Maelan had settled. Maybe Maelan had now matured enough to be fostered.

  Another sound to the right made her stand, her lantern clutched like a weapon in front of her. She saw nothing past the hard edge of the light.

  Étaín slid over to where the gate stood, sheltering both her back and side. It left her with no escape route, but it meant she could only be approached from the front. She grabbed her belt knife and held it out, ready for whatever came.

  Faint grunting and humming filtered through the darkness. The noise didn’t precisely sound human, but she couldn’t identify what animal might be there. Her hands hurt where she gripped the lantern and the knife. Her breathing grew quick, and her heart raced. She heartily wished she’d waited near the hostelry. Then at least the young monk would be with her. She’d been foolish to wait alone in the darkness.

  A horrible growl rose to her left, and she swiveled her head to confront the threat. Still, nothing showed in the darkness. The lamp worked against her now, blinding her to whatever lay beyond its pale glow.

  Fatigue of the last few days slammed her, and she grew faint. Nebulous images beyond the lamplight swirled into a shapeless mélange of threat and fear. She must have cried out for her voice echoed in the night.

  Someone gripped her wrist, the one with the knife, painful and tight. More animal sounds drifted through her mind, grunting and snuffling, like a pig rooting for mast in the forest floor. She tried to shake off the hand, but it clamped on like iron, refusing to budge.

  She swung the lamp at whatever held her arm, hoping to hit her attacker over the head, but he proved unusually quick and ducked the iron object. She tried to push time back, but couldn’t gather enough concentration to work the magic.

  She blinked furiously and finally discerned a face in the faint light. Insane eyes stared into her soul, the eyes of the mad beggar bard. They looked purpled and bloodshot, and his face showed gaping cuts from Airtre’s attentions. His other hand snatched at her lamp, gripping her fingers and keeping her from attacking again.

  Étaín screamed into the night. “Let me go! Stop!”

  Foul breath washed over her, reeking of garbage and decay. She saw him clearly now, barely inches from her own face
, grimy with ragged, rotten teeth, as he hissed his words. “You are marked, you are, yes, you are, you are, you are! I can see it. I can touch it. I can smell it. I can taste it.” He licked her arm, and she shuddered in revulsion. “You cannot escape them. They will come for you. They will eat your flesh, your heart, your immortal soul!”

  She screamed again and tried to escape his hold, but he remained too strong despite his injuries, too close. Desperately sobbing now, she closed her eyes against the horrid vision of his face near hers. The darkness of her self-imposed blindness became worse. She imagined bugs and worms crawling out of his eyes and ears, crawling toward her to eat her flesh.

  Somewhere in the black of the night, shouts rang out. Did she hear Airtre’s voice? Cadhla? She had no way of identifying her rescuers, but the clash of metal on stone rung out, harsh in her ears. Étaín wrenched her wrists, trying once again to twist out of the madman’s grip, but he held her fast. She whimpered again and suddenly, his frantic grip loosed. She fell as more shouts covered her in a blanket of fear.

  Through her dim, hysteric tears, she discerned the faces of the men around her. Odhar, Bressel, and Airtre—where had he come from?—bundled her and took her away from the gate. They had to carry her, as she had no control over her body. The horrible man still hovered, trying to eat her soul.

  Rather than take her home, they took her to the nearby hospice. Cadhla joined them on the way and said he could tend her there. After taking one look at her wretched self, he poured a sticky concoction into a mug and bade her drink it.

  “I thought I told you to take it easy. Is this taking it easy? Here, drink. It will make you sleep, my dear.”

  Étaín struggled against it. “I cannot sleep. My dreams, my dreams will attack me.” She made no sense, but she didn’t care. She mustn’t give in to the darkness.

  “No dreams, I promise. Just sleep. You need to rest, away from the demons of the night.”

  She blinked at Cadhla. “No dreams?”

  The monk nodded. “I promise, child. None at all. I can attest to it. I’ve taken poppy juice before myself. There are no dreams.”

  After shoving down her terror, she took the mug from his hand. She glanced at Airtre, who appeared more distraught than she’d ever seen him. He nodded at her. “Drink, Étaín. I’ll sit and protect you from anything that may come. That churl will never accost you again, I vow.”

  Her eyes prickled with more tears, but this time her tears sprang from gratitude. She hadn’t expected such solicitude from Airtre. Without allowing herself to think further, she drank the sickly sweet syrup in one gulp and grimaced at the flavor.

  A few moments later, she drifted into a white cotton slumber.

  * * *

  Étaín heard voices.

  She didn’t want to leave the comfortable place. She had no pain, no people, no work, no fear in the comfortable place. The voices called her.

  They didn’t call her name, precisely, but they called to her mind. No, not quite. They begged for her attention. Yes, that better described them. They required her notice.

  They didn’t even speak about her. Nevertheless, she must listen.

  The more familiar voice spoke first. Étaín picked through her many memories to identify the voice. Did it sound like Brennan, her third husband? No, much too low-pitched. Perhaps her foster-father? She shrunk away from the memory. The words felt rough around the edges, but still educated. Maybe her fifth husband, the scribe in Connacht? No, he’d died young, and this was an old voice, full of hoary phrases and prickly consonants.

  Ah, now she had it. The voice belonged to Airtre, the priest; her current husband.

  Now she’d identified the speaker, she concentrated on what he said.

  “I hadn’t planned on being out so long, Bressel. The time passed during the ceremony before I realized it.”

  Thanks to Airtre’s clue, she easily placed the other voice. “Ceremony? What type of ceremony?”

  “Dark magic, to be certain, but I had to take the risk. I’ll confess my sin this day, but I had to try, don’t you understand?”

  Bressel answered after a hesitation. “Did the witch contact your brother, after all? Did you speak to him?”

  “I’m not certain. I think so. He spoke of things no one else would remember. Information I’ve never even told my wife.”

  Bressel growled. “I find it hard to believe such a wicked, devilish creature might contact someone residing in blessed paradise.”

  Étaín recognized the indignation in Airtre’s voice. “We cannot understand the will or way of the Almighty, Bressel. I believe I’ve actually spoken with my brother, dead these fifty winters. Perhaps God has had pity on me and granted me this moment.”

  Bressel snorted. “And perhaps you are a gullible idiot and have paid this hedge-witch to cheat you.”

  Étaín drifted back into her dreamless sleep.

  Time passed both forever and not at all before she opened her eyes, blinking against the bright morning sun which warmed her face. A sparrow sat in the window, regarding her with glittering eyes. It twittered and fluttered away into the light. Dust motes danced in the golden light, playing like children in the sunbeam. Étaín watched the dance for a long time, their movements suggesting ethereal music in her mind. She reached up to catch one of the faerie motes, but it skipped out of her grasp with a twinkling laugh.

  The motion must have roused someone to her state, as a figure hovered over her. Étaín recognized the man, but she had difficulty selecting his name from her memory. Maybe something like Caidal… no, Caidal meant sleep. She’d done enough sleeping. Caraid? Caraid meant friend. He seemed to be a friend, certainly. Not Cadhlar. Oh, Cadhla, that’s the name. Cadhla. She’d known the man for over thirty winters, and she’d had to struggle to remember his name. What in the name of all things holy was wrong with her?

  Étaín moaned and put her hand to her forehead. Cadhla pulled it gently back down. “Now, Étaín, go easy. You’ve had quite a fright, and I want you to take it slow. Did this last assault from the beggar add to the bruises Airtre gave you?”

  She tried to shake her head, but something prevented her from moving.

  “I’ve put blocks on either side. It’s to keep you from hurting yourself during the fever.”

  “Fever? What fever? I wasn’t ill. No, the bruises came from… Airtre. From before.”

  He made a noncommittal grunt and said, “You have been ill for nigh unto a fortnight with a strong fever, child.”

  Panic bubbled in her heart. A fortnight? She’d been unconscious for a fortnight? Her magic must have faded away. She’d look much too young for her apparent age. Étaín struggled to sit up, but Cadhla pushed her back. She pulled her blanket over her head to hide her face from him.

  “Rest easy, Étaín. Yes, your appearance has changed, and I shall say nothing. Is it something you can correct from here? Do you need any preparations?”

  She swallowed against his instant and unconditional acceptance. “No, I need nothing. Just time, concentration and energy. It takes longer if I have to recreate the illusion from scratch. If I can be alone for an hour, it should be plenty of time.”

  He nodded. “It shall be so. I’ll keep my apprentice busy elsewhere. I noticed a change on the third day and took measures to hide the obvious. I kept a veil over your face for much of the time, to keep out the ill humors. It also helped shield you from curious eyes and waggling tongues.”

  He understood, and he didn’t care. Or if he cared, he would still keep her secret. Étaín felt certain he’d want an explanation for the anomaly at some point, but for now, he seemed content to let her repair the damage. She wasted no time in doing so.

  The magic of recreating the careful aging illusion from nothing took much more energy and concentration. She first focused on her skin. It needed to look thinner, translucent, with age spots on the hand and neck. Then the crepey wrinkles all over, especially around her eyes and mouth. People stared at those places the most, and the
refore the absence of wrinkles would be most likely noticed. Not too much, just the same as when she had last aged herself. She had learned, over the winters, to add just a little bit each moon to the magic, enough where any change became gradual and unnoticed.

  Next for her hair. Her naturally ink-black hair had been pulled back under a cloth due to her illness. This kept it well-hidden, as Cadhla had said. She extracted the color, fading it into a steel-gray streaked with just a few strands of white near the crown of her head. Étaín had always considered the effect to be rather striking, and her little bit of personal vanity remained that she’d been able to replicate the effect each time she aged herself.

  Next for her eyes. She added rheuminess and droopy eyelids, and a slight milky film to replicate many elders she had seen. Étaín saw perfectly well, no matter what appearance the magical illusion created, but she’d grown skilled at pretending to be partially blind.

  Her bones, luckily, remained well hidden beneath her skin. While she pretended to be feeble or arthritic, she didn’t experience the pain associated with old bones. She increased the size of her knuckles, so they looked authentic.

  After her hour ended, Cadhla reappeared, looking her over with an appraising eye. “Yes, it does quite do the trick. You must tell me your story someday when you’re recovered and settled. I imagine after such a feat, you’re ready for another day of sleep, though.”

  She nodded. “The magic takes a great deal of effort, and completely drains me.”

  “Well, then, in exchange for the promise of a future tale, I’ll put the word about you need more rest and are not quite recovered. You sleep, child. Though if you have had this Fae trick long, you might be older than I am. Child is a slight misnomer, I imagine.”

  With that, the gray-bearded midach flashed a quick smile, patted her gently on the head, and shut the door to the hospice on his way out. The only sound became the squawk of a raven outside. She blinked in the rising sunlight and saw a nebulous form in the glow. The shape resolved into an enormous black bird perched in the window, exactly where the sparrow had been. It regarded her with steady, baleful eyes, squawked once again, and flew away.