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

by J. M. Hofer

  “Perfect. Now you also have a companion for the night,” Rowan rose to leave, and Aveta and Gwion followed.

  Lucia leaned in close to Bran in passing. “I’ll return shortly.”

  He beamed at her. “I look forward to it.”

  The four of them made their way back to the huts, this time with Gwion out in front holding a torch.

  “You will soon have to make a difficult choice, granddaughter,” Rowan warned her.

  “What choice is that?”

  “You will have to choose between being that man’s wife, or being the priestess you were born to be.”

  Lucia laughed weakly in response, embarrassed by her transparency. She shook her head. “He hasn’t asked me to marry him, Grandmother.”

  “No, but I have been alive long enough to know how things will unfold. You do not need the gift of the Sight to see the potential of things around you, if you simply take the time to notice.”

  “Ah.” She was at a loss as to how to respond. Could this be true? Her excitement about the idea disturbed her.

  Rowan stopped, turned around, and put her hands on Lucia’s shoulders. “Lucia, you have been blessed with one of the greatest gifts that can ever be bestowed on a daughter of our clan. My hope, of course, is that you will choose the sacred path of a priestess and stay here with us, but you must make your own decision. I can only tell you that a man’s love fades with time, as does his ardor, but a life in communion with the Great Mother is eternal and ever-satisfying. Think on that.”

  Lucia felt embarrassed and wished the subject had not been brought up. “Grandmother, I don’t know if I’m ready to speak of such things. I’ve always wanted a family…”

  “You may still have children! It is encouraged! Motherhood is the most sacred expression of the Goddess!”

  “Yes, but what if I were to have a boy?” Lucia looked over at Aveta and Gwion. “I would have to send him away. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “Yes, that is one of the sacrifices a Daughter of the Isle must make. There is no meaningful path in life that will require none of you.” She sighed. “Lucia, I raise the question because I know you are happy here. You are blessed with a natural understanding of things that others struggle their entire lives to grasp. You are just beginning to scratch the surface of the tremendous power you possess. It would be a great tragedy for you to leave this all behind and never fully bloom.”

  The joy Lucia had felt at seeing Bran now curdled in her stomach like sour milk. Why must I choose? Can I not study the ways of a priestess, and also enjoy the love of a man? I wouldn’t become a priestess if I left the Isle, or learn as much, but there must be a way to have both... “Why do the priestesses of the other clans have husbands and protectors, then?”

  “They do not understand the ways of the Great Mother as we do,” Rowan explained impatiently. “We are as learned as the High Druids, and blessed in a special way by the Great Mother. The priestesses of the other clans perform important rituals and rites, and provide strong leadership, but a Sister of the Isle is special, Lucia. Why do you think the priestesses of the other clans journey here for advice? Why do you think they send their most gifted daughters here to be trained? This is a blessed place, set aside for women who have been profoundly touched by the Great Mother. And you are one of us.”

  “I’m honored to have been so blessed.” Lucia felt ungrateful, because for the first time in her life, she truly had felt honored. Up until the past few moons, she had ever scorned her gift. Now, she embraced it, and longed to learn as much as she could about it.

  Aveta put her arm around her. “Mother, please…let Lucia enjoy seeing Bran again.”

  “That is how it starts,” Rowan said with exasperation, “with excitement and passion. Then, a hasty decision is made, and, moons or years later, a woman once bursting with life and potential becomes a husk of the blossom she used to be, with nothing to show for her life but children hanging off her breasts and a husband grown fat off her cooking, secretly going off to the barn to lie with the milkmaid!”

  “Mother, please!” Aveta protested.

  Aveta turned to Lucia and spoke softly so that her mother could not hear them, slowing down to put some distance between them. “She speaks harshly, but it’s out of love.”

  “I know.”

  “Bran is a good man. If he weren’t, Gwion would not have risked his life to find him.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “She simply fears losing you, Lucia. I believe she hopes to train you to take her place when she passes on.”

  “What?” Lucia whispered, stopping in her tracks. “That can’t be true. You are a far better choice than I, Aveta!”

  “You may think that now—that may even be true, now. But she sees things not only as they are, but as they could be, in their most perfect form.”

  They continued walking, and thankfully soon reached the huts.

  “I’m going to bed,” Aveta said. “We can talk more tomorrow.”

  Everyone disappeared. Lucia was grateful to be away from the conversation on the pathway. She collected blankets, food and ale for Bran, and started back with a torch to light the way.

  Without warning, Bran appeared in her firelight. She nearly jumped out of her skin.

  “I saw you coming,” he said apologetically, relieving her of her load.

  “Thank you.” She took a deep breath to calm herself.

  He peered into the basket and grinned. “You’ve brought ale!”

  She did not think she had ever seen him smile that widely before. “Yes. And the bread was baked this morning. There are apples for Gethen as well.”

  “Praise the gods! Come! Drink with me!” He looked as if he might start dancing. He led the way back to the throne room where he had fashioned a few benches from loose flagstones and laid a blanket across them. “Please, sit.”

  He set the basket down in front of them and then took out the ale. After a long drink, he exclaimed, “Ahhh…Gods! Like mother’s milk!” He passed it to her. She drank deeply as well, hoping it would relax her, and passed it back.

  Bran fixed his eyes on her. “Lucia, what happened to you? Gwion said your husband came for you at the camp.”

  Why did Gwion have to tell him that? “Yes. He found me, somehow. I thought something seemed out of sorts with him, though. He managed to anger Lord Aelhaearn and some of the other men within moments of arriving. That was not something my husband would have done. It soon became clear he wasn’t the man I once knew.”

  I’ll not share the rest of what happened—that will go to the grave with me. She pulled a blanket around her legs tightly against the cold, still acutely aware of Bran’s eyes on her. He had not looked away since she had arrived.

  He threw more wood on the fire and wrapped his cloak around her shoulders. “Go on,” he encouraged. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know if he still lives or not. There were many cauldron-born about—and the black wolf, of course.” She looked over at Gethen, who was munching on the apples she had brought for him. “I thank the Great Mother every night that your sister gave me Gethen, or surely the next time you and I would have spoken would have been in the Otherworld.”

  “Gwion told me some of the story.” Bran reached over and touched her hair. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. Husband or not, I’d never have let him take you. You would have been mine.”

  His words shot through her like lightning, filling her stomach with butterflies. She did her best not to look away. “Gwion said you and Gethen were badly injured by the wolf.”

  “Yes,” she managed to say. Her mind was spinning with his last comment. “Gethen has recovered more quickly than I have.”

  Bran looked at her leg with concern. “May I?”

  She nodded and gingerly raised her tunic.

  “I have just the thing for that,” he said, kneeling at her feet. “I just finished preparing this for my shoulder.

  The wound was still nasty to behold, but Bran’s e
xpression did not change at all upon seeing it. He carefully removed the old bandages from around her thigh. Her heart raced at his touch.

  He took some herbs and gently packed them around the wound, looking up at her often, and then wrapped her thigh with bandages soaked in warm water. The warmth radiated into her thigh, and almost instantly she felt the heat easing the ever-present ache and felt it begin to fade.

  “It works well,” she said, relieved, wishing his hands were still on her.

  “It does.” He nodded. “Could I get you to return the favor? It’s a difficult thing to bandage one’s own shoulder.”

  He removed his tunic and sat down at her feet, close enough for her to smell his skin and hair. Though much thinner, he was still twice her size. Fingers shaking, she removed the old bandages from his shoulder. She did everything exactly as he had done for her. Her nervousness subsided as she concentrated on the task, and by the time she was done, it was gone. Only her desire remained.

  “There,” she whispered as she tied a final knot, proud of her work. “How does it feel?”

  He got up and sat down beside her. “Much better.” His eyes lingered on her again. She felt her boldness return. She invited him in with an unwavering look.

  He reached behind her neck, gently tilting her head up toward him, and gave her the kiss she had imagined a thousand times since their last parting. He began softly, hesitantly, until she wrapped her arms around his neck. Emboldened by her surrender, he explored her mouth, clutching her hair, and held her tightly against him.

  She had only the vaguest sense of time passing. How long that mythic kiss actually endured between them would remain a mystery, but the stars seemed to race across the sky over their heads, stealing the night away from them like thieves.

  I want him. Right here. I have to have him. I don’t care about anything else. She imagined lifting up her robe and straddling him, and how blissful his arms would feel around her hips.

  Bran suddenly pulled away and looked into her eyes. “I have to take you back,” he whispered, touching her bottom lip with his thumb.

  No, no, no. I must have you. This is what she thought, but not what she said. She stood up and nodded.

  “Come.” He held out his hand. “I’ll walk you back to the village.”

  He took her torch from the sconce on the wall. The firelight flashed in his blue eyes.

  He held her close to him as they slowly walked back to the edge of the village. “I can’t go any further,” he whispered. “I wish we were in my village instead. I would take you to my bed.” He leaned down and kissed her again.

  Lucia could taste regret on his lips. “Promise me one day you will.”

  “That’s a promise I’m eager to keep.” He kissed both her hands. “Good night, Lucia.”

  Letting go of Bran felt like forcing herself from a warm, deep, blissful sleep on an icy cold morning. She made her way to her hut. Before going in, she turned and raised her hand toward the torch she saw burning in the woods.

  She knew that even though she could not see him, he was watching.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Caledgwyn

  Bran woke to the sight of Gethen’s head hovering over his. He laughed, sat up and affectionately patted his horse.

  He went to rebuild the fire in the hearth from the leftover coals. I hope Ula’s alright. She had never come back to the boat. Gwion had said not to worry about her, but he could not help but worry—he had promised to watch over her. He thought of the spirits he had seen beneath the waters of the lake and shuddered, thinking of her swimming in those cold depths among them.

  He was pulled from his thoughts by hunger pains. As if reading his mind, Gwion appeared under the stone archway that marked the former entrance of the courtyard.

  “Good morning,” he said, holding aloft a large basket.

  “Good morning, friend. I hope there’s food in there!”

  “Cooked eggs in the shell, some dried meat, and bread with butter and honey.”

  Bran was grateful for the food, but a bit disappointed it was not Lucia that had brought it. “A meal fit for a god. Let’s eat!”

  Gwion joined him by the fire.

  “I’m worried about Ula,” Bran confessed as he peeled an egg. “Where do you think she is?”

  “In the lake, I’m sure.” Gwion sunk his teeth into a large piece of bread, causing honey to drip down his wrist.

  “I don’t like it,” Bran said with his mouth full, shaking his head. “If anything were to happen to her—“

  “She’ll be fine.” Gwion assured him. “She’s far more resourceful than you think.”

  A voice behind them suggested, “You should concern yourself instead with how you will find the blessed blade, Caledgwyn.”

  Startled, Bran whirled around. Lady Rowan had arrived.

  “Doesn’t it lie within the Sacred Pools?”

  Rowan tilted her head back and forth, her mouth in a half-frown. “Yes, and no. It lies within the realm of the Sacred Pools, but the pools hold many mysteries, and only a fool would believe he could simply dive in and retrieve it.”

  Of course not. He had been hoping it might only be a matter of holding his breath, for he had become quite good at it, but he knew deep down that was wishful thinking.

  “No one knows how deep the pool truly is. It appears differently to everyone. Some say it looks to be about ten feet deep, others say it is quite shallow, and still others claim it is so deep they cannot see the bottom. Whatever you see will be unique to you.”

  “Well, I’ll dive in and swim until I find the bottom, then.”

  “As good a plan as any, my lord.” Gwion shrugged his shoulders.

  There is no way it could possibly be any worse than the pools in the caves. Or could it? He shuddered.

  “If you are ready, then, I will take you.” Rowan moved toward the pathway out of the courtyard on the far side.

  Bran was quite sure he was not—he felt awkward and uneasy. I know well enough how to prepare for a battle, but this? What makes a man ready or not?

  “May the Great Mother find you worthy, Lord Bran.” Gwion looked at him with complete confidence.

  Bran found the words encouraging and put his hand on the boy’s slim shoulder in farewell. At least he thinks I can do it.

  He turned toward the darkness of the forest and followed the small, mysterious old woman into the trees. They walked alongside a brook for an hour, the water rushing more swiftly as they drew closer to the source. Rowan did not speak to him, and he dared not speak to her. He felt like a great beast in that delicate place. He tried his best to keep from breaking branches or disturbing anything around him as they hiked up toward their destination.

  Finally, to his relief, she announced, “We are here.”

  She led him into a lush glade. Its stones covered with deep velvet-green moss, a series of waterfalls and smaller pools all flowing from somewhere above down into a large, deep pool at their feet.

  Rowan turned and looked him deep in the eyes. “It is an honor and a sacrilege for you to be here, son of Agarah. No man has set foot in this sacred place since Arthfael—not even Gwion. You would not be here, were it not for desperate times. Do not make me regret bringing you here, or I shall make you sorry for it.”

  “Yes, Priestess Rowan. I’m most honored—truly. I won’t shame you. If the Great Mother is displeased, I’m prepared for her to do with me as she wills.”

  Rowan gave him one slow nod. She turned away from him and continued upwards along a tiny path that led up to the source of the spring. Around it were many garlands of flowers and fruit, some small clay figurines, and other offerings. “This spring has bubbled with fresh water for as long as anyone of us can remember,” she told him. “Its waters can cure any ailment.”

  Bran’s anxiety faded away as he took in the sylvan beauty of the scene around him. It’s like something out of a faerie tale. He took a long deep breath. “Why is there mist rising off the surface of the pool
s?” Faeries indeed—or perhaps other kinds of spirits.

  “Not mist—steam. The pools above flow with water as hot as that heated over a fire. By the time it flows to the pools below, it cools to the warmth of mother’s milk. The priestesses come not only to pray here, but also to bathe. Bathing in these waters saved Lucia.”

  Bran rejoiced at his good fortune. He thought he would be searching for Caledgwyn in ice cold water in the middle of winter—but it seemed he had been granted a warm bath instead.

  “The water may indeed be comfortable, but what you encounter here may not be.”

  Bran stiffened at the notion that she could read his thoughts. Well, if you can, Priestess Rowan, I might as well ask you what’s been on my mind all morning. “Priestess Rowan,” he ventured, “I know Gwion believes Caledgwyn lies somewhere within these pools, but do you?”

  She looked at him a moment before answering. “I’ve told you, the answer is not that simple. Generations of priestesses have bathed in these pools since the time of Arthfael. Caledgwyn has never been seen, but that does not mean it cannot be found here. We simply do not desire such things. Even if it were encountered by one of the Sisters, I doubt it would be touched. Arthfael was the reason the Great Mother was forced to abandon the Isle to the lake for so long. From that time, the Sisterhood has done all it can to forget him, sword and all.”

  He nodded. “Understood. Is there any advice you would grant me?”

  “Undress and sit in one of the upper pools. Choose whichever one beckons to you, and listen to what the Great Mother has to say to you. That is my advice,” she offered. “The rest is up to you.”

  She looked at him skeptically, which did nothing to reassure him. “I must leave you now, Son of Agarah. May the Great Mother find you worthy of what you seek.”

  “May she, indeed.” Bran said, almost to himself. He looked up at the sky in trepidation. “Thank you.”

  Rowan began walking back down the path, but stopped suddenly and turned around to face him again. “One more thing—I will give you only one opportunity to obtain Caledgwyn. If you return from the glade without it, you will have failed, and must leave the Isle immediately.”