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

by J. M. Hofer

  She came closer and looked up into his eyes. “And Bran? And his sister who foolishly spurned you? They will kneel at your feet, and the feet of the one who will come after you.”

  Aelhaearn was won over by picturing that sweet victorious moment. He looked at her intently. “I shall be Protector to you,” he agreed, “if you agree to bring me the Helm and the Shield, and swear to the Great Mother and all the Guardians you will never again lay with any man but me, for as long as your heart continues to beat.”

  “That I can promise you easily, Firebrand. I want no man but you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Talhaiarn

  “Father?”

  Talhaiarn turned and beheld his eldest daughter for the first time in years. Were it not for his own eyes staring back at him, he would have sworn a young Rowan stood before him. She looks so much like her mother.

  She entered the Grove. She came and kneeled down next to him under the Oak, where he had been praying. He took her hand, and there they sat for a long time, saying nothing, watching the winter sky slowly fade over their heads. Perhaps they both knew that once she said the words she had come to say, they would likely never be able to sit together again.

  “Father,” she finally began, “I cannot stop what is going to happen here. It has grown far beyond my power to control. I am merely a vessel for the Great Mother. It is what she wants for our people.”

  Talhaiarn shook his head and turned to look at her. “No, Cerridwen. That isn’t true, child. She wants nothing of the sort. You can stop this. You need only return the Cauldron to the Isle, where it belongs. I can help you, if you’ll let me.”

  “You’re wrong, Father.”

  Talhaiarn could see in her eyes the fiery conviction of a woman possessed.

  She looked up into the branches of the Oak. “Although you are the High Priest of the Grove, you are still a man, and only a woman can truly understand what the Great Mother wants. Ask yourself, why have I been blessed with the ability to bring back life, if not to use it?”

  Talhaiarn took both her hands and squeezed them in his. I must make her see. Please, Great Mother—help me get through to her.

  “Daughter, you’re wiser than this.” He put his hand against her cheek, turning her head to look at him. “Healers preserve life, and to do so is noble, but when a soul has been called by Arawn, you have no right to call it back.” He shook his head. “Your cauldron-born suffer, Cerridwen. Their souls cry out from the in-between, begging for peace. What you are doing is wrong.”

  “I know,” she nodded. “This is why what I’ve started must be finished, Father. All the relics of the Great Circle have been pledged to me. Now, I have the power to open the door to the in-between and end their suffering. I can call the souls of the cauldron-born back to their bodies—bodies now made stronger and more powerful by the Cauldron. They will not have suffered in vain. They will be honored as the fathers of a new race of wiser men with no fear of death, for they will have overcome it!”

  Talhaiarn shook his head. It’s never those with simple minds who truly suffer, but rather those who are gifted with an understanding far beyond that of common men and women.

  “There is more.” She reached down and touched her belly. “When spring is upon us again, I will bear a son, blessed with all the most sacred gifts of the four clans.“

  Oh, no. Talhaiarn had not noticed her belly under the drapes of her robe.

  She caressed her belly tenderly. “I wish to raise him here, at the Crossroads, with you as his teacher and the Firebrand as my protector. Together, we shall raise him into the High King of our legends. When he is grown to manhood, he will wear the Helm of the East, bear the Shield of the North, and wield Drynwyn, for the relics were never meant to be kept apart. They were meant to be wielded together, by a man worthy of being High King of the Great Circle. Imagine, Father! Your grandson! High King of a clan of men and women with the power to refuse death, growing in knowledge of both the seen and unseen, until they tire of this world and choose to leave it. Through the Cauldron and the Crossroads, we possess the power to cleave the chains of death from our ankles! I know how, Father. We can free ourselves, and any whom we choose, forever. Our clan will prevail over its encroaching enemies, and the Great Mother shall never be profaned nor forgotten. We have within our grasp the power to refuse Arawn’s call, we need only close our fist around it!”

  Talhaiarn wanted to weep, thinking of how much she had suffered with Morvran. “It cannot be so, Daughter. You overreach, and offend the gods. We are not meant to live forever, nor any one of us to rule from so high a throne. Here you may stay, and raise your child, but the relics must be returned to their clans, and the cauldron-born slain, their souls released to Arawn. You must pay your debts.”

  Cerridwen stood up, angry tears welling in her eyes. “And what of the debts owed to my son? The gift of light and wisdom I brewed for him—stolen! His apprenticeship—stolen! And now, his very life! He was sent long before his time to Arawn at the hands of Agarah’s Saxon bastard! What of these debts? Shall they go unpaid?”

  She is slipping away from me. Talhaiarn knew her well enough to see he was losing the most important battle of his life. “I grieve what happened to him. He was my grandson. But what’s done is done. You must find acceptance, or your rage will be your keeper. We cannot change the past.”

  Cerridwen’s face twisted into anger. She clenched her fists and took a few paces back, glaring at him. “No, we cannot, but if I will be made to pay my debts, I shall find the coin for them by demanding what is owed my son. Gwion will use his gifts to serve me and the unborn son in my womb, and Bran will pay for Morvran’s death with his own!”

  Tahaiarn despaired, searching for words that would penetrate his daughter’s angry heart, but there were none left. He had spoken them all, and none had taken root.

  Someone appeared at the edge of the Grove. At first, Talhaiarn thought it was Bran, for he was quite tall.

  Cerridwen turned and said, “Don’t hurt him.”

  Talhaiarn looked at his daughter. The wide-eyed little girl he had held in his arms was gone.

  The man came and stood beside her. “As you wish.”

  A ring of fire sprang up around him, trapping him where he sat, and he recognized his captor. Aelhaearn.

  This is where I will die, he noted with a sad heart.

  Cerridwen walked away, leaving her father with the Firebrand, and Talhaiarn did the only thing he could do.

  He prayed.

  Grant, Goddess, Thy protection;

  And in protection, reason;

  And in reason, light;

  And in light, truth;

  And in truth, justice;

  And in justice, love;

  And in love, the love of the Goddess;

  And in the love of the Goddess, gwynfyd.

  Goddess and all goodness.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The Trees Speak

  Bran rode with Gwion beside him. The Northerners followed with their dogs. Aelhaearn had conceded to send an Eastern messenger along with them named Gawain, whose hawk could fly a message back to the village should the rumors about Cerridwen attacking the Crossroads prove true.

  As they drew closer to the Crossroads, dark clouds rolled in and the air grew heavy. The horses became skittish, and the dogs smelled something. The laughter and stories of the Northerners faded away.

  Bran stopped. He watched and listened for anything out of the ordinary, his spear at the ready. A cold breeze picked up. He felt it snaking around him, searching for places to invade his cloak and tunic.

  “Cauldron-born,” Gwion whispered to Bran. “We must be near one of their lairs. The animals smell death.”

  Bran turned and yelled to the others, “Cauldron-born! We must get to the keep before dark!”

  “Let them come, the worms!” Maur cried out from the back. “My ass itches from sittin’ in this damn saddle! I’d welcome an excuse to get out of it!”

&nb
sp; Bran shook his head and said, “Be careful what you wish for, brother.”

  ***

  They doubled their pace and reached the river by twilight.

  Bran called out to everyone, “Let the dogs and horses drink, but only a few moments. We can’t stay here.”

  Bran stooped his giant frame down to the water to fill his goatskin, anxiety gnawing at his stomach. “Not much further,” he said to Gwion, standing up and shaking it off. “Let’s go.”

  The party was soon riding up the side of the mountain toward Talhaiarn’s keep.

  When they reached the entrance, Gwion turned to Bran, his brow wrinkled with concern. “There’s no one here.”

  They entered to find Gwion was right— no Talhaiarn. Gods, no. Bran let out a long sigh, assuming the worst. He pictured Talhaiarn’s tired eyes and grey hair, and how much slower he had moved when he had last seen him. Though his knowledge was vast, Talhaiarn was certainly no longer a warrior. He’s an old man, now.

  “We’ll search for him at first light tomorrow,” Bran announced. “Bring the horses into the main hall. Maur, bar the door behind you.”

  “But what if he returns in the night?” Maur asked. “We’ll have locked him out of the only safe keep for miles around.”

  “I’ll know if he comes,” Gwion assured him.

  Maur raised his brows. “And how will you know that, lad?”

  “He’ll know,” Bran confirmed. He took Maur aside and said in a low voice, “The boy will soon outshine Talhaiarn in his abilities. In fact, I believe he may have already.”

  “Is that so?” Maur queried doubtfully.

  “Yes,” Bran glanced over at Gwion. “Have you noticed how animals are drawn to him? Wild or tame, it matters not.”

  He motioned toward him to prove his point. Sure enough, all three of the Northerners dogs, normally ever at their masters’ heels, were sitting as close to him as possible upon the floor, tame as puppies.

  Bran chuckled. “They want nothing to do with you.”

  “Come on!” Maur cried in disbelief. He walked over to Gwion and, with some effort, managed to sit down on the floor next to him. “Can you speak with ‘em, boy?”

  “Not with words, no…but I can sense what they feel.”

  “Tell me about Madoc.”

  At the mention of his name the dog looked up expectantly, cocking his big black head to one side. Maur smiled.

  “There is not much I can tell you that you don’t already know.” Gwion reached over and stroked the dog’s coat. “Well, maybe a few things.” He giggled.

  “Like what?” Maur asked nervously.

  “He doesn’t like it when you snore. He can’t sleep.”

  Eurig and Heilyn burst into peals of laughter from across the hall.

  “I don’t snore!” Maur barked in protest.

  “Oh, please!” Eurig waved a hand dismissively in his direction. “It’s bad enough we have to suffer through it, but even your dog can’t stand it!”

  Maur must have realized his protesting was pointless, so he didn’t. “Very well,” he said instead, “Let’s talk to your dog. See what secrets she has to tell.”

  Gwion looked toward the great grey hound sitting at Eurig’s feet and smiled. “She likes living in the South away from your clan, because she can have you all to herself.”

  “Ha!” Heilyn jumped at the opportunity to tease his brother. “Whoa! Yes, that’s true. The Southern women haven’t much taken to you, have they?”

  Eurig shot him a smug smile. “Oh, come now, brother! I think we both know who takes more women to his bed!”

  Heilyn shrugged his shoulders. “Well, you do, of course—but only because I’m a married man. Besides, you may take more women to your bed, but at least mine comes back every night.”

  Everyone burst into laughter.

  Eurig rolled his hands as if conducting musicians. “Go ahead, go ahead—have yourselves a laugh, you’ve earned it! I don’t care!” He reached down and wrapped his arms around the huge dog’s neck. “Yes, I believe you, my sweet darling,” he cooed to her like a baby as she licked his face. “Yes, that’s right. You’re my favorite girl!”

  “Quiet!” Gwion cried.

  Their merriment died and the dogs turned and growled in the direction of a fissure in the rock that served as the chamber’s lone window. Bran ran to the opening in a flash and spied the reason for the dog’s alarm—a great white owl had perched just outside.

  “Let her in!” Gawain cried urgently. “She has a message!” Gawain had not said a word since they had set out. Until that moment, Bran had almost forgotten he was with them.

  Gwion turned and spoke to the dogs, and they calmed down. Gawain went to the window and held his arm out for the owl. It sailed swiftly through the narrow opening and landed gracefully on his forearm. “It’s Blodeuwydd—our queen’s owl.”

  He untied the leather pouch from her talon, and inside was a message written on a piece of birch paper, written in a delicate hand. He silently read the message and let out a weak cry. “Gods, no.”

  “What is it?” Bran demanded, snatching the tiny parchment. Enemy has the Helm,” he read with a heavy voice.

  “Damn!” Maur cried, shaking his head as if trying to rid his ears of the words. “No, no, no! Damn the bloody gods! I knew that boy wasn’t ready to rule!”

  “We don’t know what happened,” Bran said in Neirin’s defense, “or how bad things might be in the East. Don’t forget the enemy bested Belenus, and that was no easy feat.”

  “True,” Maur conceded with a sigh, backing down a bit, “but I can’t help but feel Ambisagrus would have made a better chieftain.”

  “Ambisagrus is not of our clan!” Gawain yelled in anger, shocking everyone with his display of emotion. “Don’t speak of things you know nothing of, Northerner!”

  Maur lumbered over to the boy, looming over him like a great bear. “What I know, lad, is that Lord Neirin failed to protect the Helm, after only two moons of having it in his possession. That’s what I know!”

  Bran walked over to intervene. “We shall not fight amongst ourselves!”

  Maur backed down and walked away.

  Bran let out a tired sigh. “Let’s put our efforts into finding Talhaiarn instead—with him missing and the news we’ve just received, I’m sure the rumors are true. Gawain, send your hawk to Aelhaearn and tell him the battle lies here now. I think it’s safe to say we can count on that, at least.”

  “And what of Blodeuwydd?” Gawain asked.

  “Send her back to your queen with a message for Neirin to come with as many men as he can spare, and that Talhaiarn is missing.”

  “Perhaps he can redeem himself,” Maur mumbled under his breath. Bran did not respond.

  ***

  As soon as light began to creep in through the small window, Bran and his party set out to search for Talhaiarn. The sun was still hidden behind the hills and the air was bitter cold. Gwion shivered in his thin tunic, his lips blue. The poor boy has no more meat on him than a sparrow. He thought of giving the boy his cloak, but it would surely trail behind him on the ground. Instead, he gave him his wool tunic, which, though much shorter, still hung down to the middle of his stick-like legs.

  Bran proposed a plan. “There are six of us. I suggest we pair up and search different areas, then meet back here before nightfall. Hopefully we’ll have found him by then.”

  “We’ll find him,” Maur said optimistically. “If we can just get our dogs to come to us, we’ll give ‘em the scent and be off.”

  The dogs were clustered around Gwion, tails wagging, licking his cold little hands. “Go!” encouraged the boy, shooing the dogs back to their masters.

  “Well, then!” Maur glared down at Madoc as he returned. “Come back now, have you?”

  Madoc looked sheepishly up at his master.

  “Ha! Boy, the beasts do love you, to be sure!”

  Madoc saw Maur’s smile return and his tail set to wagging again, happy his master
was not cross with him.

  “Gawain,” Maur said gruffly.

  “Yes?”

  “Apologies for last night. Come with me.”

  Gawain seemed touched by Maur’s truce. “As you wish.” The Easterners were a very calm and reasonable folk, quick to forgive. “I wish I had my hawk. She would be helpful.”

  “We have Madoc. He won’t let us down,” Maur assured him. “Come on!”

  The pair headed up the steep mountain path.

  “Eurig and I will search along the river, then,” Heilyn announced. He bent down to offer one of Talhaiarn’s robes to their dogs to smell.

  Bran turned to Gwion. “That leaves us with the path leading down to the Grove.”

  They turned and set off down a steep and narrow trail leading into the trees. The early morning light slowly began to descend through the branches of trees, casting a frosty veil of pale light on everything below. Gwion took the lead, saying he knew the way. “I lived here, not so long ago, studying with Talhaiarn. I traveled this path frequently with him.”

  Bran followed him with some difficulty, his feet crushing into the earth where Gwion’s barely left a mark, and his large frame breaking branches where Gwion slipped through like a young fawn. Regardless, he managed to keep up, never letting the boy out of his sight.

  Talhaiarn had taken much care to hide and protect the Grove. The markings leading the way to it were imperceptible to Bran, but not to Gwion—the forest around them spoke in a language only he understood. They walked slowly and carefully, looking at the ground frequently for footprints or freshly broken twigs.

  Bran’s thoughts wove round and round the fortress. Nothing was disturbed. No sign of a struggle. That means one of two things—he either left alone, or with someone he trusted. “His horse was there, so we know he was on foot,” Bran thought aloud. “And there was a drinking horn when we arrived still wet with ale, which means he had not been gone for long before we arrived.”

  Gwion picked out the path easily, stopping only occasionally. He would lean into a tree and press his cheek against it, as if the tree were whispering to him, telling him which way to go.