by J. M. Hofer
“Yes,” Bran growled in Aelhaearn’s face, “I have long been absent, but don’t forget it was to put blade and shield between our clan and those who would take what’s ours. You know this. You rode by my side not so very long ago. Have you forgotten what the Saxons are like? I can assure you, they haven’t changed, and come in ever larger numbers!”
Aelhaearn was unmoved. “Don’t play the spring lamb with me, Bran. You’ve ached for battle from the moment you were strong enough to hold a spear. You’ve been off fighting Saxons not as some great sacrifice for us, but because you can’t stand to be here. For as long as I can remember, you’ve lusted after the horizon. I dare you to deny it. You’re out of touch with your people, and you know it. You don’t belong here anymore.”
Bran wanted nothing more than to pound him into the earth, but refrained for Seren’s sake. “Believe me,” he shot back, “what is coming our way is far worse than Saxons, and you have me to thank for the knowledge of it—I’ve given up all the comforts of home for years, so that cowardly men like you can rest easy in your warm beds, staying ‘in touch’ with your people!”
At this Seren yelled, “Enough!” and forced herself between them. “Save your fight for the enemy!”
Bran looked at Seren’s panicked face, and somehow found the will to keep his hands from strangling the man across from him. She’s right—he knows nothing of what we’re dealing with. Though it tasted like poison, he swallowed his pride and forced himself to walk away.
“I’m sorry, Aelhaearn,” he heard Seren say. She lowered her voice to speak to him alone, but Bran’s keen ears heard her. “This is my brother’s destiny. The Great Mother has shown it to me. Yours is yet to be—she is waiting for you to surrender your will to her. When you do, your path will surely wind to greatness far beyond that of this clan.”
Aelhaearn looked at her in disgust. “Far be it from you, woman, to advise me on where my destiny lies.” He turned and stormed off into the night.
Bran did not need to consult the Great Mother to know what destiny might be waiting for Aelhaearn in the woods, and though he was furious with him, he was nevertheless a clan-brother.
“Damn the gods, now I have to go after him!” Bran cursed.
“Let him go,” Seren said dismissively.
“No, Seren, we can’t let him go off alone into the night.”
“He’ll be fine.”
Bran ignored her and stomped off toward the trees, shaking his head. Quite the homecoming.
“Bran, wait!”
Bran stopped in his tracks and wheeled around. “What?”
“Aelhaearn is a Firebrand.”
Shock jolted through Bran’s body. A male Firebrand had not been born in their clan for five generations. He walked back to where his sister was.
“A Firebrand? Why did you not tell me this before?” He was growing impatient with her. “Gods, now it makes sense! It’s clear why he feels entitled to be Protector. He’s a male Firebrand, Seren.”
The Firebrand was a gift almost exclusively bestowed upon females. Seren had been blessed with it. He remembered when it was discovered. He had terribly jealous, and asked his mother why the Guardians favored girls. “Boys like to fight more than girls,” was the simple explanation, and it made sense—aggression could have dire consequences when you were granted the power to engulf things in flames. Therefore, as soon as it became apparent a child carried the Firebrand, much care was taken to be sure she did not become inconsolable or upset. When she was old enough to speak, she was apprenticed by an older Firebrand who taught her how to wield the power she possessed. In Seren’s case, it was her grandmother’s sister, Lady Ffraid, who thankfully lived long enough to be her mentor.
“How was this was not discovered sooner?” Bran demanded.
“The brand didn’t manifest itself until a few years ago.”
Bran shook his head. “Even rarer. The last thing we need is a Firebrand as our enemy right now.”
“I know!” Seren yelled. She sat down on a boulder and put her face in her hands, heaving a defeated sigh.
Bran regretted his harshness with her. He was not accustomed to dealing with women. “I’m sorry this burden has come to you so young,” he tried with a softer tone, “but it has.”
She looked up at him. “However young I may be, I know that you’re meant to be chieftain. No one knows Aelhaearn the way I do. I blame myself for the way he is. It was me who mentored him, and I’ve obviously done a poor job. I wish Lady Ffraid had been alive. ”
“Don’t blame yourself for the way he is,” Bran consoled. “He’s always had a temper. You know that.”
“Yes, I do—which is why the Council and I have chosen you to be chieftain.”
She stood up and pulled Dyrnwyn out from beneath her robe, the moonlight dancing upon its perfect blade. “Take it, brother,” she said, holding it out to him. “It’s yours to protect, now.”
Bran had only ever seen Dyrnwyn in Cadoc’s hand. If he had ever even thought of touching it as a boy, he would have been whipped. In sweet defiance, he reached out and gripped the hilt in his hand. To wield such a weapon was every warrior’s dream. “I hope never to give you any cause to doubt your decision, sister.”
“I know you won’t. Let’s lose no more time. The sun has left us to our enemies.” She went back into the motherhouse and Bran followed her.
Bran looked across the room to see Gareth coming to embrace him, and it drained his heart of all the anger of the past hour.
“Bran! Welcome home!” After a few good strong claps on the back, Gareth pulled away. “How’ve you been, cousin?” he asked with a kind smile. “We’re so glad to have you home.”
“Much has happened.” Bran sighed. “We’ll talk soon over some ale.”
Gareth nodded with enthusiasm. “Done.”
His uncle, who had been standing by the fire, walked over to greet him as well. "Happy to see you’ve returned, nephew.”
“Thank you, Uncle.” Bran glanced about and quietly added, “Later, I would like to speak with you both privately about Lord Aelhaearn.”
“Of course,” his uncle agreed. Gareth simply nodded.
Neither of them looks very surprised.
“Speaking of Aelhaearn, where is he?” Gareth searched the hall.
“That’s what I wish to discuss.”
“I see. Until later, then.” Worry crossed Einon’s face. He and Gareth took a seat among the others.
Seren stepped forward to speak and raised her hands, quieting the hall. “Clan brothers and sisters, I’ve sat in prayer for days asking the Great Mother for her guidance. The Council and I are now all in agreement.“ She looked over at Bran and smiled. “Lord Bran is our choice.”
Bran raised his spear at the mention of his name, and the clan shouted their approval, sending smiles and nods in his direction.
He felt relieved. He had been worried that perhaps Aelhaearn was right—that he had been away too long to inspire any loyalty or devotion in his people—but the scene in front of him spoke to the contrary.
“The rites shall be performed on Nos Calan Gaeaf,” Seren continued, “when we’ll have proper ceremony and celebration, but for now we must instead turn our efforts toward our new enemy.”
She sat down and Bran stood to speak. “I know you’re all anxious to hear the news from the Crossroads. When I arrived, Belenus and Taranis were there with news of similar attacks on their villages. The North has suffered the worst of it.” He paused to consider leaving out the details, but thought it best that his people know what sort of evil they were up against. “The enemy hid in their quarries by day, and then attacked at night, taking all their small children. They found the bairns eaten or ripped to pieces and drained of blood, and many have not been found at all.”
Looks of horror crossed the faces of his clansfolk. The men were soon in an uproar and the mothers pulled their wee ones close.
“Talhaiarn believes Cerridwen may be to blame, and he’s gone to
the Isle to consult with Priestess Rowan.”
“Cerridwen?” Seren interrupted in shock. “What makes Talhaiarn believe it’s her?”
“He suspects she’s gathering an army to obtain the remaining relics of the Great Circle and overtake the Crossroads. As she believes we’re the weakest of the three clans right now, he’s predicted that she’ll come for Dyrnwyn first.”
Bran unsheathed the sword from its scabbard and hoisted it high. The firelight flashed along the blade, searing up and down its edges. “I swear to you all upon my life, she’ll not have it!”
“She will sooner die upon it!” Balin cried out. The other men passionately voiced their agreement and Bran returned the sword to its scabbard.
“The North and East are sending what men they can spare to aid us. Once they arrive, we can make battle plans and seek the enemy out, but for now we’ll have to fend for ourselves. The women and children will sleep here in the motherhouse from dusk until dawn. This way, we have but one house to defend rather than several.”
“My men and I will take the first watch,” Balin offered. “We’ve been working all day setting snares and other such things. May as well keep the same company and see things through ‘til dawn.” He looked around the hall, squinting. “Where the hell is Aelhaearn?”
“He’s already in the forest,” Bran offered quickly. “We spoke earlier.”
Balin still looked confused.
Bran changed the subject. “Who are the best archers?”
Einon stepped forward. “Allow me.” He called forth twenty or so men.
Once it was decided who would keep watch outside the hall and who would be posted where, Balin stood up to leave. “Well, let’s move.” He turned to his company. “Come on, men. She’s casting snow, so take what you need for warmth and bring your dogs. You won’t have your women tonight.”
Seren watched as the men collected their weapons.
Balin noted her concern as he walked by. “We’ll not let them hurt any of you, my lady—I promise.” He turned to Bran and extended his arm. “I’m proud you’re with us, Bran. It’ll be an honor to soon be addressing you as Pennaeth.”
“Thank you, Balin. Good to have your trust. May the Great Mother keep you.”
“You as well.” He turned to Seren. “And you, my lady.”
After Balin and his men left, Gareth came over, brandishing his sword. “Shall I join the others, or stay behind to protect you, cousin?” he joked, doing his best to lighten the mood.
He and Gareth had argued since they were old enough to hold a blade over who was a better swordsman. Bran chuckled. It felt good to laugh—even a little. “Stay. I’d like you in my company.”
“Done.”
Bran turned to Seren. “Get some sleep if you can.”
She nodded. “Now that you’re here, I’ll finally be able to. Being responsible for Dyrnwyn has been a burden I’m glad to be rid of.”
“Go.” Bran waved her toward the women and children. Everyone was on the floor near the fire, heads on balled up cloaks or blankets. The dogs lay nearby, ever vigilant.
Einon approached. “I’ll join the two of you, if you’ll have me. My eyesight isn’t what it once was, but I can still swing a sword. It’ll also give us the opportunity to discuss the matter you mentioned earlier.”
“You know my mind, Uncle.” Bran led the way outside.
Once away from the eyes and ears of the clan, Einon asked, “Now, what’s this about Aelhaearn?”
“Seren told me he has the Firebrand. I recall him being a fierce warrior, but don’t know much else. When did it happen?”
Einon exhaled slowly. “About five years ago. Triggered by his wife’s death. For two days she suffered in childbirth and finally bled to death. He let the midwife to cut into her belly to save the child, but the poor thing didn’t live for more than an hour. He was like a wild animal after that—wouldn’t let anyone help him with the funeral pyre. He worked through the night preparing it himself.”
Bran felt a wave of sympathy for the man. Have I been too harsh?
“The next day, he sat next to the bodies of his wife and son on that pyre from dawn until dusk, until suddenly it went up in flames. Soon after, the trees around it were burning, and then his own house. At first, he told us later, he thought the Guardians had set the pyre on fire, but after everything surrounding him went up in flames as well, he realized it was his own fury that had caused it. He called out for help, and your sister came. Everything would’ve burned to the ground without her help. From that day on, she’s mentored him.”
Aelhaearn’s rage made more sense to Bran now. “He and I fought over Seren’s choice to name me as chieftain—that’s why he wasn’t with us in the hall.”
“I knew it.” His uncle shook his head. “Where is he?”
Bran pointed. “Went into the forest on foot. Took the wood-gathering path.”
His uncle glanced off toward the tree line, concern furrowing his brow. “I can bring him back. Though he can be a stubborn bastard, he’s like a son to me.”
He put his hand on Bran’s shoulder. “Bran, although she’s quite young, your sister’s wise for her years. No one knows him better than she does. I’m sure she’s given great thought to her choice, and for what it’s worth, I believe she’s made the right one. However, I’m certain he feels deeply betrayed, and that’s a problem.”
“Well then, let’s stop standing about talking like a bunch of women, and go find him!” Gareth burst out.
“Agreed.” His uncle whistled for his dogs and they came running.
Bran reached down to pat them. “I don’t think it’s wise for me to go with you.”
“Neither do I. Stay here and guard the motherhouse. Gareth and I will find him.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Sisterhood
The Sisters of the Isle lived in small huts that surrounded a larger motherhouse used for meetings. A bit removed from the village were the ruins of an old castle. In the middle of its courtyard stood the largest oak tree Lucia had ever seen, its branches spreading out in all directions, heavy with acorns.
She, Aveta and Gwion were given a hut made available to them by some of the Sisters. Lucia did not intend to fall asleep, but could not help lying down to rest herself just a little. She did not wake until the smell of roasted venison reached her nostrils.
Her eyes shot open. She no longer saw grey sky through tree branches through the smokehole in the hut, but rather the dark of night, the blanket of stars complete. She walked outside to find a full moon had risen overhead. A knot of worry formed in her stomach, remembering her vision the previous night. She rubbed her eyes and followed the smell of meat into the motherhouse where a dozen or so women were gathered, along with Aveta and Gwion. They all turned as she entered. Aveta came to her. “Come and eat. There’s much to discuss tonight.”
“I’m so sorry…I should have been here to help…I didn’t intend to fall asleep,” she whispered, rubbing her hands over her eyes to clear her blurred vision.
“No matter. There will be many other opportunities for you to help. You needed to rest,” Aveta gave her a kind smile. “There’s someone waiting to meet you. Follow me.”
Aveta led her to the ruins she had admired earlier. A woman was sitting near an old hearth, waiting for them.
“Lucia, this is your grandmother, Lady Rowan.”
Lady Rowan had wolf-like grey eyes. Her long raven hair was shot through with silver, and hung down her back in one thick, long braid. Like the other women, she wore a simple wool tunic dyed indigo blue, but she alone wore a large crescent-shaped neck torc. She put her hand upon Lucia’s face, as if to convince herself that she was real. “I have kept my daughter in my prayers all these years, but never dared hope that I would see her again. Now, I see her in you, Lucia. Is your mother well?”
“I think so. I haven’t seen her in some time.” Lucia felt a wave of guilt. I should have visited her more. Gods! What if I never see her again? A lum
p formed in her throat.
“Visit her soon. A mother needs her daughters,” Rowan said, compounding Lucia’s guilt. “Aveta has told me of your vision. Come with me, we have much to talk about.” She led them back to the motherhouse where the other women were waiting, seated in a large circle around the fire.
They sat down among them and Gwion laid his hand over hers tenderly. “All will be well.”
“I know it will. Everything we need we have right here, don’t we?”
Rowan took her place in the circle. She raised her hands and asked for blessings on their food, and then everyone began to eat and talk. Lucia was passed a plate of meat and then a cup of wine, which she tried not to gulp. The last few days had worn on her in all ways. Her disturbing vision, her feelings toward Bran, the rushed and panicked departure from her home—was this all really happening? Perhaps what she had seen had just been a nightmare. “Oh, if only I could believe that,” she muttered to herself.
After eating, everyone moved closer to the fire. The wine and heat eased Lucia’s tired limbs as she watched the flames dance, wondering if her villa was dancing in flames as well. Perhaps it had already burned to the ground. With the panicked journey over and her hunger gone, fear and worry began flooding the empty spaces in her mind. What of the farmers and their families? What of my fields, the animals, and the stable? And the library! Oh, gods—the library. So much knowledge and beauty, laid to waste. It sickened her.
Rowan stood to speak, and everyone fell silent. “I am grateful that the Great Mother has brought my daughter and grandchildren home, reuniting our family. However, the circumstances that have reunited us are anything but fortunate. Granddaughter, would you please share with us what you have seen?”
Lucia was surprised that she has been asked to say anything, but stood to speak as she had been bidden, heart racing. “I had a vision of strange savages, for I have no other word for them. They attacked my villa and set fire to the barn and the fields.” She paused a moment, gauging the reaction in the room. “—They were men, but they crawled on all fours, like animals, and wore no clothes. They had pale skin and milky eyes, as if they had been born underground and had never seen the light of day.”