Rise of the Pendragon (Islands in the Mist Book 3)

by J. M. Hofer

Bran sighed with exasperation and shot Jørren an icy look. He’s to blame for this travesty. He took his daughter by the shoulders, crouching down to look in her eyes. “Arhianna, listen to me—you’re making a mistake. Don’t throw your life away for this man.” He gestured toward Jørren with a contemptuous flick of his head.

  “I’m not!” She took offense and jerked out of his grasp.

  Jørren stepped forward, his chest puffed up.

  Oh, please. The aggression coursing through his blood from being trapped in the longhouse ignited into anger. “Step back, you Saxon bastard, before I crush you!”

  Jørren did not move. Bran would have backhanded him off his feet, but Arhianna grabbed his arm. “Father! Stop! Please!”

  He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, and locked eyes with his daughter. “And what of your Firebrand, Arhianna? Do you dare insult the Great Mother and throw that away as well? How will you learn to use it? There’s certainly no one here who can mentor you!” It was the only other thing he could think of to say.

  She shook her head. “I don’t need a mentor.” She set her jaw and looked down the length of the fire trench in the longhouse. She caused the flames to stretch so high they nearly touched the ceiling. When the people began to gasp in fear, she shrunk them down so low they barely rose off the bed of coals beneath them. The hall erupted into another wave of whispers and gasps, the words Freya and seidhr echoing through the crowd. Arhianna then reached down into the fire trench and took a flame in her hand, moving it from finger to finger, changing its shape. Everyone stared at her in awe. Even Bran had to admit it was impressive. It took Seren years to do such things.

  She snapped her fingers, extinguishing the flame, and looked back at her father, brows raised. “You see? You don’t need to worry.”

  Bran felt at a loss, his anger turning to desperation. I don’t need to worry? The pain in his heart flared. He reached up and pressed his hands against his ribs, doing his best to hide his anguish. Great Mother, what do I do? I can’t leave my daughter here. “Arhianna, please. Think of your mother! She’ll be devastated.”

  She took a deep breath and put her arms around him. “I’m staying, Father. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. Jørren will look after me.”

  Bran held her head close to his chest, smoothing her strawberry curls, eyeing the man he had been asked to entrust his daughter to. He squeezed her and let out a long, pained breath. “So be it, then, lass.” He nearly choked on the words.

  ***

  Bran returned to the beach, his feelings of failure mounting. Gareth saw him and ran over. “You went back to the village, didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  “She’s not coming, is she?”

  “No, she’s not coming.” Speaking the words triggered a sick wave of panic. He grappled with an impulse to return to the hall, throw his daughter over his shoulder and carry her to the ship against her will, but knew it was selfish of him. How can I risk bloodshed when she wants to stay? He wanted as many families to be reunited with their loved ones as possible. There would already be too many disappointments as it was.

  He thought back to when Arhianna had been little, and the countless times he had thrown her over his shoulder in fun. For years, the routine had been the same—at the end of the day, she would run out to greet him. He would demand a kiss, which she always refused. He would pretend to be upset, throw her over his shoulder, and dangle her over a puddle of mud or a rain barrel, threatening to drop her if she did not agree to give him one. She would squeal and giggle until she was tired of being held upside-down, and then scream, “I surrender! I’ll give you a kiss!” He felt a bittersweet pang of sadness run through his body.

  He studied Gareth, disturbed he did not seem more upset. The twins had been inseparable since birth. “That’s all you have to say about leaving your sister behind?”

  Gareth furrowed his brow. “I’ll miss her, Father, but what can we do? Force her to come?”

  “I could—and I’m considering it.” The knots in his stomach tightened.

  Gareth gazed toward the village and then up into the whispering trees, as if listening for something. “Did you know their goddess, Freya, speaks to her? The way the Great Mother speaks to Mother?”

  Bran felt unnerved. Now, even their gods speak to her? What’s wrong with our own gods? “No.”

  “She’s happy here.” Gareth nodded with confidence. “Besides, Taliesin is staying, too. He’ll look after her.”

  It eased Bran’s mind somewhat to know Gareth supported his sister’s decision. They had always known one another’s minds. Still, it was no guarantee he was making the right decision as her father. “Well, I’m glad at least you think so. Now, let’s go, before I change my mind and go back for her.”

  Lucia came running down the beach. Her disappointment at seeing him alone was obvious. His heart sank.

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s not coming.”

  “What do you mean?” The lines in her face deepened. “You said you’d bring her back!”

  Bran shook his head. “If I force her to come, we may have casualties. I tried.”

  “Well, you didn’t try hard enough!”

  Before Bran could protest, she ran off toward the village, anger and purpose in her steps.

  Bran took ahold of his son’s shoulder. “Go with your mother. Say goodbye to your sister.”

  Irwyn approached, wet to his thighs from readying the ships. “We must leave soon.”

  Bran gazed down the road toward the village. “Give them a bit of time.”

  Irwyn pursed his lips and nodded.

  It was an hour before Lucia and Gareth returned. When they did, they had company, but Arhianna was not among them. Bran squinted at the three people walking with his wife and son. As they approached, he recognized the blacksmith from earlier that morning, a young man and a girl.

  “Father!” Gareth ran toward him.

  Bran strode his direction. “What’s going on?”

  Gareth gestured toward the blacksmith. “Brokkr and his children want to come with us. His parents were of our people. They were taken as slaves in a raid, like we were. He can speak our language.”

  Brokkr spoke up. “You are a strong, son of Hraban. You have no fear. I want to come with you. Bring my children. This place not good for children. I am good blacksmith. Like your son. Good blacksmith.”

  “No wife?” Bran asked, eyeing the children. The boy looked to be Gareth’s age, and the girl likely ten or eleven years old.

  Brokkr looked down at his children and shook a heavy head.

  Bran stood there for some time, considering how the clan would react.

  Gareth seemed to note his apprehension. “He treated me as an apprentice, Father, not a slave—and he is a good blacksmith, as he says—very good.”

  Bran could tell it would mean a great deal to Gareth if he allowed Brokkr and his children to join their clan, but he had concerns about how his people would react to having a Jute family living among them. Of their blood or not, they spoke the Jute language and had grown up among them. For the second time that day, he faced a difficult decision, and with no time to make it in—the ships had been waiting for hours, ready to sail.

  He let the look on his son’s face decide for him. “Fine,” he said, nodding at Brokkr. “We’ve lost many of our warriors, and we always have room for good blacksmiths. You must come with us now, though. We’re ready to sail.”

  Brokkr’s face widened into a relieved smile. “Thank you, Earl Bran.”

  “Pennaeth—not Earl. And your children will have to learn our tongue.”

  “Thank you, Pennaeth,” Brokkr said, correcting himself. “They will learn.”

  Gareth smiled and nodded with enthusiasm. “I’ll help them.”

  Bran sighed in defeat. I’ve traded my only daughter for a blacksmith.

  ***

  The Oaks sailed home aboard the Twin Sisters and the Ceffyl Dŵr. The weather was mild for the
ir voyage, but there were storms brewing in other ways. Bran felt Lucia drifting from him. She spent hours staring at the horizon, no expression on her face, and she rarely ate or drank. She barely slept, and if she did, not for long. She often sat bolt upright in the middle of the night, covered in sweat. He tried his best to comfort her, but nothing he said or did seemed to make any difference. It felt as if he had left her behind as well.

  The crossing took five days, but for Bran, it felt like a month.

  ***

  The homecoming at Gwythno was bittersweet. Bran heard its famous bells tolling their arrival as they sailed along the familiar coastline, singing out from the towers atop the village walls. By the time they finished tying their ships to the docks, it seemed everyone in Gwythno had gathered to greet them.

  People watched closely as they disembarked, craning their necks and squinting, hoping to see a familiar face. Bran scanned the crowd. Some faces burst into smiles, some did not. That night, he knew, every house would either celebrate a reunion with their loved ones, or grieve those whom they now knew would never return.

  Once everyone had disembarked, all made their way up the paths from the harbor to the village. The hall in Elffin’s castle was open to everyone, noble, merchant and peasant. Though not up to its usual splendor and bounty, the tables of Caer Gwythno still held enough food and drink for all.

  “It’s not a feast by Gwythno standards, but I’m enjoying it more than any other,” Elffin commented to Bran. “Many have come home to their families—and it’s to your credit, my friend.”

  Bran shook his head. “No. Without the rest of you, it wouldn’t have been possible. Drink to me if you insist, but I’ll be drinking to you.”

  “Fair enough.” Elffin gave him a nod of respect. They both drained their cups. Elffin gestured toward Lucia, who was across the hall speaking to Seren. “How fares your wife?”

  Bran pursed his lips and shook his head. He had hoped her mood would improve once they reached Gwythno,. So far, he had seen no change. “Not well, I’m afraid.”

  Elffin nodded, gazing at her with a compassionate look. “It almost put me in my grave when Taliesin left to study with Islwyn. I still miss him. I’ve no doubt that leaving Arhianna behind was the hardest thing she’s ever had to do.”

  Bran felt indignant. “It’s not as if it was easy for me either—I lie awake every night wondering if I did the right thing.” He finished off his ale. “Should have dragged her to the ship and tied her to the mast.”

  Elffin laughed.

  Bran raised his eyebrows. “I’m serious.”

  “Sooner or later, her destiny would have come calling. One can only outrun it for so long.”

  “Well, we would have preferred later.” Bran studied Lucia, feeling helpless. She looked up at him and shot him a wounded smile.

  Elffin put a hand on Bran’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I think I’ll go and speak to her, if you don’t mind.”

  Bran nodded. “Please do.”

  ***

  The Oaks spent a week in Gwythno before returning to Mynyth Aur. The weather was mild, and the roads were dry and easy to travel. The first day home was a mix of joy and heartache, just as it had been in Gwythno. Out of respect, Bran refrained from speaking of business matters that night. The following morning, however, he called a council meeting in the motherhouse.

  “No sign at all of Camulos or Aelhaearn?” he asked first. He had been worried about the two men returning ever since their disappearance.

  “None,” Maur said. “Neirin led search parties into the surroundin’ area every mornin’ for two weeks. Found no sign of ‘em.”

  Neirin gave a nod of acknowledgment. “We found camps, here and there, where travelers had slept or eaten, but nothing else. We have no reason to believe they’re anywhere close. I think they made their play with Hraban, and, when it failed, cut their losses and moved on, as Seren suggested. Gods know they won’t be welcome among Hraban’s people anymore. My guess is they went back to Gaul. They made quite a name for themselves down there.”

  “As bloody mercenaries,” Bran said with disgust. “The Dragon and the Wolf, right? I’m surprised that snake Vortigern hasn’t sought them out yet.”

  “Don’t be too certain,” Idris commented.

  Maur sighed. “In any case, we’re lucky they attacked after the harvest. We’ll have enough to eat this winter, but the horses will need hay, and Aelhaearn damn-well burned most of it, Arawn curse the bastard…”

  Bran nodded. “It’ll be all Gwythno can do to manage taking care of their own this winter, so we’d best send men out to see who we can trade with for food.”

  “I’ll go,” Neirin offered. “I have good relations with the clans my father traded with. I’m sure I can find what we need, if you trust me to negotiate on your behalf.”

  “I’ll go as well,” Eirwen volunteered. “I would enjoy visiting the chieftains’ wives. I’ve not seen them in many moons.”

  Bran nodded. “I’ll leave it to you both, then. Einon will see you receive whatever coin you need.”

  Einon glanced in their direction and gave them a nod to show he understood.

  Bran looked back to Maur. “How go the repairs?”

  Maur raised his eyebrows and tick-tocked his head. “We’ve done our best, but many of the men were injured in the attack and can’t do as much work as usual. Now that you and the others have returned, I’m hopin’ we’ll finally make some headway.”

  Bran nodded. “I’ll send Gareth to visit every family and tell them to meet outside the motherhouse tomorrow. I’ll leave it to you to decide how best to use the men who’ve just returned—myself included.”

  Maur nodded. “Gladly. Buddug can help divide up the less nasty jobs among the women and children.”

  “Good.” Bran looked around at his council. “If we don’t starve this winter, we’ll soon have our home back.”

  “If only we had all our Oaks back,” Maur lamented.

  They all gave a somber nod.

  ***

  Except for the injured, every man, woman and child gathered in the center of the village the following morning, ready to work.

  Bran scanned the faces of his clan as they arrived, looking at each face in turn. Together, they formed a patchwork of emotions. There were eyes red and swollen from shedding tears through the night, mouths turned upward with unexpiring smiles of gratitude for those who had come home, jaws squared off and set in determination, blank stares of utter grief, and the oblivious wide-eyed gazes of small children, blissfully ignorant of the pain the last moon had wrought. Below the faces, he saw reassuring hands on shoulders, supportive arms around waists, and feet planted resolutely on the ground.

  There was only one face he did not see. Where the hell is Lucia? A surge of frustration nearly drowned out the pride he was feeling toward his clan, but he refused to let it take over. He shook it off and raised his hands. “Oaks! Let us give thanks to the gods! We have prevailed! We’ve survived an attack that would have left any other clan enslaved or slaughtered.”

  Cries burst forth from the crowd, filling the valley.

  “We drove them out, and then we hunted them—we, men half their size.”

  “Except for you, Pennaeth!” a little boy cried.

  Everyone chuckled, and his father ruffled his hair. Bran smiled down at the boy, who was standing as close to him as he could. “We ran them down, took them prisoner, and sailed them back to the land of their mothers in chains!”

  Everyone cheered again, now worked up into a churning sea of emotion.

  “There, we seized back our loved ones from the talons of those who enslaved them, and brought them home.” Bran held a fist high in the air. “Oaks! We have prevailed.”

  When the cries of victory died down, Bran finished his speech. “Now comes the easy work—rebuilding our home.” He looked at Maur and Buddug and gestured toward them. “Maur will organize the men, and Buddug, the women.”

  Ma
ur and Buddug stepped forward and moved through the crowd, grouping people according to their skills and assigning appropriate chores. Within the hour, everyone was hard at work, eager to profit from every minute of daylight.

  Except for Lucia. Bran thought of all the grief-stricken faces he had seen in the crowd that morning and felt embarrassed and angry. She’s not the only one who has lost someone—and it’s not as if Arhianna’s dead!

  He went to the stable to discover Gethen was gone. Damn the gods, she’s gone riding? Today? While everyone in the clan is breaking their backs in the village?

  He saddled a horse and set off, hoping his departure had not been noticed. He searched all the places Lucia liked to ride until he at last spied Gethen grazing in the distance. She was not far from him, sitting beside the river. He kicked his horse into a gallop until he reached them, dismounted, rushed over and grabbed her by the arms. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  She looked up at him with wide, shocked eyes. Good—anything but that bloody blank stare. “The whole clan met this morning to put the village back together. Everyone—the injured, those who actually lost their sons or daughters, even the children, Lucia! Where the hell were you? Out here, feeling sorry for yourself?” All the frustration that had built up over the voyage was now rushing out of him like a torrent. “I can’t take it anymore! This stops today, do you understand me?”

  Lucia looked stunned. She said nothing.

  Bran gripped her arms. “Where is my wife? Where is the woman who rode like Boudicca on the battlefield, eyes full of fire? Who is this horrible ghost in front of me?”

  Lucia’s face twisted into anger, the veins in her neck pulsing.

  “Do you blame me for Arhianna?” he demanded.

  The forest seemed to hold its breath around them.

  “Do you blame me for Arhianna?” he repeated, his heart felt as if it would burn a hole through his chest.

  “Yes!” Lucia blurted out, pushing against him, trying to free herself from his grasp. “Yes!”

  Finally, the truth.

  “I blame you!” She choked back a sob and went limp, abandoning her struggle. “And I blame myself…”