Brennon cleared his throat. “Very impressive indeed.”
Seren smiled again, then cast over her shoulder as she got back to work with the letters, “Breakfast is waiting in the kitchen. Spiced oatmeal in the cauldron hanging over the hot coals in the fire. Rori and I already ate.”
Knowing a polite dismissal when he heard one, Brenn ducked his head and headed to the semi-underground room. As he ate in the relative silence of the kitchen, Brenn thought about his decision to attend the Solstice ceremony in town.
For the past several days, he had been thinking about the attack on the chicken coop, and all the other incidents of misfortune which had befallen Ardun of late. He knew Baird, Arlana and that twisted Druid Uscias were behind it all, but he couldn’t prove it, and he’d never get the town elders to act on his behalf. Instead, he had two choices: ignore it and simply clean up every time they inflicted damage, or he could take care of it himself. Neither option seemed particularly appealing, so he opted for a compromise instead.
Every year, at the Solstice festival, Uscias was required to bless and harvest the mistletoe growing in the sacred grove just above town. The mistletoe was then passed around to the people to hang in their homes as a ward against evil things and malicious deeds. Brenn was hoping his presence at the harvest would work twice in his favor. First, he would be sending a message to the Corcorain siblings and the Druid that he knew who was behind the attacks on Ardun. Secondly, if he brought home the blessed mistletoe and the vandalism continued, then Uscias’ reputation would be at stake. The vile man would have a hard time convincing the masses of his power if the magic he used on the mistletoe couldn’t even keep a few pranksters at bay.
Pushing away his empty bowl, Brenn leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t the best plan, but it was better than his other options at the moment. And who knew? Perhaps his tormentors would get the hint and leave him alone. Brennon snorted and stood up, carrying his bowl to the sink. That was highly unlikely, but he had to start somewhere since his spoken threats to Baird and Arlana hadn’t helped much.
Brenn returned to the common room to find Seren and Rori where he had left them. Donning his winter cloak, he reached for the door, pausing long enough to announce, “I’m going into town for the Solstice festival. I’ll be back late, so do not wait up.”
Rori perked up at that and drew a breath to say something, but Brenn cut him off. “I’m leaving the dogs behind to keep an eye on things. Stay to the house, but if you must go outside, do not venture beyond the barn.”
Before he could get a reply, Brenn was out the door and crunching through the thin layer of frost and old snow coating the ground. He strode purposefully toward the barn and quickly saddled Dermot. Once on the road, Brenn loosened his grip on the reins and allowed the horse to quicken his pace. As they headed northeast, he considered his enemies once again. Baird was a bully and Arlana a spoiled brat. And their reasons for harassing Brenn were easy enough to figure out. Years of getting whatever they wanted from their doting parents had taught them never to take no for an answer. When both Meara and Brenn shunned their interest those many years ago, the siblings merely kept on pressing, so much so that it drove the Roarke family to tragedy. Seeking the support of Uscias had only made things worse. Even now, with Meara dead and Brenn cursed, the Corcorains refused to forget that initial rejection.
Uscias’ reasons for his continued role in the feud between the Roarkes and Corcorains, however, was a bit more complicated. But then again, Druids always were. They acted as the spiritual entities between the living Faelorehn and the living earth. Like the circles of standing stones meant to enchant and collect the glamour around them, the Druids were living, breathing purveyors of magic, and they understood it more than any living Faelorehn man or woman, save for the legendary Tuatha De Danann. Because of this, the Druids were the only Faelorehn, other than the half-mortal Lorehnin, who aged. The raw power of Eile took their youth, leaving them looking grizzled and grey for eternity once they reached the end of their magical education. And like any beings capable of wielding such power, Druids often came out of their training believing they were superior to all others.
Uscias was no exception to the rule. Ruthless, cunning and devoid of all compassion, he was one of the most corrupt Druids in all of Eile. Wanting to cur favor with the Morrigan, and covetous of the deep magic rooted in the earth surrounding Ardun itself, he had manipulated the Corcorain family’s personal grudge against the Roarkes in order to subdue Brenn and turn him over to the goddess of war. Unfortunately for Uscias, the Morrigan simply took what was offered and gave him nothing in return.
Brennon drew in a deep, frosty breath and cast the thoughts of the brooding, scheming Druid from his mind. Time enough for that later. The road into Dundoire Hollow was deserted, and the world was draped in winter’s pale colors. The thin layer of snow covering the ground glittered like powdered glass, and both Brenn’s and Dermot’s breaths misted the air as they kept a steady pace. The dreary weather didn’t seem to bother the great bay horse, but Brenn was already beginning to feel the cold in his fingers and toes.
When Brenn rounded a turn in the road and Dundoire Hollow drifted into view, he led Dermot to the left. They took a narrower trail veering from the main road and followed the outer stone wall of the settlement. The oak grove where the mistletoe was tended and trimmed every year occupied a low hilltop overlooking the small city. The ground was littered with large stones and the path lined with holly bushes, their bright red berries standing out like blots of blood against the dark green foliage. Despite the weather, only a few chimneys exhaled smoke. Most people, Brenn guessed, were braving the cold in order to take part in the final blessing and harvest of the mistletoe.
He was proven right five minutes later when Dermot reached the top of the hill. Before them, the path widened out into an open meadow with a small grove of tall oak trees at the other end. Beyond the grove, a wide valley stretched for miles until it reached the base of the northern mountains beyond. Like the landscape he’d passed through on the way into town, the earth was dusted with white, the river originating in those icy peaks now a sluggish, dark ribbon winding its way through the center of the valley. Brenn could have spent ages simply admiring the stark beauty of his surroundings, but he didn’t have that luxury at the moment. An unexpected pang twinged in his heart, and he tried to shove it away. He loved these northern reaches of Eile; loved them like the very blood in his veins. Unfortunately, such adoration came with the bitter aftertaste of sad memories.
“Brennon!”
The deep, familiar voice snapped Brenn out of his reverie. He blinked and glanced down to find Artur shoving his way through the crowd. A few people turned to look, their eyes widening in surprise at seeing him. Brenn sat up straighter in the saddle and hardened his expression. He would not be cowed by their interest. No matter what they thought of him or his behavior on the day he reprimanded Baird, and then the more recent encounter with Arlana, he had not acted out of line. He had merely been defending his honor and privacy, and if they thought worse of him for it, then they could go rot in Donn’s underworld for all he cared.
“Brenn, my boy! What on Eile are you doing here?”
Brenn smiled at the large Faelorehn man, glad to find one friendly face in the crowd. He slid from Dermot’s back and clasped hands with his old friend before leading the horse to an oak limb where several other horses had been tied.
“You never come to any of the festivals in town!” Artur exclaimed.
Brenn darted his eyes over the people standing closest to them. Most of them had abandoned their curiosity and turned back to their companions, but not everyone.
“I’ve been experiencing a rash of vandalism around Ardun lately and thought some Solstice mistletoe might help.”
He was careful to keep his voice low.
Artur blinked at him, as if Brenn just transformed into a faelah before his very eyes.
“And you t
hink that will keep the culprits away?”
Artur’s voice came out a little harder than usual, as if he found Brenn’s reasoning foolish.
Brennon took Artur’s elbow and drew him away from the crowd. His cloak brushed against a few bystanders as he pressed through them and those nearby balked.
“Careful, Keeley! That Roarke outcast can control minds with his glamour. Do not get too close, and do not give him reason to dislike you!” a Faelorehn woman hissed at what Brenn assumed was her young daughter.
A few people standing around her turned slightly white and backed away as subtly as possible. Brenn wanted to grit his teeth. It was as if they had forgotten his family had been well known and liked in this part of Eile. It had been the talk of Dundoire Hollow, Artur and Creidne had told him a few years ago, when the handsome young son of Deaglan and Coira Roarke was carted off by the Morrigan’s soldiers, and even more so, after he returned seven years later to find his entire family murdered. Only the death of Fraser Corcorain, Baird’s and Alana’s father, three years after Brennon’s abduction, had caused more of a stir. A Fomorian raid had brought about Fraser’s demise, not too uncommon this far north and this close to the boundary between Eile and Fomor, but tragic, nonetheless. That was when Baird took over as head of his family’s household, and when Corcorain Manor began to whither and fade. It was all in the past now, but Dundoire Hollow was a small town. Its bored citizens latched onto any morsel of gossip they could find and fed off it for as long as they could.
Gradually, the crowd lost interest and moved away from Brenn and Artur. Many of the people present were farmers or shepherds living on the outskirts of Dundoire Hollow. A few had even traveled in from the northern reaches in order to be present for the festival. Some of them had brought small wagons or wheelbarrows, while others carried large sacks on their backs. All to be filled to the brim with as much mistletoe as their Druid would allow them to take.
As if the very thought of Uscias was enough to conjure him up, a commotion far ahead of them announced the Druid’s arrival.
“If it isn’t the faelah-hearted man himself,” Artur grumbled under his breath, crossing his arms over his massive chest.
Brennon couldn’t agree more. Tall and thin with sharp-boned features hidden under a faintly lined face, Uscias resembled a half-starved, grey raven perched upon a fencepost, grumbling his discontent. His silvery hair and beard fell in neatly-plated mats down his chest and back, and the dove-grey robes he wore were so pale, they nearly blended in with the snow and bare branches of the oak trees surrounding him. On first glance, one would draw the conclusion Uscias was a frail old Lorehnin man past his prime, but all one had to do was look into his eyes and that assumption vaporized like a drop of water hitting a hot coal. Pale blue and fierce as the raging winter wind that sometimes howled down the valley, Uscias’ eyes always gave away his intent. Ruthless, cold, calculating and intelligent. Only a fool would meet the Druid’s gaze and think they stood a chance against him if they wished to issue a challenge. Brenn had learned that the hard way.
Since Brennon was still a ways back, partially hidden by the trees and evergreen shrubs growing on the edge of the wide, flat hilltop and partly blocked by Artur’s massive size, Uscias didn’t see him right away. This gave Brenn time to adjust to being so close to his enemy once more. Spotting him lurking among the shadows the few times Brenn went into town didn’t count.
A snort of derision almost broke free of Brenn’s control as he continued to study the older man through narrowed eyes; the man who had been the cause of most of the grief in his life. Brennon thought about the invisible boundary surrounding and protecting his home. He and Rori could feel the magic given off by the geis. Their blood was tied to it. Every time he passed through the stones to the world on the other side, a strange sensation washed over him, quick and unsettling, before he felt like himself again. Brenn wondered if the Druid felt the same way when he approached the boundary of Ardun property. If he did, Brenn would bet his glamour Uscias didn’t know why such a powerful spell surrounded the farm. And Brenn wanted to keep it that way.
“I can get the mistletoe for you, if you want,” Artur growled under his breath as the crowd spread away from the center of the grove like fish avoiding a larger predator.
Uscias, graceful as a swan, stepped into the center of the throng and lifted his arms, asking for silence. His request was immediately granted. In his deep, commanding voice, the Druid began to speak, explaining to those present what the harvesting ceremony would entail. Brenn leaned back against the curved limb of the bent oak tree and crossed his arms over his chest to match Artur’s pose.
“No,” Brenn said quietly, finally responding to his friend’s comment. “I’ll stay for the entire ceremony. It has been too long since I’ve attended, and I’ve spent too much time holed up at Ardun. It will do me, and the residents of Dundoire Hollow, some good.”
He lifted a hand and placed it on the big man’s shoulder. Brenn could barely see Artur’s eyes beneath his shaggy beard and hair, but he could tell by the tightness of his face he had flattened his mouth in slight disagreement.
“Trust me,” Brenn added. “I know what I’m doing.”
At least, he hoped he did.
Uscias was still droning on about the proper fires in need of lighting and the scaffolding to be raised in order to reach the mistletoe high up in the trees, so Brenn turned back to Artur.
“Where is Creidne?”
Artur shrugged his bear-like shoulders and huffed in slight indignation. “She’s down the hill a little farther with the other merchants and vendors. As soon as I got the tent and table set up, and a cauldron boiling over a cook fire, she shooed me away and told me not to come back until I had wrestled up some customers.”
Brenn smiled as he continued to watch the Druid speak to the townspeople. He could easily picture the red-haired Faelorehn woman snapping her dish towel at Artur as the man scuttled away to avoid injury.
“I hope she saves me some stew and a tankard of ale,” he commented.
Artur nodded sagely. “She’ll be sure to set some aside when I tell her you are here, though I’ll doubt she’ll believe me.”
The big man grew stiff then, drawing in a small breath as if he suddenly remembered something. He flashed his dark eyes toward Brenn, their color lightening just a fraction, then quickly shot them back toward the spectacle taking place in the center of the grove.
“What is it?” Brenn asked, shifting his weight against the tree.
Artur let out a long sigh, placing his hands casually on his hips. He glanced down at his boots, the scuffed leather damp from the dusting of snow covering the hilltop in uneven patches.
“Oh, just something I heard the other day in the tavern. Gossip, really. I had forgotten all about it until you enquired after Creidne.”
Unease unfurled in the pit of Brenn’s stomach.
“What gossip?” he asked, his voice losing all its humor.
“Rumor has it,” Artur said carefully, “you’ve got a young lady staying with you.”
Immediately, Brenn’s blood cooled in his veins, and he grew as still as the tree beside him. He felt his expression go blank and his eyes change to a darker shade of grey.
“Where did you hear that?” he asked, his voice low and tight.
Artur shrugged again. “Some people were speaking of it in the tavern a week or so ago. They were asking each other if they’d seen the dark lass up at Ardun. One of them clucked his tongue and grumbled any girl unfortunate enough to wander onto that farmstead was likely to turn Faeduihn for being under your power.”
Brenn’s face drained of color as old memories came flooding back into his mind, the same memories that spurred on the nightmares Seren had somehow banished only a few weeks ago. With each passing day, he feared his soul would give up its struggle and he’d be lost to the faeduhn magic infecting him. Every time he let anger or violence get the better of him, he risked giving up the last bit of goodne
ss he possessed. He would lose all honor and become a creature of evil and darkness, his free will stripped away and replaced with an uncontrollable desire to cause harm to all around him. One, two, three more acts of aggression or corruption, and he might fall into the vat of darkness he so feared. He didn’t know what it would take, and he wasn’t willing to risk finding out.
“I told them to leave my establishment and never return,” Artur growled with some menace, bringing Brenn back to the current topic of conversation. “I will not suffer the presence of fools who speak of what they do not know.”
Brenn clenched his teeth against a wince. Oh, Artur, my old friend, they are more right than you know …
“But they weren’t the only ones to speak of this strange woman. There were others.”
Artur let his words hang in the cold air. Several yards in front of them, Uscias finished his lecture, his assistants now stepping in to help him construct a central fire and light the incense as his apprentice unfolded a large white bundle of cloth atop a table someone had set up. Brenn narrowed his eyes at the newly arrived, cloaked figure. The cowl of the pale, grey-white garment was thrown over his head, so Brenn couldn’t see his face. So, the stodgy, power-hungry Druid had finally found someone to teach his precious secrets to. Brenn wondered if the man was stupid or simply didn’t mind being a groveling servant.
Artur cleared his throat, and Brenn turned to find his friend gazing at him with curious eyes. Ah, yes, the rumors about a young woman …
Brenn sighed and lifted a hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose while squeezing his eyes shut. He’d had absolutely no intention of telling anyone about Seren, but perhaps it was too late for that. Who had seen her to start the rumors to begin with? She hardly ever left the house and never wandered past the barn when she did.
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