Faeborne

by Jenna Elizabeth Johnson

  Once the big horse was saddled and ready to go, Brenn swung himself onto his back and let him out into the yard, turning him south down the path leading to the larger road running east and west past Ardun.

  The main road into Dundoire Hollow was damp and riddled with puddles, a common sight at the start of the dark half of the year. Brenn drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he surveyed the land around him. His family home, an old stone and wood roof manor house, sat atop a small hill situated between the great northeastern mountains and hills that stretched many leagues north of Erintara, Eile’s capitol city. Although Eile was broken into several realms, each governed in some capacity by one of the Tuatha De Danann, there were also several lost corners of the world unattached to these designated realms. Ardun and Dundoire Hollow occupied one of those areas.

  The people of the north tended to take matters into their own hands when it came to governance, and it could be a hostile place to live, if one wasn’t familiar with the politics and dangers of the area. Fortunately, Brenn had been more than educated on that ground and knew he and Rori would be safe so long as they stuck to Roarke Manor and Ardun land. This had been another reason he had so readily offered refuge to Seren. A young woman like her, clearly far from home and injured, wouldn’t last long on her own in the northern reaches. He would not let the cruelty that had ensnared him entangle her as well.

  Brenn stared out at the road stretching ahead of him. An icy drop of precipitation fell from the sky and slipped beneath his collar, making him shiver ever so slightly. He tilted his head, scowling at the iron grey clouds above. No doubt it would rain again. He only hoped to be finished with his business in town before the storm broke.

  A half hour after setting off from the farm, Brennon came around a bend in the road, and the huddled buildings of Dundoire Hollow drifted into view. Comprised mainly of stone walls and thatched roofs, the houses and businesses of the northeastern most settlement in this part of Eile blended well with their bleak surroundings. The great river flowing from the mountains standing guard over the moors and valleys of the north seemed to twine its way around the far side of town, when the truth of the matter was the town had sprouted up around the river. But, Brenn noted with a wry quirk of his lips, the village was so old and so much a part of the landscape that it seemed the former was more accurate.

  He led Dermot away from the main road and through a stone arch that stood guard at the entrance to the village. To his relief, the main thoroughfare was practically deserted, and the few souls who lingered about happened to be those who took a neutral side with regards to his decades-old feud with the Corcorain family. Good. Perhaps Brenn could go about his business and be on his way without causing a scene.

  He nudged his great stallion over the wide bridge spanning a smaller tributary of the river and pointed him in the direction of the butcher’s shop. The street was bogged down with mud from the recent rainy weather, but the horse hardly seemed to notice. Despite the early hour, the butcher was up and open for business. Brenn ordered what he thought would hold him and Rori, and now Seren, over until he got a chance to hunt again, then went to fetch Dermot for the return journey to Ardun.

  Some of the residents of Dundoire Hollow had emerged from the warmth of their houses by then, turning their coats and shawls against the damp weather as they made their way to the various shops to begin their work day or to purchase items needed back home. A few tipped their hats to acknowledge him, but most ignored his presence. He wasn’t the only one making his way down the main thoroughfare, after all, and the larger carts demanded more attention than a single horse and its rider. Brenn was almost to the main gate when a familiar voice cut through the relative quiet of the morning.

  “Visiting the butcher’s shop, were you, Roarke?”

  Brennon’s hands tightened on the reins of his horse as he turned his attention toward the man who had addressed him. Baird Corcorain had been nothing more than a childhood bully a decade ago. A young man who was used to getting everything his heart desired, Baird had freely given in to that rotten darkness that sometimes overtook the Faelorehn when he had taken his hatred for Brenn too far. Now the stink of faeduhn glamour, the black, oily magic born from pure evil, clung to him like swamp muck. Brennon knew that darkness all too well, for he had been battling it from the moment the Morrigan’s soldiers dragged him away from his family those many years ago. But unlike Baird, he had more reason than any to turn bitter, and unlike his nemesis, he had not succumbed. He still fought against the faeduhn’s vicious attempt to take root in his soul every day, and he didn’t plan on giving up the fight anytime soon. Schooling his features into bland indifference, Brenn turned a cool eye to his enemy.

  Baird was an inch taller than Brenn, but years of wallowing in his own self-loathing, and the hatred he held for anyone who opposed him had taken the edge off his fierceness. The considerable bulk and muscle mass that had once rivaled Brenn’s own had also wasted away. It was possible that part of the reason for that was Baird’s habit of visiting the local tavern on an almost daily basis. Brennon never ventured into town often enough to witness that possibility with his own eyes, but he had heard rumors from some of the locals. Considering what he was seeing at this very minute, he doubted the rumors were false.

  Baird’s blond hair was unkempt and matted in some places, and his green eyes were as dull as unpolished jade. He staggered as he left the doorway of the Black Boar Inn, and the lopsided smile plastered on his face only provided more evidence of his inebriated state. Had Baird been some other resident of Dundoire Hollow, Brennon would have felt some pity for him. Instead, he almost sneered at the other man. This was his penance for what he’d done to his sister and parents. And, to Brennon himself. Brenn had lived under the Morrigan’s tyranny long enough to know that anyone who turned another Faelorehn man, woman or child over to the goddess deserved whatever ill luck came their way.

  Despite Baird’s state of intoxication and Brenn’s great effort to ignore him, the eldest Corcorain sibling insisted on making note of his sudden appearance in town.

  “What’s the matter?” Baird slurred with great vitriol, turning in an unbalanced circle to address his question to the small crowd that had gathered. “Has the Morrigan’s greatest tool lost its use? Can’t even track down and fell a deer to feed himself and that little bastard he keeps?”

  Brenn’s jaw tightened, and red fury flooded his vision. The Morrigan’s men used to speak to him in this way. When he was younger, when he had first been taken, he had bravely remained silent while taking their teasing and torture. Only long after dark, when the camp was asleep and the low burning fire and miserable cold were the only things to keep him company, did he give in to his tears. Each morning, he felt shamed by it. He was a Faelorehn man of the house of Roarke. He wasn’t a boy anymore. A boy would break and fall beneath the harsh cruelty of the goddess of war. He could not break. If he did, his family might suffer for it. Over time, he had learned to harden himself against the taunts of the other soldiers and even the pain of the lash.

  He would not break now, not when Rori depended on him, and he was finally free, to some extent, from the Morrigan’s wrath. He would not let that pathetic, worthless, inebriate Baird Corcorain make him feel that terror or shame again. And he would not let the man drive him to use the cursed gift which had made him such a valuable asset to the goddess of war to begin with. No. He had to remain calm. He couldn’t rise to Baird’s bait. He would never use that aspect of his glamour again. It was a promise he’d made to himself after returning home to bury the remains of his parents and sister and brother-in-law.

  Baird stumbled from the cobblestone walking path and stepped out into the road, his already unsteady feet having a difficult time finding purchase in the muddy street.

  Brenn had been so lost in his memories he’d almost forgotten where he was. Blinking away the remnants of his unpleasant past, he lifted a brow, his anger cooling as he got a closer look at Baird’s unfor
tunate state.

  “Am I to take offense from someone who drinks himself stupid before the sun even rises? Go home to your sister, Baird, and mind your own business.”

  Brennon straightened in the saddle, pulling on the reins to turn Dermot back toward the main road. A guttural snarl, a collective gasp from those who had come out to witness the confrontation, and the light rasp of steel against leather were the only indications that Baird had drawn a blade. Quicker than thought, Brenn pulled his own weapon, a dagger the length of his forearm, and turned just in time to deflect the knife flying toward his back. The blade of Brenn’s dagger connected with the cross guard of Baird’s, and the other man’s weapon fell harmlessly to the ground, all but the hilt sinking beneath the muck.

  Everything went still and silent on the street as the dozen or so townsfolk gaped, their eyes wide, at Brennon. The anger from earlier boiled up once more, and he quickly dismounted his horse, moving through the ankle-deep mud as if he were passing easily through the barley fields surrounding Ardun. Baird was staring blankly at Brenn, his mouth slightly slack from shock. Whether he was struck dumb at his own attempt at murder in front of all these witnesses, or just surprised his target had reacted so quickly, Brenn couldn’t say. He was far too irate and far too preoccupied with controlling his own glamour to care.

  Visions of Baird snapping to attention, then moving forward to retrieve his dagger from the mud, only to turn the point toward his own heart before plunging it deep into his chest flashed like lightning through Brenn’s mind. Pressing his molars together, his nostrils flaring, he willed the images to disappear. He would not give in. As tempting as it was, he would not use his glamour to seek revenge on this worthless excuse for a Faelorehn man. Baird had been responsible, in his own way, for the massacre of Brenn’s family, but it was done, and he was now paying the price for his malice. To demand revenge now, after all this time, would prove nothing and accomplish little.

  Despite all that, Brennon was determined to show Baird he wasn’t the young boy he’d been those many years ago. He reached down and plucked Baird’s dagger from the street, sweeping it up in his left hand while he held his own long knife ready in his right. Baird blinked a few times as Brenn charged forward with a strong, steady pace, his gaze never leaving the other man’s face. The crowd tensed as Brenn bore down on Baird, kicking one leg out from beneath him so that he fell to one knee, as if bowing before a king. Baird grunted in surprise, but said nothing, even as some of the townsfolk pushed forward. The bright blade pressed to Baird’s throat convinced the more determined of the lot to stop where they were.

  Ignoring the grumbled complaints of those clearly in Baird’s corner, Brenn hissed between clenched teeth, “I have forgotten nothing I learned while a slave among the Morrigan’s soldiers.” His voice was just loud enough for Baird, and maybe one or two of the people standing closest to them, to hear.

  His eyes flashed silver as he continued. “And you will do well to remember it. I have also not forgotten what your greed did to my family, Baird Corcorain, nor will I forgive it. As tempting as it may be to use my cursed glamour on you,” he added, pressing the sharp tip of Baird’s own knife into the flesh over his collar bone, “I have vowed never to use it again. I experienced firsthand what it is to completely control the will of another, to force them to do whatever you wish them to do. Strip in front of an army and dance naked, pluck out their own eyes, skin their loved ones alive.”

  Brenn nearly choked as he recalled the memories, and a tremor of horror coursed through him, making his precarious hold on the knife below Baird’s throat grow even more dangerous.

  Baird paled and swallowed a lump in his throat.

  “If you think you can break me, or intimidate me, after all I have been through, then you are terribly mistaken. I may not use my power against you, but don’t think for one second I won’t employ what other skills I have learned under the Morrigan’s tutelage to forever keep you from threatening me or my nephew again. Do you understand?”

  Baird said nothing, and Brennon didn’t expect him to come up with a reply. Instead, he waited for some sign that his enemy had understood him. When Baird gave a wobbly nod, Brenn removed the knife from the other man’s throat and tossed it several feet away. He returned his own dagger to the sheath strapped against his side and stepped away from Baird. He wasn’t worried about the other man retaliating. He had thrown the knife out of reach, and even if he’d had a backup weapon, Brenn was certain his threat had made enough of an impression to keep Baird at bay. At least for the time being.

  Dermot was waiting patiently where he’d left him in the middle of the road. Brenn reached out and ran a hand up the stallion’s nose, and the horse returned the gesture with a careful nudge. Brenn gave a rueful smile as he once again mounted the horse. No wonder the people in town avoided him. Not only was it common knowledge the Morrigan had used him to spread her evil across the eastern portion of Eile, but he also preferred the quiet company of Rori and the farm animals to those in town. He was used to being alone and had no desire to change his solitary ways. The few friends he did have in Dundoire Hollow were plenty enough for him.

  For some reason, reminiscing about his friends, or lack thereof, drew an image of Seren’s serene face from his most recent memories. Brenn tried to squash it down, but it was too late. Did he consider her a friend? No, how could he? He didn’t even know the girl. She was a stranger only, someone in need of help. And once she was healed of her injuries, and the weather proved better, she would be on her way.

  Done with his business in town, Brenn had no desire to linger. As soon as he was settled in the saddle, he pointed Dermot in the direction of home and led the large horse to the main road. On his way out, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a young woman running to Baird’s side, taking him by the elbow and helping him up from the mud. A flash of golden hair tainted with strands of red told him who it was. Arlana, Baird’s shrew of a sister. The crowd had moved in closer, some of them sneering in Brenn’s direction. One figure in particular, a tall, slender man dressed in pale robes, glared at him from under a large, loose hood. His eyes were barely visible beneath the shadows, but his height and the cascade of white, braided beard falling down his chest like frothy snow was instantly familiar. Uscias. The Druid who oversaw the spiritual aspects of Dundoire Hollow and the other small, nearby settlements. A rush of ice spread through Brennon’s blood. Baird, Arlana and Uscias. The three people responsible for his fate a decade ago. More than ever, he longed to return to the safety of Ardun’s borders.

  “Come on, Dermot,” he grumbled down to the horse, giving him a nudge in the ribs as they crossed onto the bridge leading out to the main road. “Let’s leave this hostile place behind.”

  Dermot, it seemed, was just as eager to return home as Brennon. The horse galloped west down the wide road, his heavy hooves kicking up sheets of muddy water as the leaden clouds above wept their contents upon the fallow land. Brenn pulled up the hood of his cloak to cover his head, but it was a futile effort. He was already soaked through.

  As horse and rider widened the distance between themselves and the unpleasant people in Dundoire Hollow, Brenn’s thoughts once again turned to the strange young woman asleep on the cot in the great room of his home. Instinct told him she would bring nothing but trouble upon his and his nephew’s heads. Surely someone with glamour powerful enough for shape shifting was also a danger to those around her. That intense burst of magic the moment he’d removed the arrow was also evidence of her volatility. His heart, however, was telling him something else.

  You injured her, his conscience reminded. It is your duty to see her well again. You owe her at least that much. Let her wound heal, and then, send her on her way. What could a few weeks or even a few months matter?

  Somehow, Brenn suspected he might live to regret his decision, as honorable as it may seem.

  Chapter Five

  Changeling

  Seren was asleep on her cot, beside the fire, w
hen the Faelorehn hunter returned. At least she was pretending to be asleep. The young boy, Rori, she thought the man had called him, hadn’t left her side. Not once. She had listened to their conversation several hours earlier. It was very hazy, but she had heard the hunter tell the boy to watch her. And he had done so. She had hoped, like most young children, he would get bored and wander away. But he’d never even left to pilfer something from the pantry. She’d lain there for almost an hour, patiently hoping he’d disappear. Eventually, she gave up on that hope and drifted off to sleep before the sound of the door opening and closing jolted her awake once more.

  “She still sleeps?” the man, Brennon she remembered, asked in a quiet voice.

  His boots fell softly upon the floor as he stepped closer. Seren’s head was tilted to the side, so she very carefully cracked open one eye, just enough to see by. The boy was out of her vision, but not his caregiver. The man was shedding his cloak, his dark hair wet and plastered to his head. After the garment was flung over a chair beside the fire, he reached for the hem of his shirt, his pale fingers tugging at the now semi-translucent fabric. He was soaked through. Not surprising if he’d been outside. Rain drummed incessantly upon the roof far above. It was loud enough to mask the crackle of the fire and the soft snores of the dogs sleeping beside it.

  With a swift, fluid motion, Brennon peeled off his shirt and hung it on another chair beside the first one. Seren caught her breath, working very hard not to gasp and give herself away. Toned muscle ran the length of his torso, disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants. Although several shades lighter than her own, there was a delicate beauty to the color of his skin. It reminded her of the pale golden cream of parchment paper the travelers through the Weald sometimes traded with the Fahndi. Dark marks covered parts of his skin, like the patterns and designs her people painted on the inside walls of their homes. One pattern stood out the most to her. Located on the left side of his chest and below the collar bone, it was a crude illustration of what looked like the sun. The mark may have been composed of several lines radiating out from its center, but since her eyes were narrowed, she couldn’t say for certain.