“Hush now, fawnlet, hush now,” Daniela had crooned to her distraught daughter. “Nothing they said to you today was true. Many of the Fahndi take their time to come into their changeling glamour. You are but seventeen, still quite young.”
“But, but Elatha and Avenie are both fifteen, and they have Changed!”
The scene faded out of view like fine dust scattering with the wind, and another, older one replaced it in the same manner.
“Let’s see if we can get her to Change!” Rozenn shouted. “Let’s chase her and see if the frightened doe comes out!”
All at once, her peers descended upon her, kicking her and calling her all sorts of terrible names. Seren curled up upon herself, screaming at them to stop and crying her mother’s name. Pain bloomed on her arms and legs and down her spine as their blows fell. But it was the terrible, all-too-real ache in her shoulder that was the worst of it.
The memory twisted and warped, and Seren looked down upon herself, still curled up into a ball as her enemies took their anger out on her. Only, she was no longer a girl of thirteen or fourteen. She was fully grown and this recollection felt so much fresher ...
Rozenn stood outside the circle of her friends, her face pinched with fear and rage. And something else: Disbelief.
“Don’t let her get away! We need her to Change, so they’ll believe it was an accident!”
Seren cried out as she was torn from her nightmarish memories for a second time. The pain in her shoulder made her catch her breath, and a heavy weight gently pushed her down.
“Steady now,” a soft voice murmured. “Steady. You’ve been through a trauma, and it’s best if you lie still.”
Seren blinked away tears of discomfort and gritted her teeth. She was once again in that unfamiliar place, sensing only a wide open space and a blazing fire somewhere at the edge of her vision. Why was she hurting so much? What had happened? Her shoulder throbbed and burned with heat. She turned her head and caught her breath. Now that she was fully conscious and not reliving the worst moments of her life, her very last memory hit her with full force. She had run away from home, and she had been shot with an arrow.
The young man who had spoken regarded her with a look of cautious concern, and with what Seren thought was a fair dose of fear. She turned her head back toward the strange roof far above and squeezed her eyes shut. There was too much to remember, and her brain felt like it had been scrambled. Taking in long, deep breaths through her nose, she tackled one obstacle at a time. This man had shot her, that much she could tell. His eyes and voice were familiar. But as soon as the arrow had struck, she’d fled. He must have followed her to finish the job, but found her in her Fahndi form instead. She couldn’t blame his mystified look, then. Only a handful of the Faelorehn had ever seen the Fahndi, and even fewer had ever seen them Change.
For a few moments, Seren simply studied the young man leaning over her. Handsome, in a reserved sort of way, with dark brown hair and pale skin, so different from her own. He was also tall. She could tell from the way he sat in the chair and from what she could remember of their forest encounter. There was something about his eyes, however, which piqued her interest. Even now, the pale grey was giving way to a golden hazel color. Changeable, like hers and her people’s. But beneath that pale color was a lurking darkness and depth she imagined held just as many secrets as she did. Only, something told her his secrets were far more terrifying than her own. This man was damaged somehow, her healing glamour told her as much. The realization unnerved her, even more so than the knowledge he’d been the one to shoot her and run her to ground.
Despite these facts, she felt strangely drawn to him, the way young plants are drawn to sunlight. She was a natural healer after all, and all wounds, visible and invisible alike, called upon her glamour to heal them. It had been an instinct she’d fought since discovering that aspect of her power, and she fought it even now, so far away from the ones who would use it against her. But could this Faelorehn man be any different? He may have brought her to safety after injuring her, but she did not know him, and she did not know his motives.
Taking a small breath, Seren pulled her eyes away from his face and looked around, intent on familiarizing herself with her surroundings. If she needed to flee, it would behoove her to find a way out. It didn’t take her long to realize she was in a spacious stone building of sorts. Large, rough-hewn logs lent support to the walls and held up a wooden slat roof. Dark rectangles along the walls suggested windows. Glass was said to be expensive and rare. Seren had only heard about these things from the elders in her tribe, those who had been brave enough to wander beyond their secluded corner of the Weald to gather and bring back stories from the great world outside their territory. That was also how she knew this particular building was something akin to a cabin.
A hearth with a crackling fire occupied the center of one wall and at least five wolfhounds lay piled on top of each other in one corner, snoozing and twitching in restless sleep. Finally, Seren’s eyes fell upon a huge, stuffed leather chair. An old faded quilt was bundled up in the center of it, but beneath the blanket she sensed a bright life form. It, too, exuded an aura of buried pain.
As she watched, the small bundle moved, and a scruffy head of tangled sandy hair emerged. A Faelorehn boy, shifting in his sleep. The hunter’s son? He must be. Where was the mother, then?
“How are you feeling?” that soft, gruff voice queried.
Seren turned her eyes back onto the hunter. That haunted look was still there, but this time it was a bit more guarded, sheathed in a deeper shade of grey.
Deciding it was rude to continue staring without speaking, Seren wet her lips and rasped, “My shoulder. Hurts.”
The man nodded. “I’m sorry about that. I went hunting last night and thought I shot a deer, but …”
He trailed off. Seren bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. Clearly, neither of them wanted to broach the subject of what had really happened. The stranger didn’t want to admit he’d shot a changeling, and she didn’t want to admit what she was. Since they both seemed to silently agree upon that fact, Seren continued on as if they’d already discussed and come to terms with it.
“Thank you. For bringing me back here and helping me.”
“But,” the man began.
Seren shook her head, ignoring the twinge in her shoulder and the sick, nauseous feeling that action stirred up.
“It’s okay. I don’t blame you for the accident. I’m just glad you didn’t leave me out there to die.”
In fact, Seren wasn’t all that glad. She had been trying to find a safe haven, and yes, the man’s bad shot had been a painful inconvenience, but had he left her alone she would have healed on her own. Even now, as they spoke, her shoulder began to itch and tingle, a sign that her advanced healing powers were getting to work. Without even directing her glamour to fix the injury, the wound would be fully healed by tomorrow or the next day. But she couldn’t tell him that. She couldn’t let anyone know what she was. She now understood her mother had been right. Keeping her healing glamour a secret was so very important.
“I’ll be better soon,” she said instead. “Then, I shall leave you in peace.”
The young man leaned forward in his chair, lacing his fingers together and resting his elbows on his thighs.
“Do you live around here? I’ve never seen you before.”
The man’s eyes gave her a quick perusal, settling back on her face when he was through. She imagined he found her strange, just as she found his appearance odd as well. He kept his dark hair shorter than the Fahndi men she knew, and his pale eyes were also different. But it was his skin tone, touched with bronze, but so much lighter than her own, that intrigued her the most. Realizing she was staring, she cleared her throat awkwardly before responding to him.
“No,” she said, casting her gaze toward the fire once again. “I’m far from home, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine on my own.”
The hunter furrowed his br
ow and said, “I can’t let you go out on your own, not this close to winter. We have room in this house. If you are willing to help out with some of the chores, you are welcome to stay. There are plenty of stores for the winter, as well as some more root vegetables we’ll be harvesting in the next few weeks. It is the least I can do for nearly killing you.”
Seren held her breath and splayed her fingers over the warm wool blanket that was hiding her nudity. Being what she was, she was by no means modest, but she still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of traipsing around this man’s house naked, especially with a little boy underfoot. And the last thing she wanted to do was Change back into her deer form for the entire winter. No. She would have to leave. She was a stranger to this man, a stranger to this part of Eile.
“I, uh, have some spare clothing that should fit you,” the man said awkwardly, after watching the path of her eyes and coming up with his own conclusions. “My sister’s old dresses, shirts and trousers. You are a bit slimmer than she was, and not as tall, but you are welcome to alter anything that doesn’t fit.”
Seren blinked up at him. She could tell her eyes were fading from brown, to gold and maybe even to violet. They often turned violet when she detected emotional pain. At least her mother had once told her so. And she felt something tragic had happened to this man’s sister.
Despite her suspicions, she cleared her throat and asked, “Won’t she need them?”
The pain momentarily spiked, and Seren didn’t need to hear his words to know his answer.
“No,” he replied shortly. “She’s dead.”
Seren turned her head, so her eyes fixed on the far wall. “I am sorry.”
Those native to Eile, Faelorehn men, women and children, didn’t die of old age, unless they had some mortal blood in their veins. But something told Seren that this man’s sister did not die of natural causes. A disease or some other grave injury, perhaps?
“That is why I have come to live in this house and play foster father to Rori.”
He indicated the sleeping child under the faded quilt. Seren blinked over toward the boy. So, not his son then.
“He is my sister’s son. My nephew. The accident that took the lives of my parents also took the lives of his mother and father.”
A twinge of anguish pulled at Seren’s heart. Poor soul. To lose your grandparents and parents as well? And at such a young age. She had never known her father, so she had no idea what that sort of loss felt like, but she could imagine what sort of agony losing a mother might feel like. She was feeling a little of that now. Was her mother safe back at home in the Weald? Had she condemned her by fleeing like a coward? Seren gritted her teeth and tried not to think about it.
Instead, she turned her eyes onto the dark-haired man one more time. His eyes flashed suddenly, their color shifting more toward blue. For that split second before they changed, Seren caught the edge of that darkness she’d sensed in him earlier.
And what caused his deep pain? Was it the death of his sister? The death of his parents? Seren studied him freely now, for his eyes had turned away from her and grown distant, their focus somewhere else entirely. She let her gaze trail down his face, taking in the day’s worth of beard growth and his slightly unkempt hair. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and in the dim glow of the firelight, she noticed several thin scars, crisscrossing up both forearms. What sort of life had he led to acquire such marks? And then, she suddenly realized one more thing.
“What is your name?” she blurted, drawing his attention back to her presence.
“Brennon,” he answered, “Brennon Roarke.”
“I am Seren,” she responded, feeling the least she could do was give him that.
Brennon lifted a brow in question.
“Just Seren,” she clarified.
He nodded. “You are welcome to stay with us as long as you need, Seren.”
She wrinkled her nose and took a breath, ready to insist she would be leaving as soon as she was able. Before she could speak a word, however, her healing glamour welled up, suffusing her with warmth, and her mind turned back to the shadows she’d sensed in him. She should leave, for her own safety, but her gift had other plans.
“I’ll consider that offer,” she said eventually. “Thank you.”
Chapter Four
Rival
Brennon woke early the next morning, the bitter taste of anxiety clinging to the back of his throat. He lay in bed, the bed that used to belong to his parents, in the grand second story room, his forearm thrown over his eyes. As the sleep slowly seeped from his body, he tried for the life of him to remember why his nerves felt frayed. It wasn’t because Samhain was a mere three weeks away, and it wasn’t because of his nightmares. No, his sleep had remained calm and free of demons, a blessing in disguise considering the time of year. Perhaps his restless mood had something to do with Rori.
Brenn sat up abruptly, ready to march down the hallway and check on his nephew, but when he took stock of himself, he realized he was still fully dressed and had been sleeping on top of the bed sheets. And then the reason for his restlessness hit him: the injured girl. After she had woken from her delirium just before midnight, she had spoken to him. Her words had been accented more softly than those native to the north, but she was undoubtedly of Eile. And her name was Seren. Just Seren, no surname to go with it. He had offered her refuge, to heal and grow stronger over the winter.
Why he had so easily welcomed her into his home was something of a mystery. She was not known to him, one who could possibly be a denizen of the Morrigan. Brenn snorted at such a notion. He knew exactly what had possessed him to act so rashly: guilt. And not only the guilt of shooting and nearly killing her, but the guilt he’d carried with him for the past nine years. He was so desperate to rid himself of the black cloud threatening to engulf his soul, that he was willing to do anything to reach that end, even welcome a complete stranger into his and Rori’s lives. Perhaps, if he performed enough good deeds, the taint would be washed away.
Brenn sighed, running his hands over his face and through his hair as he fell back against the mattress. Well, he couldn’t very well go downstairs and tell the girl to leave now. And in all honesty, he didn’t want to. He was intensely curious about her. Where had she come from? Why was her glamour so powerful? And more importantly, what was she? No common Faelorehn woman, that was certain.
If her powerful glamour and the fact she had transformed from a deer into a woman before his very eyes hadn’t convinced him she was a stranger in these parts, then her other physical features most definitely did. Her skin tone was the most obvious difference. Darker than his, it reminded him a little of the beautiful red clay he sometimes found by the creek when he was a boy. A golden, pale rust color and smooth as an eggshell. Her eyes were different as well. Larger than his and Rori’s and slanted ever so slightly at the corners. They reminded him of the sly, cunning eyes of the wild things that roamed Dorcha Forest. This girl would definitely stand out in a crowd of people in Dundoire Hollow.
The very thought of Dundoire Hollow and its denizens drew a groan of annoyance from Brenn. He had very few friends living in the settlement closest to his home. Had he decided to turn Seren away and send her into the village, they would as soon stone her to death for her differences as offer her aid. No. He had made the right choice in extending his hospitality. He would keep his honor and keep his word. And protect her from the cruelty and prejudice of those he once called his neighbors and friends.
Deciding he had remained in bed long enough, Brennon rose and stepped into the upstairs water closet to shave and clean up. Donning fresh clothes, he stepped out onto the balcony hallway and headed down the stairs. He had carried Rori to bed last night, after waiting for Seren to fall back to sleep after speaking with her. But the boy was already awake, sitting in his customary seat next to the ceiling to floor bookcase which occupied the wall opposite the huge fireplace.
“Where are you going?” Rori asked, glancing
up from an open book on his lap.
Brenn cast him a glance over his shoulder. His nephew could no longer see the words printed on the pages of the books, but his mother and father had read to him, and he found comfort in the leather bound tomes. He would run his fingers over the paper, trying to detect the slight lift of the illuminations against the pages or breathe in the familiar scent of glue, treated parchment and leather. It was one of his ways of staying connected to his parents.
“Into Dundoire Hollow,” Brennon finally answered. “We need a few supplies, and I want to visit the butcher, since I failed to get a deer.”
He shot a quick glance toward the cot by the fireplace. The young woman was bundled up beneath the blankets, pushed as close to the glowing coals as he considered safe. Only her head stuck out above the blankets, her dark russet curls fanning out around her like the soft fur of a mink. Brennon narrowed his eyes and tried to study her a bit closer. Was there a little more color to her cheeks now? Her skin looked closer to copper in the morning light than it had the night before. Good. Perhaps that meant she was healing. He was tempted to wake her, just to make sure she was feeling better and check to see if her wound wasn’t festering, but she needed the rest. He didn’t plan on staying in town long. He would check on her when he returned.
Clearing his throat, Brenn returned his attention to Rori. “Stay nearby while I’m gone. If she becomes feverish, keep her cool with a damp cloth. If she wakes up, explain that I have gone into town for supplies and that I’ll be back as soon as I can. Do not,” he emphasized, his fingers tightening on the door handle, “let her leave this house. Do you understand?”
Rori nodded mutely, then felt his way over to the side of the cot so he could lay his hand atop the sheet, in case the stranger moved.
“Thank you, Rori. I should be back in a few hours.”
Brennon didn’t wait for his nephew to say anything more. He shut the door behind him and strode across the yard and down the hill toward the barn where the horses slept. The mare and her foal were already out in the paddock, their ears twitching in his direction as he approached. Brenn had no business with either of them. He needed Dermot, the older stallion who was the only one fit to ride. The horse had been his father’s pride and joy, and although he was past his prime, Dermot more than earned his keep at Ardun. He was strong in springtime when he was needed for the plow, and he was gentle and patient with Rori. Now that the harvest was nearly over, he spent most of his days lazing around in the barn, nibbling oats and swishing at flies with his tail. Not today.
Faeborne: A Novel of the Otherworld Page 4