Faeborne
Page 10
For a half hour more, the three of them sat in the warm kitchen, enjoying the good food and hot tea. Seren just listened as Brenn and his nephew went over the list of chores which had to be completed for the day. As they stood to leave, Brenn asked Seren if she needed help cleaning up.
Seren shook her head. “No, you two go ahead and get the outside chores done. I can take care of this.” She indicated the mess on the countertop running alongside the outer wall.
“Thank you, Seren!” Rori piped as he stood up, holding his hands to his stomach. “Uncle Brenn?” he directed toward his uncle, “Can Seren stay with us forever?”
The question caught Seren off guard because it was so unexpected. One of the plates she had been carrying to the sink basin slipped and nearly fell to the floor. Fortunately, she was close enough to the counter that she managed to trap it between her hip and the wooden ledge. There would be a stain on the apron she’d found earlier that morning, but at least the plate had been saved.
“Rori,” Brenn said, a warning in his soft tone.
The kindness in his voice was gone, and Seren knew Rori noticed it too. The boy lost his relaxed posture and became still.
“Seren has a life and family outside Ardun. We cannot keep her prisoner and force her to cook our meals for us.”
Rori’s eyes grew round again. “No! That’s not what I meant!”
Seren drew in a breath, planning to reassure Rori she didn’t think that’s what he meant. But Brenn cut them both off.
“Seren will stay with us until spring, Rori. You’ll just have to take advantage of her kindness until then.”
He whipped out an arm and drew his nephew against his side, smiling down at him. When Brenn lifted his eyes to Seren, she could see that some of that softness had returned, but not as much as she’d noticed earlier. A strange emotion worried at her then. Not quite disappointment, or sadness, but something similar. She knew that whatever warmth Brenn had showed her earlier was only a fraction of what he was capable of. Some ancient instinct deep down wouldn’t let her think otherwise. Why he insisted on keeping up that cold, stony façade was beyond her.
Don’t go thinking that way, an inner voice chided. Do not make this stranger into that kind friend you’ve looked for your entire life. That’s not what he is. He is not truly your friend, at least not yet.
Gritting her teeth, Seren gave a weak smile and nodded her head in Brenn’s direction. “That’s right, Rori. Maybe I can teach you how to cook while I’m here. But you have chores to do first, like me.”
Brenn let a little of the tension in the corner of his eyes melt away. “Very well. If you are feeling up to it, we’ll be down in the barn most of the day, and you are welcome to join us later. If you’d like to see how this farmstead is run.”
Seren gave a small smile. “I just might do that. If the books in the great room don’t distract me.”
“Oh!” Rori piped up, trying to wriggle out of his uncle’s grasp. “I have an idea! I’ll teach you how to read! I know all my letters and most of my words, even if I can’t see them.”
Seren had no idea how he was going to do this without his eyesight, but she wasn’t about to take the wind out from under his sails. Nor could she ignore the thrill of delight that thrummed through her blood at the very thought.
“I would like that, Rori,” she said softly.
Before leaving, the boy crossed the room and gave her a hug.
“We’ll be back before you know it,” he promised.
Seren watched in slight surprise as he released her and headed for the stairwell where his uncle waited. As the two of them disappeared up the stairs, she reconsidered her thoughts from earlier. Perhaps it was dangerous to think of Brennon as a potential friend, but not Rori. She could tell he had already let her into his heart, and she had welcomed him into hers. Seren gave a light laugh as she began cleaning up.
The days to come followed a similar pattern. Seren would rise early from bed, the mornings pitched in the darkness characteristic of winter’s waxing approach. She would then dress in the garments she had altered, the ones that once belonged to Rori’s mother. It unnerved her at first, donning the clothes which belonged to someone who had died. As time stretched on, however, Seren came to realize Brenn had been right. They were doing no one any use locked up in the wardrobe. In fact, as the days wore on, Seren realized it wasn’t just Meara’s old clothes she’d grown comfortable with. The bed and the room, and every other little detail she stumbled upon in this new refuge of hers had become familiar and cherished in some small way. Every nick in the floor and scratch in the window pane. The dark remnants of a stain in the rug and the tall mirror in one corner with its black blotch where someone had held a candle too close. Even the pouches of dried lavender in the wardrobe, their color and scent long since faded, had made an impression. They had all been loved and touched and used. A past life had left its mark on them. Seren vowed that if Brennon’s sister couldn’t enjoy the life that was taken from her, she would do her best to enjoy her time here in her stead.
As part of her resolve to honor the gift that had been given to her, Seren continued to make breakfast for Rori and his uncle. She often took care of the other meals as well, although Brenn and Rori insisted on helping with the dishes at the end of the day. Some mornings, when they dined on leftovers, Seren would join them in the barn, collecting eggs or clearing out the animal stalls, helping mend or make tools. Brenn had a small forge tucked under a long overhang off the side of the barn facing the forest. There he crafted nails, horseshoes and other metal items needed on the farm. At first, Brennon wouldn’t let her near the hot flame and molten metal. When Seren pointed out that she, unlike Rori, had two fully-functioning eyes to help her avoid most dangers, he gave in.
On her first morning as a blacksmith’s assistant, Seren found Brenn already hard at work by the time she finished tidying up in the kitchen. It was hot near the forge, and it took great effort to pound the glowing metal into the right shapes. So, it shouldn’t have been too much of a surprise to Seren when she found Brenn stripped down to his leather pants and boots, his shirt and cloak cast aside. Still, the sight of the half-naked Faelorehn man caught her off guard. She no longer cared about the grey drizzle soaking her cloak or that her boots were slowly sinking into the mud. For a few glorious minutes, she simply watched him. Not for the first time, she was captivated with how very different this man was from the males of her own clan. Taller, wider, stronger, yet he functioned with a grace she had often seen in her own people. How was he able to move so smoothly? Wouldn’t all that muscle get in the way? And now that she was getting a full, unhindered view of his skin, she could see the scars to their full extent. Far more than what the firelight had shown her before. Her magic warmed in her chest and sent tingling tendrils toward her fingertips. No. Those scars are beyond healing now, she told her glamour crossly. Curling her fingers into a fist, she dropped her hand to her side.
A shuffling noise to her right snapped her out of her trance, and Seren secretly cursed herself as heat flooded her face. She was doing it again, letting her guard drop and viewing Brenn as something other than a kind stranger. The noise, it turned out, had been Rori coming out of the chicken coop.
The boy’s not so subtle exit drew his uncle’s attention. He paused in his work and glanced up, spotting Seren for the first time.
“I’ll only allow you to pick up the hot metal with pliers and cool it in the water. You will not be working the bellows or adding fuel to the furnace,” he insisted, leveling his steel-grey eyes on her.
Seren nodded her head vigorously, keeping her eyes lowered.
Despite the crisp autumn weather, the air hanging around the stone forge was stifling. Nevertheless, Seren got to work, determined to do a good job. On two more occasions she helped Brenn with the metalsmithing, making sure to wear trousers and a blouse on those days. Despite the uncomfortable heat, the sharp scent of wood smoke, steam and hot iron dominating the space, Seren enjo
yed herself in this new task.
While the adults worked, Rori often poked around the barn looking for small tasks to keep himself busy. He would fill up gaps in the walls with pitch or turn over barrels searching for mice dens to clean out. When all his work was done, he’d slip outside and join his uncle and their enigmatic houseguest. And since Seren now took up Rori’s job at the forge, the boy would swing from a great rope attached to a tree limb far above the creek only a few paces away.
“In the summer, I hold on to a lower point and let my feet splash through the water,” he told Seren, just before running and leaping into the air, his body curling up so it wouldn’t drag in the water below as he swung to the opposite side of the creek.
She could only laugh, enjoying the sight of Rori having fun.
On most days, the chores outside were finished before noon. It was late autumn, after all, and there wasn’t much left to do except wait out winter until it was time to plant again in the spring. All the crops had been brought in, the vegetables and fruit dried and sealed up in glass jars to feed them through the dark half of the year. Extra oats and grains were stored in the barn for the animals, as well as piles of clean hay to line their stalls and keep them warm.
Because of this extra time during the day, Rori got to work teaching Seren how to read, as he had promised. Between lunch and dinner, the boy would set up camp in one of the stuffed chairs standing before the ceiling to floor bookcases after having carefully chosen a number of books for Seren to look over. The Fahndi woman often watched him do this. The boy would run his fingers along the leather spines, deciphering each ridge or indentation. He knew where his favorites were and he knew the feel of them. When he had the ones he wanted, he’d pile them on the nearby desk and beckon Seren over.
“There is some paper and marking pens in the desk drawers,” he’d told her. “Get a few pieces, and we’ll begin.”
Seren would laugh and do as he asked. “But how are you to teach me, Rori?”
He beamed up at her, his pale eyes aimed toward a spot just beyond her shoulder. “Before you can read, you need to learn how to write,” he said. “And writing is just like drawing. You know how to draw, don’t you?”
Seren nodded, then swallowed and whispered, “Yes.”
All Fahndi learned how to draw the images found on the walls of caves near their great meadow. It was how they kept track of their history.
“Writing is just like that. Only, with writing you have letters, which are symbols that stand for certain sounds. When you put the symbols together, they make the sounds that form a word.”
Rori then fumbled for one of the books. It was small with a dark red leather binding. He opened the cover and on the pages were rows and rows of symbols, repeated over and over again.
“This book will teach you the letters,” he murmured, running his fingers lovingly over the page.
“How will I know which ones are which?” Seren asked, feeling a bit deflated. There were so many of those stark, black marks.
“You will describe them to me, and I will tell you what they are, what sound they make, and in what order they go.”
Squashing down her trepidation, Seren picked up the writing instrument and began her lesson with Rori. He had the patience only small children possess, and despite the obstacles both he and she needed to overcome, she started learning the words of those Faelorehn who lived beyond the Weald.
And so, Seren fell into this new way of life, her fear of Brenn and uncertainty regarding Rori slowly fading away as the days and weeks passed. In the evenings after dinner, the three of them would sit in the great room, the pack of wolfhounds surrounding them in small piles. Nola often sought out Seren’s lap, and she welcomed the cat, no longer fearing the beast. Then, beneath the warm glow of firelight, Brennon would read to them. He had a soothing voice, one which calmed Seren’s nerves and made her want to fall asleep where she sat in her chair with the huge cat purring away. Sometimes, they would play games with cards and dice, or she would draw images on the paper Rori had given her.
Other evenings, they would each retreat to their own corner of the house, seeking the refuge of solitude. Seren didn’t mind those sorts of nights at all because she often liked to be alone. It gave her time to think, and she found herself thinking more and more about how her feelings were changing towards this strange place and the strange man who had brought her here. Rori she had no trouble figuring out. He was a bright shining candle, his emotions living on the surface of his skin. He sought love and gave it without a second thought. It was his uncle Seren had a harder time deciphering. All of his actions proved he was an honorable man. More than honorable. He worked day in and day out, caring for his nephew like a son and treating her with a respect she never received from her own people. But always, something boiled just under the surface of his strong exterior, something dark and terrifying. That same darkness she had felt from time to time since first meeting him.
She wanted so badly to trust him, to call him a friend, but her instincts refused to see past that lurking shadow he couldn’t seem to shake. Danger, her inner voice constantly warned her. With that man lies danger.
“I will keep my distance,” she murmured, to no one in particular one night as she lie awake in bed, staring at the ceiling beams far above. “I will keep my distance until it is time for me to move on. And then, I will be gone.”
Despite her determination to reassure herself, Seren found it harder and harder each night to fall asleep with a peaceful heart.
***
“Samhain is only a day away.”
Seren looked up from the book she was studying, startled a little by Brennon’s terse tone of voice and abrupt entry into the house. He had left early that morning, before she had risen, to scour the woods for game. It appeared he had been successful. Over his shoulders, Brenn carried a brace of rabbits, enough to make dinner for the night and perhaps even smoke some meat for later. Well, dinner for him and Rori, at least.
In the same gruff manner in which he entered the house and made his unprovoked statement, Brenn lifted the carcasses over his head and dropped them unceremoniously onto the floor. It was evident of the hounds’ good training that they stayed put and didn’t leap upon the dead rabbits.
Brenn turned, his cool gaze falling upon Seren. He must not have seen her before because his eyes warmed to a dove-grey color, just as the hard line of his mouth softened.
“Seren,” he murmured. “I did not expect to see you there. I was thinking you were Rori. Have you seen my nephew?”
Seren set the book aside. She was still struggling to grasp the concept of reading, despite her daily lessons, but she had grown more skilled at distinguishing the different letters and strove to practice every day so as not to lose them. Now, with her self-prescribed lesson set aside, Seren regarded the strange master of Roarke Manor. That ever-present shadow had darkened in the past few days, growing more substantial around the edges and giving Brenn a sharp look. She didn’t know what caused it, but it was clearly having an effect on the man. Any softness about him was turning more solid, like sap hardening into amber.
Taking a careful breath, she answered his question about Rori’s whereabouts, “No, I have not seen him.”
Brennon pursed his lips and drew his dark brows low over his eyes. The pale white scar that trailed down his temple like a thin vein of silver stood out more when he adopted that expression. Not for the first time, Seren wondered where that scar, and all the others she’d seen on him, had come from. Knowing what she did about Faelorehn men, she could only assume it was the result of some brawl. The Fahndi knew well the stories about the Faefolk and their violent tendencies. Yet, although she couldn’t say Brennon Roarke was entirely free of violence, she was comfortable in assuming he wasn’t prone to belligerence.
“I need him to help me get ready for tomorrow’s ritual.”
Seren furrowed her brow and stood.
“Perhaps I can help,” she offered timidly.
Brenn gave her a sharp look. “It’s not something you can help with.”
Seren wasn’t cowed. She set her jaw and tried to increase her height, but even standing tall, the top of her head barely reached Brenn’s shoulder. She had grown bold, she noted, in the days since she’d left her forest home behind. Surprisingly, it didn’t shock her. In fact, if anyone were to ask Seren about her change of character, she would tell them she was quite pleased with herself.
“There must be something I can help with. All the festivals have a bonfire, do they not? I could aid in the wood collecting. Surely I’m strong enough to gather branches and kindling.”
Brenn opened his mouth to argue with her, but something in the set of her shoulders or the sharpness in her pale brown eyes changed his mind.
The Faelorehn man nodded. “Very well. I guess you could help with the wood collecting.”
Brenn leaned down and picked up the brace of hares, then made his way to the front door. Pulling it open, he stepped out into the grey day, surveying the landscape with shrewd eyes. The frost had settled in deep the night before, and the dead grass was coated with it. Several dozen yards away, the lazy stream curved around the edge of the forest, its banks rimmed with ice. Even the trees looked black and cold, their bare branches like the outstretched fingers of old women pleading with the grey sky to bring back the sun.
Releasing a great sigh, Brenn stepped out into the cold and turned toward the barn. The animals would still be inside on a day like this, huddled together to keep warm, and most likely that was where he would find Rori. Probably up in the hayloft with his precious rooster.
Samhain was always a hard time of year for the both of them, for it dredged up too many haunted memories and pain, both physical and emotional. The Feast of the Morrigan reminded him of a past he would do anything to forget. How could he be expected to pay homage to a goddess who had destroyed his life and murdered his family?