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.
As Seren studied this strange and exotic man from the relative safety of her feigned sleep, Brennon in turn gazed down at her. She resisted the urge to squirm. Surely, he couldn’t tell she was awake, or he would have said something by now. He stood in front of the fire, his hands resting casually on his hips. Perhaps he was deciding what to do with her. Drag her outside and let her fend for herself, or wait for her to turn back into a doe, so he could finish the job he’d started?
Before Seren could consider it any further, he turned to face the fire, putting his back to her. What she saw then through her half-closed eyes sent shivers down her spine. Long, narrow lines of pale white ran up and down his back in a random lacework pattern, too many to count. Seren knew without having to ask anyone what those lines were. They were the scars left behind from whiplashes. She had seen such marks on the dangerous men and women who stumbled upon the boundaries of their territory from time to time. Hardened criminals who had probably done the same to others at some point in their lives. But to have nearly your entire back covered in such marks? Seren couldn’t think what this particular Faelorehn man must have done to deserve such a fate.
Before she could consider it for very much longer, Brennon turned back around and addressed the boy.
“Rori, I’m going upstairs to fetch another shirt. When I come back down, I’ll see if I can get her to eat some of the broth heating over the fire.”
The hunter’s shadow momentarily darkened her vision as he crossed the room, disappearing up the staircase built into the far wall. She wondered what might be up there. More rooms? A large storage area of sorts? A door leading to the roof? Brennon’s footsteps stopped somewhere above her head, and soon, the only thing she could hear was the falling rain outside, now a light patter, the whisper of the fire not too far away and the creak of wood scraping against wood as the boy shifted in his chair.
When an unfamiliar weight pressed down upon the end of her bed, Seren almost screamed, her heart trying to punch its way through her chest.
“No, Nola, get down!” the young boy hissed.
The weight moved up her body, small concentrations of it, like an animal putting one foot in front of the other. When the mass moved to her stomach, she could just make out a low rattling sound. Seren was puzzled until she cracked her eye open once again. Two half-lidded, yellow-green eyes gazed at her from a face full of fur and long whiskers. The creature opened its mouth and made a strange mewling sound.
Terrified, Seren gave up on pretending to be asleep. Both her eyes flew open, and she drew in a long breath. The creature sitting on her stomach was large, almost as big as a fox, with a long furry tail that twitched. Its color was a mix of brown, grey and auburn with dark stripes marking its coat. Triangular, tufted ears swiveled on a square head as the beast continued to gaze at her with those chartreuse eyes. When the beast opened its mouth wide, displaying a set of sharp teeth, Seren lost what shred of control she still clung to. She drew in a great breath to scream, but Rori’s sudden movement from the chair caught her attention.
He stared in her direction with wide, blue eyes and proclaimed, “You’re awake!”
Before she could respond to that, the creature pinning her down made that strange mewling sound again, and Seren returned her gaze to it. The animal was sitting up now, its long tail twitching once again.
“What, what,” she began, trying to figure out what to say. Was this creature dangerous? Had the Faelorehn hunter sent it down to guard her? Would it bite her if she moved?
“Oh, sorry!” the boy proclaimed, standing up and reaching out his arms.
After patting the side of the cot with his hands, he wrapped the beast up in an awkward hug and pulled it to himself, even as the creature protested. As he lowered it to the ground, Seren caught a glimpse of its feet. Hooked claws protruded from the fur. She shuddered.
Rori returned to his seat. “Sorry about that. Nola is curious about new things and likes soft, warm blankets.”
He paused for a moment and tilted his head to the side, his eyes on her, but for some reason, Seren didn’t get the impression he was really seeing her.
“Do you like cats?” he asked, eventually.
“Cats?” she echoed.
Before Rori could even form a response, the thud of heavy footsteps sounded once again from above. Seren turned her head toward the staircase and found Brennon returning to the great room. He had pulled on a clean shirt, and his hair looked somewhat drier.
“Uncle!” Rori cried out. “She’s awake!”
Brennon’s confident pace faltered, and he paused halfway down the stairs, casting a somewhat careful look in her direction. Seren met his eyes, her own wide, she was sure. The hunter didn’t say anything. He merely studied her for a few moments before finishing his trek downstairs. He approached the cot slowly, the way a predator approached a dangerous animal. If not for her unfortunate predicament, Seren would’ve laughed out loud. She was about as dangerous as a newborn fawn left alone by its mother at the moment.
Only when the man was standing beside the boy’s chair did he finally speak. “It’s good to see you awake. Do you remember me from last night?”
Seren nodded, then hissed and shut her eyes. The ache that lingered in her shoulder traveled up her arm, then came to rest in her neck and the base of her skull. Carefully, so as not to draw attention to herself, Seren delved deep and drew on some of her glamour, willing the pain to go away. She couldn’t heal her wound the way she wished to, not with strangers looking on, so instead she let out just enough to take away the edge.
Brennon turned and moved over to the great fireplace. A small cauldron was hanging over the flames, its contents steaming and bubbling. Seren sat up a little straighter and inclined her head curiously. Brennon dipped in a ladle and spooned out just enough of the cauldron’s contents to fill a small wooden bowl. He brought it back over to where Seren rested on her cot, blowing over the hot liquid to cool it off.
“Here,” Brenn said gently, “drink this. It will bring you strength.”
It smelled strange to Seren, but not necessarily in a bad way. She struggled to sit up, her shoulder protesting again. Rori, the young boy, was there in an instant, standing behind her and helping her as best he could.
“Thank you,” she said timidly, unsure of what else to do.
Brennon offered the bowl again, and she took it, savoring the warmth of the broth that seeped through the thin layer of wood.
Blowing on it some more, Seren took a tentative sip. Still hot, but good. Carefully, she sipped some more, then took a small drink. Only when she was halfway done with the meal did she realize her stomach was not enjoying the broth nearly as much as her taste buds.
Before she could even cry out a warning, the liquid rose back up her throat. She bent over the side of the cot, spewing it all over the stone floor. Her face flaming in embarrassment, Seren cried out and covered her shame with her hands.
“I am sorry!” she said, her voice muffled between her fingers, the misery plain in her tone.
“No, don’t be,” Brennon reassured her, the scrape of wooden chair legs rasping against her ears as he st
ood.
She only prayed to the gods and goddesses that she hadn’t thrown up all over his pants.
“Here,” he said.
She risked a peek through her fingers. He was holding out a damp rag, another one, much larger, clutched in his other hand. As Seren wiped off her face and mouth, Brennon mopped up the rest of the mess using his booted foot.
Seren felt her face burn again. How mortifying. First, she was foolish enough to let a hunter track her and shoot her, then when he attempted to help her after discovering she was really a woman, she had repaid him by becoming sick all over his floor.
“I’m sorry,” she said once again, her tone miserable.
Brennon shook his head. “You’ve been through a lot in the past few days. Hopefully, you are not coming down with a fever.”
He narrowed his eyes, and Seren thought their clear grey color resembled the winter sky reflected on the surface of the meadow pond back in the Weald. The reminder of her home, her old home, made her heart twinge with regret. What had happened after she left? Would her mother ever know what had become of her? Would the clan treat Daniela better now that her misfit daughter was gone?
Dragging in a ragged breath, Seren returned her attention to her current predicament. “I won’t get a fever,” she said, with bland conviction.
Brennon only lifted his eyebrows at that. “There is no guarantee against that,” he warned. “I reuse my arrows if I can, and I don’t always clean them thoroughly after each use.” He leaned over in the chair and rubbed the back of his neck, adding under his breath, “It’s not like I had any reason to do so.”
Seren lowered her gaze again and flicked her eyes to the side. There was something off about the hunter today, something that hadn’t been there the night before. He seemed wound tighter, his demeanor a bit darker. The light around him had dimmed ever so slightly, the way it does on days when rainclouds are passing overhead. But Seren didn’t know him well enough to judge what might be plaguing him. No, that was wrong. She didn’t know him at all. Perhaps this was how he always was, and she just hadn’t noticed because she was too busy recovering from the initial shock of her wound.
“Is it true?” the boy finally said. His gaze didn’t waver, even as he stretched his hand out over the quilt. He seemed to be studying the texture of the blanket by touch alone.
Seren considered him again, narrowing her eyes at his. This wasn’t the first time she’d noticed his strange way of examining his surroundings. There was something off about his eyes, as if the pupils were cloudier than they should be.
She would have pondered it further, but the boy took a breath and asked, “Can you really turn into a deer?”
Seren went instantly stiff, clutching the rag she’d been given to clean up in her fingers like a raccoon holding onto a fish it had just pulled from a pond.
“Riordan Lyall O’Faolain,” Brennon snapped, in a low voice.
Immediately, the boy dropped his gaze and bit his lower lip.
“I’m sorry, Uncle,” the boy squeaked out.
Rori made to rise from his chair, but Brennon spoke to him before he took so much as a single step. “There is a rail broken in the northern paddock. I’ll need your help mending it so the sheep do not get out. Meet me down in the barn.”
The hunter’s voice was stern, but gentle, like the icicles Seren used to play with as a child. They grew from the waterfalls in winter, and she would break them off when they became as long as her forearm. If it was cold enough, the streams would freeze solid, and the icicles would be so cold they would readily stick to her hands if her palms were clammy. Seren remembered that if she held them long enough, they would begin to melt on the outside. Brennon’s tone of voice reminded her of those icicles: Frozen but beginning to melt.
Without a word, Rori stood, his arm slightly outstretched. Seren watched him closely, wondering if his uncle’s command would be obeyed with bitterness or fear. He seemed to show neither, but there was something strange in the way he walked. Most children would head straight to the door and dart out into the open yard to get to their destination quickly, especially considering the deluge outside. Rori didn’t do that. He walked purposefully, one hand held out loosely at his side, his fingers trailing delicately across the back of a chair, the top of a table, the outline of the doorframe.
Seren sucked in a breath as he walked his fingers up the backside of the door, seeking the handle. Only after he had opened and shut the door behind him did she turn to Brennon.
He was watching her again with those sharp grey eyes, and Seren remembered the network of scar tissue decorating his back and parts of his torso. Anyone who had survived through that had little softness left in them. She bit her lip and looked away, wondering if he found her as interesting to study as she had found him. Or was that narrowed gaze he was giving her one of suspicion?
Shaking those thoughts from her mind, she drew upon what little courage she had left and looked up at him.
“Rori,” she said. “He’s blind, isn’t he?”
Brennon tensed ever so slightly, his biceps bunching against his hands as he stood with his arms crossed over his chest. The tension passed, and he let out a huff of breath, turning his head to regard the fire, now burning closer to hot blue than orange.
Eventually, he answered her. “Yes.”
“How?”
Seren knew it was none of her business, but the question had leapt from her mouth anyway. Brennon surprised her by responding.
“An accident,” was all he said, stepping forward to pluck a log from a neat stack in the corner. He threw it into the hot coals with ease, then chose another and added it to the hungry blaze.
He dusted off his hands and stood back from the leaping flames. The hard features of his face warned her not to press the issue with Rori. At least now she knew why the boy acted the way he did, and why she had thought he was staring at her. Yes, his eyes had been fixed on her, but he had seen nothing. Poor dear soul. As if reacting on instinct, her glamour began to bubble up inside her chest, aching to be set free.
No, she told it with a pinch of sorrow, no, I can’t let you out while I’m here. Not for any reason at all. Not even to help that poor boy.
The very thought gave her pause. Could she? Was her healing gift strong enough to reverse the damage done by whatever mishap had taken his sight away to begin with?
Shaking her head against such silly notions, she reminded herself that using her gift in front of others only led to suffering. She could not use her magic here, not even to help an innocent child.
The widening silence between herself and the master of the house begged for some sort of conversation, and wanting to distract her mind from any more thoughts regarding her rare glamour, she glanced up and said, “You do not have the same surname, you and Rori.”
“No,” Brennon conceded, with a tired sigh. “His mother was my sister, but her husband’s name was Donal, Donal O’Faolain. He died alongside my sister and parents.”
Seren formed an ‘O’ with her lips, vaguely recalling the conversation they’d had the night before. A cold chill blossomed in her chest, and Seren decided she would leave it at that for now. No need to dig up this man’s ghosts. He already seemed haunted enough as it was.
Brennon took a breath, Seren’s prying question already forgotten.
“I will leave you to rest, but there are a few things you should know about the house.” Brennon pointed down a hallway to the right of the grand fireplace. “The first archway on the right will bring you to a set of stairs leading to the kitchen. The pantry is attached to the kitchen, and they are both half a level down, along with a larger store room. The bedrooms are upstairs, should you need Rori or myself for anything during the night. The bathing room,” he paused then, as if speaking of such things in front of her might not be appropriate. Seren nodded for him to go on. Surely a bathing room in a Faelorehn house was far more modern than whatever might be found in a Fahndi settlement.
“The b
athing room is attached to the back of the house. There is a basin for washing your hands and face, and a larger stone tub for bathing, should you wish to do so.”
Seren pressed her lips together and nodded. She would be needing to use this bathing room soon, but a true bath could wait a while longer. Before making use of the bathing room, however, she waited for Brennon to gather up the lingering wolfhounds lazing in front of the fire and head outside into the foul weather. She hoped he and his nephew didn’t seek out chores which could wait for better weather simply to stay out of the house for her sake. Nevertheless, Seren took advantage of their absence and headed straight for the lavatory. It was exactly where Brenn had said it would be, and once she was done cleaning up the last bits of evidence of her incident with the broth, she scurried back to the pallet, sending a little healing magic into her wound as she did so. Again, she was careful not to overdo it. It would be difficult to explain a wound healed miraculously within a handful of hours after receiving it.
Once she was back beneath the warm blankets, she drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying not to cry. Surely, the spirits of the Weald had not meant for her to have such a life, always afraid, always quailing away from those who wished to harm her. Always being the victim. She gritted her teeth against that last one. Her inner spirit may be that of a timid doe, and she may have taken her clan mates’ brutality time and time again, but when she stood up to Rozenn in defiance and displayed her gift for all to see, she had taken a stand against everything they had groomed her to be. Maybe, once she was healed, more emotionally than physically, she could strike out on her own. Perhaps, she could even return to the heart of the Weald and find her mother and the two of them could start over somewhere else.
With that thought to help bolster her confidence, Seren let her consciousness slip away, and soon, she was sleeping once more.
Chapter Six
Contemplation
Faeborne: A Novel of the Otherworld Page 6