Brenn returned from the house a few minutes later with an armful of supplies. On top of the pile was a folded quilt that he dumped unceremoniously onto the grass.
“Can you spread the blanket out, Seren?” he asked, as he began to shuffle the other objects in his arms.
Although the blackness filling his eyes had receded, Seren doubted its presence had. Brenn still spoke gruffly and moved as if every joint in his body radiated pain.
She acted quickly, grabbing one edge of the quilt with both hands, jerking it up and shaking it out so that it lay wide open on a softer patch of half-dead grass. As soon as it settled, she got on her hands and knees, smoothing out the wrinkles and pressing down the corners. Brenn stepped forward and knelt on one corner of the blanket, letting three large rolls of fabric fall from his arms. Next were two torches, both on the smaller side, something stiff rolled up in a scrap of leather, a water skin and a large, shallow saucer.
Curious, Seren moved to the opposite corner of the quilt and settled onto her knees. Twilight was upon them, but she could still see well enough. Brennon untied a thin strap around the leather roll, then gently unrolled the entire thing to reveal a set of small knives and two pieces of drying cloth.
Seren wondered what they were for, and images of Samhain blood sacrifices came to mind. She blinked in slight horror. Surely Brenn wasn’t going to sacrifice one of the animals to appease the Morrigan? From what she understood, there was no appeasing that particular goddess, and she had always seen Rori and his uncle treat the animals on their homestead with kindness. But could that be the reason for their somber moods?
A soft touch to Seren’s shoulder made her jump. She didn’t have to turn around to know it was Rori, finding his way over to her side.
“Is Uncle Brenn getting the knives ready?” he asked in a small voice.
Seren drew her eyebrows together and looked up at the boy. His mouth was drawn tight, the skin around his lips paling. His fingers upon her shoulder dug into her flesh like claws, and she thought she registered a slight tremble in his arm.
Concerned, Seren twisted around and took his hands in hers. They were ice cold. She could keep her sympathy to herself no longer.
“What is it, Rori? What has you so frightened?”
Maybe it was more than the thought of sacrificing one of the animals. Could it be the faelah? Or the Cumorrig Brenn had mentioned? She had been distracted earlier, but now she willed herself to hold still, her ears straining to pick up every stray sound. She could hear them now, scratching around in the taller grass behind the small stones that littered the yard. In the woods beyond, over the gentle trickle of the creek, she picked up the faint racket of their snorts and gruff complaints, the sharp yips and baleful cries of the rotting creatures the Morrigan found pleasure in creating from her dark magic. Seren tried not to picture what the abominations might look like, but her imagination easily wrestled control from her. In her mind’s eye, she envisioned small animals that had been slaughtered and left to decompose beneath the earth for weeks, their rot-darkened skin and sunken eyes forming them into something unnatural and grotesque. Her skin prickled in horror as she tried in vain to clear her head of the images.
Taking a quick breath, Seren patted Rori’s hand. “Is it the faelah that have you worried?”
He shook his head vigorously. “No. The dogs will keep them away, and if they cross beyond the standing stones, they won’t last long.”
On the opposite side of the blanket, Brennon was realigning the knives, picking them up carefully and running a soft cloth over them. They looked sharp, and images of Brenn marching into the barn and returning with a goat or one of the sheep to butcher and bleed over the fire crossed her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched her nose. No more horrific images, please, Seren pleaded with no one in particular.
Rori’s hand moved clumsily down her arm, his fingers curling around her wrist and pulling it close to hold against his chest.
“Don’t worry, Seren. It’s not that bad, and I’m used to it.”
Seren’s stomach plummeted. So, it was true after all. Suddenly, she wanted to shout at Rori, but more so at his uncle. How could he do this? Slaughter one of the animals in front of Rori? True, she knew they ate meat, but Brenn had hunted for their meat, or visited the butcher. And even if they ate some of the animals they raised, could the Faelorehn man not see that it upset his nephew? A young boy who was clearly still healing from the loss of his mother and father? What was the point in having him present during this macabre display which would do nothing to appease the Morrigan? And why must she witness it? Brenn could have at least warned her; given her the option of staying inside.
Seren opened her mouth to speak the words, but something caught her attention before she could begin. The left sleeve of Rori’s shirt was rolled up to his elbow, and in the bright light provided by the growing fire, she noticed something else. It wasn’t the stark whiteness of his flesh against hers that so arrested her attention, but the short, thin lines marking the inside of his arm from wrist to elbow. Seren snapped her mouth shut and drew her brows together over her eyes.
Forgetting her anger, she reached out and pulled Rori’s arm closer into her line of vision, her fingers gently smoothing over the scars.
“Rori,” she breathed, “what in Eile … How did you get these marks?”
The boy clamped his teeth on his bottom lip and tried to retrieve his arm, but Seren held it fast in her fingers. When she refused to let go, Rori gave a soft sigh of defeat.
“The ritual,” he murmured softly, as another peal of bone-chilling howls rose up in the fields around them.
Confusion, followed quickly by horrified realization, disgust and then finally, a deep burning anger rolled through Seren. No. These scars couldn’t possibly be what she thought they were.
“What?” she demanded, her voice harsh and grating. “What about the ritual?”
“Uncle Brenn tries not to hurt me,” the boy continued softly, “and it’s only a little blood.”
Squeezing Rori’s arm harder than she meant to, Seren turned her eyes onto the boy’s uncle.
He was kneeling beside the blanket now, just like her. The knives lay neatly in a row, their polished silver surfaces reflecting the dancing light of the bonfire. On his right sat the wide, shallow bowl, and on his left, the water skin and several other ingredients which resembled small piles of ash. A light breeze curved around the corner of the house and brushed a few particles free from the tops of the powdered substances. Seren flared her nostrils and caught the scent of fennel, rosemary, charcoal and the bitter-sweet odor of iron root, a common herb used in incantations meant to bind a person’s blood to a spell.
Seren felt her jaw tighten as she considered the man sitting across from her. From the moment she had seen him, and the days following her unfortunate accident in the woods, she had been captivated by his Faelorehn beauty and the mysterious, lingering darkness he constantly battled. Yet despite the underlying menace he carried around with him, Brennon was bright, and new, and wonderful to her young, naive spirit. She had always been tempted to run headlong into the wilderness; to explore to her heart’s content. The trees and the wild, like this man, harbored spikes, and thorns and teeth beneath its beauty, but she’d always managed to keep a safe distance. Now, Seren was beginning to wonder if she had ventured too close to the wolf’s den after all.
Without warning, Brennon flicked his eyes up, catching Seren’s gaze and making her flinch. She released Rori’s arm. He whimpered a sound of relief as he pulled the limb out of sight to rub at the spot she had held so tightly.
Steeling herself, Seren drew in a breath and let it out slowly, hoping that when she spoke, her voice would project clear and level.
“You have been torturing your own nephew.”
It was an accusation, not a question. Brenn grew suddenly, impossibly still. He didn’t blink, he didn’t gasp. He didn’t tighten a single muscle. Instead, a deep coldness seemed to see
p from his skin, enveloping him and setting him apart from the rest of the world. All around the boundaries of the standing stones, the faelah chattered and scraped at the ground, bellowing their frustration as the glamour in Brennon’s body began to build. He didn’t look at Seren in anger. He didn’t glance away in guilt. A pair of the wolfhounds who had been standing nearby, their heads tilting and their ears flicking back and forth to the rhythm of the faelahs’ cries, shot forward suddenly, racing toward the creek.
Seren broke her eye contact with Brenn and cast her eyes to the north. What she saw there made her skin crawl. All along the far shore of the creek, eyes in varying shades of red, orange and violet glowed with bitter malevolence, jerking to and fro as the faelah they belonged to paced the stream bed.
The two hounds came to a stop on the opposite side, their hackles raised as they growled a warning at the creatures.
“They will not cross over,” Brenn said quietly. “Besides, they will be nothing but ash in a matter of minutes. They stepped inside the boundary.”
Brenn got back to his chore, measuring out the powder and sprinkling it together in the bowl. He picked up the water skin and popped the cork free, adding a little bit of the liquid to the mix, all the while murmuring unfamiliar words under his breath.
Forcing the faelah from her mind, Seren returned her attention to the man in front of her. She watched his machinations, her anger too hot, her sorrow too great to do much more for the time being. Yes, she was furious with Brennon for doing such a thing to his nephew, but she was terribly saddened as well. She had grown to admire this Faelorehn man, far more than any other she knew, and the disappointment hurt her more than anything else.
“You harm a small child willingly, for some silly superstition?” she hissed.
Again, his steel-grey eyes found hers, their color flashing pale blue for a split second. It wasn’t anger, or pride, or even irritation she saw there. But they were fierce, nonetheless.
“No, I use his blood, and mine, for the ritual. That is all. It is not something I enjoy, but it is necessary.”
His voice was calm, as if he spoke to a child upset over something she couldn’t understand.
Brenn picked up one of the knives, the long, thin blade flaring orange as it reflected the light of the fire. Seren gasped and shot her hand forward as he brought the tip of the knife down to press into the skin of his left arm. A dark swell of liquid blossomed at the knife’s tip, and Brenn gave a small grunt. He held the sleeve back and curled up his fist, leaning forward and angling his arm so that the blood dripped from the injury into the bowl. Seren could only watch in horrified fascination.
After several seconds, Brennon tilted his arm away from the basin and picked up one of the cloths, pressing it to the wound.
“Rori,” he said, his voice strained and distant.
Rori, who had been standing silently just behind Seren, stirred and made to move forward.
“No!” she cried, reaching out to grab his arm. “You do not have to do this, Rori!”
The boy turned to face her, the dark overtaking most of his features. The moon’s pale light and the bonfire’s hot glow illuminated his sandy hair, but she could not see his expression.
“It’s okay, Seren. This is how we stay safe from the faelah. Please, don’t be sad. I am used to it.”
Feeling the bitterness of defeat and helplessness wash over her, Seren could only stare numbly at the boy as he pried her fingers from his wrist. He closed the short distance between himself and his uncle and stood before Brenn, baring his left arm.
“I am ready,” he said in a voice that sounded far braver than it should.
Seren watched them the entire time, unable to look away. Before Brennon pressed a clean blade to his nephew’s arm, he drew the boy forward with his free hand and kissed him tenderly on the top of the head. She wasn’t certain, but Seren thought she saw the gleam of tears in Brenn’s eyes.
Just your imagination, she told herself. You want him to feel horror at what he is doing, but how could he? He is still going through with it, after all.
The knife flashed in the firelight once more. Rori made a tiny whimpering noise, and then, it was all over. Brenn guided his arm over the shallow bowl and let his nephew’s blood combine with his, but allowed far less of it to fall. He then pressed another clean cloth to the injury, binding it with torn pieces of cheese cloth before tending to his own wound.
When both their arms were dressed, Brennon stood, then reached forward and pulled Rori into a close embrace.
“The worst is over. Now, we walk the perimeter.”
He let Rori go, and the boy shuffled back over to stand beside Seren, who was still kneeling upon the blanket. Rori reached down, finding her shoulders quickly, then wrapped his arms around her neck in a loose embrace.
“It’s alright, Seren. I’m okay. Please don’t be upset.”
She was still too numb, too emotionally wrung out to say much by way of an answer. Instead, she hummed some sort of acknowledgment and put her arms around his waist, returning his show of affection.
Brenn finished up with the blood concoction, adding more powder and a lot more water to the mixture before stirring it with something from his knife pouch. He cleaned the blades, tucking them neatly back into place, before rolling the case up and setting it aside. With careful fingers, he picked up the stone bowl and moved it to his corner of the quilt.
The slight sound of panting and padding feet redirected Seren’s awareness. The two hounds from earlier were returning from their job of guarding the perimeter. She glanced beyond them and found the shoreline free of glowing eyes. Perhaps the faelah had turned to ash after all.
When she bothered to look back toward Brennon, she found him standing up, fastening the tie of a heavy cloak in front of his throat. He threw up the hood, casting his face even further into shadow, then held out a bundle of dark fabric. A cloak for his nephew.
“Rori,” he prompted, and the boy stepped forward, reaching out with eager fingers.
Seren couldn’t help but notice the small dark stain seeping through the bandage on his arm.
“Seren?”
The sound of her name, spoken in that soft tone she had grown too comfortable with, drew her attention like the pull of the Weald’s deep magic.
Brenn stood in front of her, closer than she had remembered. A notable hum of tension radiated from his presence, and Seren wondered just how much it would take to shatter what little resolve he had left. Brennon outstretched his arm, the dark fabric of his cloak falling against his elbow like the mantle of night.
“I would like you to come with us, if you care to. The faelah may continue to cross the boundary while it’s still weak, and I’d feel more comfortable if you were where I could see and hear you.” He drew in a breath and let it out slowly, then added quietly, “Besides, you have a right to see this through.”
Seren glanced at his outstretched hand, eyeing the dark bundle there. Another cloak. Careful not to make contact with his skin, she took the offered gift, then with the natural grace of the Fahndi, she rose to her feet. She would go along with them, but she could not bear Brenn’s touch. Not now, maybe not ever again.
“I will go,” she said, making a pointed effort to keep the emotion from her voice, “but only to assure you do nothing else to hurt your nephew.”
“Very well.”
The man didn’t defend his actions. Didn’t try to come up with some excuse. Seren wasn’t sure what annoyed her more, the fact that he remained silent on the matter, or the idea that perhaps he made no justifications because he thought he had done nothing wrong.
Seren did her best to push her irritation away as she shrugged on the thick, wool-lined cloak. Not until the garment was wrapped around her did she realize just how cold the night had grown. Brenn picked up one of the unlit torches and thrust the broader end into the bonfire, waiting for it to catch fire. He handed it to Rori, then lifted the other torch to the flames as well.
Seren and Rori had spent the day before hollowing out the overgrown root vegetables and carving maniacal faces into them. Once the candle inside was lit, they were meant to keep the dark spirits at bay. However, Seren wasn’t so sure they’d serve their purpose on this night. A pall of pure malice and evil tainted the air, and it only grew stronger as the night stretched on.
Once the turnip lanterns were taken care of, Brennon handed Seren his torch. He needed both arms free so he could carry the bowl holding the herb and blood concoction. Seren tried not to think about it as they set off down the path. The moon, nearly full, was bright enough to light the way, but Seren imagined the torch fire would come in handy should any of the faelah still skirting the boundary line choose to pester them. To her immense relief, the small pack of wolfhounds decided to join them, some running ahead, some lingering behind while the rest burrowed through the frost-folded grasses growing on either side of the trail.
“We always start with the standing stones at the end of the path,” Rori said quietly. “First the one on the left, then we follow them all around the perimeter until we end up back there again, with the one on the right.”
The sloping land soon leveled out, and the three of them were no longer walking downhill. The two standing stones marking the point where the path met the road cast long, black shadows against the silvery landscape. Beyond the road, Seren could make out a few spare fields, the stalks of the harvested plants now withered and gathered together into mounds scattered across the overturned earth. They reminded her of the roofs of the tiny underground houses she sometimes stumbled upon in the Weald. To her back, Roarke Manor loomed, the shadowy forest spilling behind it like an immense sable mantle.
Seren couldn’t hear the faelah anymore, nor could she detect any other sounds for that matter. No owls crying out in the night with their mournful notes. No rodents scurrying around in the tangled grasses beside the path. She couldn’t even pick up the gentle panting of the wolfhounds pacing beside them. It was as if a veil of silence had descended upon the world.
Faeborne: A Novel of the Otherworld Page 12