Brenn drew in a sharp breath and shook his head.
Artur gave him a curious look. “Is anything amiss? You looked far away there for a moment.”
“I am well,” Brenn answered, his voice gruff. “Simply lost in thought.”
“Ah,” was Artur’s simple answer. He didn’t elaborate.
They spent a half hour more in the tent, eating the meat pies Creidne brought to them and finishing up their ale. Brenn kept a tight rein on his thoughts as they ate, refusing to let them return to the fantasy he’d envisioned before. In that corner lay disappointment and heartache; a future that would never come to pass. Once they were finished with their meal, Brenn and Artur took a turn around the small city of tents to see the rest of the goods being offered by the vendors.
Brenn had every intention of leaving the encampment behind without purchasing a single item. What might he do with a yard of scarlet fabric, a vial of lavender oil or a string of polished stone beads? When he and Artur happened upon a wagon boasting several shelves crowded with small wooden statues, he had a sudden change of heart. Brennon had taken note of this vendor on his way into camp. He’d admired only the quality of the rare wood and craftsmanship, but hadn’t looked too closely at any of the items. Now, he did. The carved statues ranged in size from a few feet tall to only a few inches, and the detail was even more exquisite than he’d realized. There were ravens carved of wood black as coal, and horses in polished tones of bone-white, chestnut, deep earth brown and blond.
Brenn had only meant to admire the fine work, but then his eyes fell upon a statue that caught his full attention. He reached out gentle fingers, brushing them delicately against the smooth, honey-colored wooden statue of a doe. Large enough to stand in his palm, every line of the deer was perfect. She stood with her four, graceful legs spread evenly to support her weight, her head turned to glance back over her shoulder with both ears pricked forward in cautious, curious investigation. The natural grain of the wood gave her a series of dark lines so accurate to the real, live version. But there was something in the small statue’s structure, in the attention to detail, in the very way it stood out among all the rest, that made Brenn think of Seren.
“What did you find there?” Artur asked, turning to discover why his friend had lagged behind.
Brenn didn’t answer right away. He was far too captivated by the perfect representation of Seren in her doe form.
“Now, that’s a lovely piece,” Artur commented.
Brenn blinked up at him.
“You should get it for Rori.”
Brennon tightened his fingers around the statue and nodded. He didn’t even bother to check the price. He felt compelled to purchase it, but not for his nephew.
The vendor, an old Lorehnin woman with a deeply lined face and snow-white hair, grinned a toothless welcome at Brenn as he brought the statue forth to pay for it.
“Will ye not be getting a second? If ye buy one, the second one is half the price.”
Brenn began to shake his head, then remembered the statue wasn’t for Rori, as he had indicated to Artur. He couldn’t bring home something for Seren and not get something for Rori as well. He turned to look at the many statues once again and when he spotted a strutting rooster carved from chestnut wood, he smiled. Rori would much prefer the rooster to the doe anyway.
“I’ll take these,” he said, presenting the wooden statues to the old woman.
She gave him that toothless grin once again and then proceeded to wrap the miniature animals carefully in parchment and dyed linen. As she worked, Brenn studied her. Her skin was dark, far darker than Seren’s, and a large cataract clouded one of her eyes. Gnarled, arthritic hands carefully tucked the statues into place, and Brenn wondered if she had any family to help her. The old Lorehnin woman finished up her task, tying colorful ribbons around the packages and adding a sprig of fresh holly to each.
Brenn handed over the coins the woman asked for and cradled the statues close to his person. He joined Artur farther up the trail, and they began their trek back to the sacred grove. The day had progressed late into twilight, and when they reached the top of the hill they noticed the scaffolding had been moved to the final marked oak in the grove. More wood had been added to the ceremonial fire, the red and yellow flames leaping high into the dark sky, and a sizeable pile of mistletoe occupied much of the once empty meadow. The young men who had helped build the platform earlier were now passing pieces of the sacred plant out to those gathered around.
“Another hour or so, and it will be time to disperse,” Artur grumbled, out of the corner of his mouth.
Brenn gave a sharp nod, his attention trained fully on Uscias. The Druid was busy slicing away at the bunches of mistletoe sprouting high in the branches of the oak, his golden sickle reflecting the firelight. Brenn watched the movement with the obsession of a cat guarding a gopher hole.
For nearly an hour more, the Druid cut the mistletoe bushels free of their anchor and handed them down to Baird. The pile of already harvested mistletoe was beginning to dwindle as those gathered around got their fill. Not wanting to miss out, Artur stepped forward and began gathering a sackful for himself and Creidne, as well as some for Brenn and Rori. By the time Artur had both bags full, Uscias and Baird were climbing down from the platform.
The Druid and his apprentice had yet to notice Brenn. He had checked on Dermot several minutes ago, patting him affectionately and tucking the statues safely into his saddlebags. But now, he was back within the circle of oaks. It was time to face his enemies. He had waited long enough. Brenn hated public confrontations, but he had no other choice.
At least most of the crowd has dispersed, he thought to himself as the Druid touched down on solid earth. Looking much wearier than he had earlier in the day, Uscias threw back his hood and approached the crackling fire to warm his numb fingers. The young assistants had begun dismantling the scaffolding, and Baird was now mixing the herbs and powders used in the final blessing of the trees. Brenn knew this ritual well. Uscias would add a few more marks to the trees, thanking them for their harvest and giving them extra strength, so the mistletoe wouldn’t sap too much of the trees’ energy as it grew back during the coming year.
Brenn cast Artur a sidelong look, drew in a deep breath, and reached up to pull back his hood, but a large hand on his forearm stopped him short.
“Are you sure about this, lad?” Artur asked, his voice pitched low.
Brennon nodded once and stepped away from his friend. With his head now exposed, he need only wait until Uscias glanced in his direction. It didn’t take long. As soon as Brenn moved within his peripheral vision, the Druid stumbled on his chant and shot his head up, presumably to give him a nasty look and perhaps even shout at him for disturbing the ritual. What happened instead gave Brenn a bit of satisfaction. The grey-haired man did look up, his eyes sharp and his eyebrows lowered angrily. The moment he recognized Brennon, however, his countenance changed abruptly. Those ice blue eyes flared with astonishment before settling back to their cool stillness and a muscle in the Druid’s cheek twitched.
“What in Donn’s black underworld are the likes of you doing here?” he growled, his voice not much louder than a whisper.
Baird, sensing Uscias’ change in mood, lifted his head as well. He almost dropped the bowl of powdered herbs as he jerked back in surprise.
“I’m here for the same reason as everyone else,” Brenn answered coolly. “I wish to procure some mistletoe harvested from the sacred grove to hang up around my farm. I have been experiencing a rash of vandalism of late, and I was hoping to use the plant to discourage it. After all, you do have a reputation, Uscias, for growing the most potent mistletoe in the northern reaches.”
The Druid’s eyes narrowed, their irises flaring with hatred.
“Yes, I do,” he bit out.
“Then, I shall take my trimmings and be gone. I should think once I have it distributed throughout my land, I will be seeing no other acts of destruction against m
y property.”
Brenn ground that last part out like a hammer driving a stake into the ground. There were enough witnesses present to have heard him. If Uscias and Baird planned any more damage to Ardun and its surrounding property, all Brenn had to do was complain loudly about it in the Black Boar. Word would soon spread that the resident Druid couldn’t even properly charm the mistletoe in his keeping. If he lost the respect of the people, Uscias lost his authority. He could have glamour that rivaled the Tuatha De, but if his followers didn’t take him seriously, he would become virtually powerless.
The Druid only glared at Brenn, his face stony and his blue eyes flashing. That muscle continued to twitch, but he said nothing for several heartbeats. Brenn fought against a self-satisfied sneer. So, he hadn’t been wrong after all. Not that he ever suspected he might be. Who else would want to sabotage his home?
Sensing the confrontation was over, and feeling he had, in a way, won this round, Brenn turned on his heel with every intention of gathering up Dermot and heading home.
“Filthy, faeduhn-stained swine!” Baird spat in utter disgust.
Brenn froze, a sliver of ice prickling up his spine.
A light murmur started among those people who had lingered. Slowly, they backed away, casting nervous glances between Brenn and the Druid’s apprentice. For a few moments, Brennon merely stood there, forcing his rage to settle down before it grew too strong to control. Somewhere ahead of him and to his left, he heard Artur hurl a garbled curse at Baird. Fortunately, someone grabbed the great man and held him back before he could do anything stupid.
Battening down the turmoil stirring up the darkness in his soul, Brenn put on a cool, calm demeanor and turned to face the bastard who had been his enemy since childhood. To his satisfaction, Baird actually took a tiny step back.
Brennon crossed his arms again and regarded Uscias’ new apprentice with a cool, calculating look.
“Who would have thought?” he said in a calm voice. “All this time people figured you couldn’t find a suitable apprentice because no one alive could measure up to your strict standards, when all along you simply wanted the least motivated, worthless piece of faelah meat you could find. How did you even get him to accept the apprenticeship to begin with? Did you bribe him with ale?”
To Brenn’s surprise, a light titter rippled through the crowd. Baird’s face paled, then his cheeks reddened with anger or embarrassment. Probably both.
Baird drew in a deep breath and clenched his fists, taking a step forward. He didn’t get very far. Uscias whipped out an arm to stop him and snarled something under his breath. With great effort, the younger man reined in his temper and stayed exactly where he was.
Uscias turned flinty eyes on Brenn. “You are a fool to make an enemy of me,” he hissed.
Brennon threw his head back and laughed, surprising the crowd once again. “Are you serious, Druid? You dare stand there and accuse me of making an enemy of you? Now? You became my enemy the day you stole me from my family and handed me over to the Morrigan’s torturers,” he spat.
Uscias went still while Baird shook with rage at his side.
Brenn turned his hard gaze on Baird. “And you,” he continued, his voice rising with his own brewing anger, “you dare call me faeduhn-tainted when your sins are plentiful enough to paint your entire soul black? Do the good people of Dundoire Hollow know the true story, Baird Corcorain? Do they know how you lusted after my sister, and when she turned you down, you took your resentment out on her brother? And then conspired with the corrupted Druid in order to enact revenge on a young woman who simply fell in love with someone else?”
Brenn paused to take a breath. He knew he was saying too much, far more than he had wished to and even more than what he should have said in front of these people. But once he had started, he could not stop. Like an avalanche high in the northern mountains, careening down the mountainside, deadly and out of control.
“If you threaten me or my family ever again, I will unleash the fury of my glamour against you. I have vowed never to do so again, but if you push me over the edge, if you threaten those I love, then you will wish you were never born.”
Brennon spit the last words at the two men the way a viper spits poison, then turned on his heel and headed toward the horses. His temper boiled high, and the dark magic threatening his soul purred in delight. No. He had to push it away. He had to remain in control.
He reached Dermot in ten ground-eating strides. He started untying the horse’s reins, and then, felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. Brenn reacted violently, throwing back his arm and snarling at whoever had dared touch him. Fortunately, Artur had quick reflexes for such a large man.
He held his palms up and backed away. “Easy, Brenn,” he said, in a voice one might use when speaking to a spooked horse. “It’s only your friend, Artur.”
Brenn shook his head and continued to draw in deep gulps of air. When he thought his heart had slowed a little, he glanced back up and over Artur’s shoulder. To his surprise, he found the small meadow deserted. The fire had been put out and the people had scattered, even Uscias and Baird.
“Where did everyone go?” he asked, his voice hoarse. They had been there only a minute ago. Two minutes at the most.
Artur shook his head. “You were lost in fury for a few minutes there,” he said calmly.
Brenn clenched his teeth. “How many minutes?”
When Artur didn’t answer, Brenn growled his question once again.
“Nearly a quarter of an hour.”
Brenn felt the blood drain from his face. Fifteen minutes he’d been lost in his rage? How was that possible? When the obvious answer came to him, he shuddered. That dark magic was spreading. This recent loss of temper had fed it and given it strength. Brenn took a long breath and glanced around the meadow. The darkness had grown suddenly deeper, much deeper than what seemed natural.
“No,” Brenn whispered in defeat, as he leaned against Dermot. The great horse turned his head and nudged Brennon, wondering what his master was up to.
“Brennon,” Artur said gently, moving in closer. Apparently, he thought it was safe to approach his friend once again. “It will be alright. You are well now.”
Brenn lifted his eyes to Artur’s, barely able to make out his friend’s face in the dark. He imagined his own face was gaunt and drawn. Could the dark magic be spreading? He had been so sure that only taking part in cruel deeds or using his cursed glamour would push him over the edge. Could any violent thought or act, no matter how trivial, be the last straw?
“This is the worst it’s ever been,” he rasped, trying to stand back up.
Artur used his arms to support his young friend. “You cannot let it win, Brenn. I know you. You are a good man, one of the best. It will not defeat you.”
Brenn snorted in laughter, though it was entirely devoid of humor.
“Come along, now. It’s time for you to return home. It is late, and your nephew and that lovely lass are surely waiting for you.”
Artur helped Brenn secure the great satchels of mistletoe onto Dermot’s back. By the time Dundoire Hollow was well behind him, the waning moon had just begun its climb into the sky.
As Dermot plodded along down the dark, deserted road, Brenn tried very hard not to think about what had happened between himself, Uscias and Baird. In all honesty, he was angry at himself above everything else. To so blatantly accuse his enemies in public like that? It was common enough knowledge to those who indulged in rumor mongering, but one didn’t publicly claim gossip to be true.
But that wasn’t what bothered him the most. It was the encroaching darkness he had felt probing his soul, and then taking over completely. That oily, black presence that had exuded some disturbed joy at knowing Brenn was perilously close to losing what little light he had left in him. How could he let himself stray so far? He could never allow the faeduhn darkness to defeat him. Never. No matter the pain it caused him. Who would take care of Rori if he became Faeduihn? Who
would make sure the boy stayed within the safety of the stones? Who would help him renew the blood geis that kept the Morrigan away?
Brenn tightened his hold on Dermot’s reins and encouraged the horse to walk a little faster. He’d had enough of his dismal thoughts. It was Solstice Eve, and although they were probably already in bed, Rori and Seren awaited him back at home. For the second time that night, Brennon allowed himself to picture Seren as something more than a guest at Ardun. But holding onto that thought, as foolish as it may have been, kept the darkness at bay, at least for the time being.
Chapter Twenty
Compliance
Seren woke early on the morning of Winter Solstice. She had taken advantage of Brenn’s absence the day before, working hard with Rori to collect holly and evergreens from the edge of the forest to decorate the great house. Now, as she lingered under the warm covers, she relished the scent of clean pine needles and wild spices clinging to the greenery she had hung around her room. She stretched lazily, her muscles protesting slightly from yesterday’s work. Seren then curled and uncurled her fingers, noticing the ache there as well. Not only had she helped Rori decorate, but she’d spent a good portion of the day trying to finish up the two scarves she was making for the boy and his uncle. She had all but finished Rori’s, and Brennon’s needed a little more work, but she hoped to have them both complete before nightfall. It was tradition among her tribe to exchange Solstice gifts after sunset.
Thinking of her people back in the Weald brought a sudden ache to Seren’s heart. She didn’t miss those who hated her, but she did miss her mother dearly. Would Daniela be celebrating with the others, or would she be alone, missing her daughter as much as Seren missed her?
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