by J. M. Hofer
“I will speak with him,” Jørren relented. “Perhaps I can convince him to meet our enemies on the field and settle this in battle.”
She could barely bring herself to look at him. “If you cannot convince him, then I cannot stay here and be your wife. Freya will withhold her blessings from us. Know that.”
“I will speak with him.”
Arhianna felt her rage slowly subside, like a demon slinking away from the dawn. It was a relief, for sometimes it would take days for it to wane. It was as if the fire she could summon lived within her constantly, just below the surface of her skin, waiting for any opportunity to burst into flames. Though she prayed every day to Freya to help her control it, her temper seemed to be growing stronger—as if it had a mind of its own. More and more, she feared becoming like Aelhaearn.
She looked down at her shaking hands. Perhaps Father was right—perhaps I need Seren.
CHAPTER SIX
Beneath the Blackthorne
Taliesin watched as Arianrhod took to the sky and disappeared into the stars again, so silent, he could not hear her wings beat. He ventured into the woods, naked, with no possessions but the feather she had given him. He had never felt so vulnerable. There was no path to follow, so he simply walked into the trees. Arhianrhod’s feather provided a faint phosphorescent light, and it soon became his only comfort within the dark world that engulfed him. He gripped it tightly between his thumb and forefinger as he moved deeper into the woods.
It’s too silent, he thought, unnerved. His footsteps were all he heard. There were no sounds of animals and no breeze to rustle the branches and leaves overhead. He felt as if he were suffocating. With each step into the woods, he regretted his decision more. This was a mistake. He could no longer remember why he had felt it was so important to seek out Cerridwen.
The cold was relentless, nipping at his blood like a pack of starving wolves. His teeth began to chatter, the sound deafening in the silence that surrounded him. Soon, he could no longer feel his fingers or toes, so he held the feather out in front of him, within his field of vision, to ensure he did not drop it in that horrible place.
How much further must I go? Had he failed to understand Arianrhod’s instructions? Had he perhaps died as they had descended from the sky and was now in the Underworld, there to stay? He did not know. He thought of turning around and trying to find his way back out, but it was so dark, it seemed a hopeless endeavor.
He continued walking for what seemed like hours, his feet bleeding and his body suffering the scratches of a thousand sharp branches, until he could take no more. He stopped and cried out, “Cerridwen!”
Silence.
“Cerridwen, Mistress of Arawn! Keeper of the Cauldron! Hear me!”
A light flickered in the distance and his heart leapt—a fire! He rushed toward it, his fear eclipsed by his desire to warm himself. He knew if he wandered much longer, the cold would claim him.
As he neared the fire, he saw the silhouette of a woman standing over a cauldron. She stirred the steaming liquid it held with a long staff. The shadows the fire cast played heavily upon her face, making her appear young and beautiful one moment, and old and wrinkled the next, her skull visible beneath loose and hanging skin.
“You wish to speak to me?” she asked as he came forward.
“I wish for us to be reconciled.” It took great effort to push the words through his chattering teeth. “I know who I was before I became Taliesin. I know of the conflict between us.”
Cerridwen looked up at him for the first time. “How do you propose to reconcile with me?”
His heart leapt into his throat, but he swallowed it back down again. “I don’t know. What can I do to gain your favor or forgiveness?”
“Do you wish to be forgiven, then, or reconciled? They are different.”
Taliesin did not know. He stood there, mute.
“For us to be reconciled,” she explained, “you must allow me to possess you. You must give yourself to me and embrace my darkness. Is this truly what you wish? You will not be the same when I am done with you, but we shall be reconciled, as you say you wish to be.”
Her face changed once more, appearing young and kind, so Taliesin ventured closer. He peered cautiously over the lip of the cauldron into the liquid she was stirring and saw images swirling within it, like a school of strange fish.
“What do you see?” she asked, her skull now completely visible.
He watched the shapes form and disappear, drifting, never the same. “I see faces I know, but others are strangers to me. There are places I recognize, but many I don’t.”
“Good,” Cerridwen said, her ghastly countenance changing more rapidly. “Look deeper, now.” She removed her staff from the cauldron and leaned on it. The liquid slowed its spin, allowing Taliesin to see what swam within its depths, near the bottom.
“I see a dragon, with red and white scales,” he murmured, mesmerized by the smell of the brew and the warmth of the fire upon his naked body.
“Good,” Cerridwen encouraged. “Keep watching.”
The dragon’s scales pulled away from each other, the red moving toward the west, and the white toward the east, until two dragons appeared.
“Now there are two,” he remarked, fascinated. “One red, one white…” He grimaced as the white viciously attacked the red, digging its talons into its flesh and raking deep gashes across its back. The red twisted in pain, roaring with rage. It lashed back to defend itself, throwing the white off. It took to the air and launched fire at its adversary, arching its wings back. It dove at the white through the thick cloud of smoke it had created, grasped its neck with its talons, and took to the sky. The vision rose up out of the cauldron, hovering just above the brew, which now appeared to be full of snakes, writhing around each other like eels. The red dragon dropped the white into the snakes, reared back and breathed fire down upon them, boiling them all alive. So long did it rain fire down upon them that the flames engulfed it as well, until it shot back down into the cauldron like a dying star streaking across the sky.
The visions then became seemingly random once more. He saw a crown, a sword, a raven and a large cross, many faces he did not recognize, and then, everything disappeared.
“I see nothing more,” he whispered. “What does it mean?”
“The visions you have seen come from the darkness, which you know nothing of, Taliesin,” Cerridwen answered. “If you wish to understand them, you must surrender to me.”
The power of the cauldron was more palpable and compelling than any power Taliesin had ever encountered. The Brisingamen seemed a trinket in comparison. He was overtaken by the desire to know its secrets. He had never wanted anything more.
“Yes. I must understand the darkness. I wish for us to be reconciled. What must I do?”
Cerridwen stood up, rising to a height some three feet taller than Taliesin. “Come, then.”
She led him away from the fire and deeper into the woods. The moon had risen and provided enough light that he could follow her shrouded figure through the trees. She led him to a clearing with a single giant Blackthorne tree growing in it. Its roots twisted into the earth in all directions as if strangling it, preventing anything from growing around it. Its ominous thorns threatened to draw blood from any who dared approach.
Cerridwen handed him a dagger and pointed to the base of the Blackthorne. “Dig.”
With shaking hands, Taliesin took the dagger and did as she commanded. He kneeled down, stabbed the dagger into the earth to loosen the soil, and then scooped it out with his hands. Soon, they were scratched, bleeding, and stinging from the work.
“How far must I dig?”
“Until you stand as deeply within the earth as the Blackthorne does.”
So far, he had only managed to remove a few feet of soil. He felt despondent over the amount of labor his task would require but did as she commanded, struggling to dig around the Blackthorne’s nasty, stabbing roots, ever deeper into the earth.
Hours passed, but he did not give up until he stood within the gaping gash in the earth he had opened, unable to see out.
Cerridwen looked down at him and smiled. “I wish you well on your journey.” She backed away from the pit and disappeared.
A wave of panic gripped Taliesin as he felt the roots of the Blackthorne strike at him like snakes, twisting around his arms and legs, pulling him deeper into the pit he had willingly dug for himself. He screamed in terror as soil from overhead spilled down on top of him, burying him alive. He thought of Nimue and screamed, summoning every bit of strength he had, raging against the roots but to no avail. He stabbed at them with the dagger, but they refused to release their hold on him. Instead, they grew thorns that pierced into his body, deadening his nerves.
He lay paralyzed beneath the earth, dirt filling his mouth, nose and ears as he struggled to breathe, until he realized there would be no returning to Nimue; no return to the light above. Engulfed by agonizing sorrow, he surrendered to the Blackthorne’s darkness and gave himself up for dead.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Road Home
Jørren went to speak with Hengist, as promised, and returned a week later. Arhianna ran to greet him in the stables. He grabbed her up in his arms. “Come, let’s walk.” He led her down to a small stretch of beach along the water where they would have some privacy. “I tried, but Hengist is resolute. The plan at Ambrius will be carried out, and I, and all our men, must be there.”
Arhianna’s throat tightened. She had been murmuring a near constant stream of prayers to Freya since Jørren had received Hengist’s awful command, asking that he and his men be spared the burden of carrying out such a heinous deed, but, apparently, they had come to nothing. She shook her head. “No. We can’t be a part of this.”
Jørren took her by the arms and squeezed them so hard she cried out, but he did not release her. “Don’t you understand?” His teeth were clenched. “If I refuse to do this, we will all be made to suffer! We cannot disobey! Is that what you want? For our clan to be made an example of? To suffer death without honor? To be denied Valhalla?”
Her temper surged. “Yes! Better death without honor than life without it!”
He let her go and threw up his hands in frustration. “You are a fool if you think we can take from Hengist and not do as he asks.” He stormed off and did not come to their bed that night.
***
The following morning, Jørren and his men prepared to march to Ambrius, as commanded. Arhianna feared he might be so angry with her he would not say goodbye. They both struggled with hot tempers. She could not bear to have things end in such a way, so ran down to the beach where the men were preparing their ships. Just before they were ready to sail, he came to her. He took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “Be here when I return. Please.”
She took a deep breath, not wanting to ask the question that would determine their future together, but knowing she had to. “Are you truly going to do as Hengist commands? Will you murder innocent men for him?”
He looked up at the sky and sighed, his breath weak with fatigue. “How many times must I say this? I cannot refuse him.”
Arhianna’s eyes filled with tears. “Then, I cannot be here when you return.”
He let her go and stepped back. His eyes were bloodshot, with dark shadows under them. “So, this is all the loyalty you have for me?” He shook his head. “Go, then!” He waved her off. “I don’t want a wife like you.” He turned and barked to his men, releasing his fury on them.
Tears spilled out of her eyes as he surged into the surf and leapt into his ship.
“I love you!” she cried in his tongue.
He did not reply.
***
If the plan at Ambrius were successful, Arhianna knew it would only be a matter of time before Hengist and his armies moved west to claim the lands left open for the taking. And Mynyth Aur could be one of them. I must go home and warn them. She dared not risk telling Ragna about her plan, but did not want her to worry. She wrapped up all her jewelry, including her wedding ring, left it where Ragna would find it, and took what she estimated its value to be in coin. This way, it would be clear she had left deliberately.
She set out for Caer Lundein the next day, a few hours before dawn. From there, she planned to ride west to Calleva. Calleva was one of the last cities to be abandoned by the Romans. It was well-situated between Dumnonia and Caer Lundein, enjoying a constant flow of travelers making their way to and from these cities and the ports on the southern coast. The Oaks often traded their finest swords with a local smith and merchant there, named Rufus, who valued fine work and paid well for it. She suspected he would welcome her into his home for a night if she mentioned her father’s name.
She knew the Roman roads well. As a girl, she had spent hours studying her mother’s maps, dreaming of the places they led to. She could see all of them with stunning accuracy within her mind’s eye. From Calleva, she knew she could ride northwest to Corinium, then to Venonis, then two days north to Deva, and then west along the river to Mynyth Aur. All told, it would take about a week to get home, provided she did not meet with any trouble.
She left with a heavy heart. The wind’s breath had grown cold and whispered to the trees of the coming winter. The trees, in turn, burst into fiery color as if they were trying to warm themselves from the inside out. Since the Firebrand had come upon her, the cold had never bothered her. She could change her body temperature to her preference, never needing to bother with skins and cloaks. It was merely so she did not arouse suspicion that she wore them.
Her first day of travel was uneventful. She found an inn along the road and passed the night there. She left before sunrise, eager to put a good distance between herself and Kent, lest Ragna decide to pursue her and try to convince her to return. She reached the outskirts of Caer Lundein before nightfall the second day, taking care to avoid the city center. She wanted as few people to see her as possible. She spent a restless night in a tiny, run-down inn, for it was all she could find. She rode hard the next day, not daring to breathe a sigh of relief until she was on the road to Calleva, far from the Saxon settlements. The road was well-traveled, for many took their goods into Caer Lundein to trade. She went unnoticed for the most part, heavily robed so it was not clear if she be man or woman.
Upon arriving in Calleva, she asked the first person she came across where the house of Rufus the Merchant might be found. Fortunately, he was well-known among the townspeople, and she quickly found his shop. She did her best to make herself presentable and went in. A ruddy-haired, portly gentleman glanced her way as she entered, deigning a conciliatory nod in her direction. He was in the midst of heated negotiations with a gentleman whom she was surprised to see in a merchant’s shop. Judging from his fine clothes, he was surely a lord or noble. He was accompanied by a woman who looked to be about her same age, eyeing several bolts of costly-looking embroidered silk. One after another, she touched them gently with her graceful fingers, peering closely at the stitchwork and smiling.
Her companion, whom Arhianna assumed must be her father or husband, was clearly not as pleased with Rufus’ wares. He was shaking his head like a restless stallion over several fine-looking swords displayed upon a swath of fine linen. “No, no, no—these won’t do. I was told you could show me something extraordinary.”
Rufus’ complexion slowly approached the color of his hair, but flustered as he might appear, his voice relayed nothing but grace and charm. “One moment, Lord Amlawth,” he said in a soothing tone. “I’m certain I have exactly what you’re looking for.” One by one, he lifted the swords off the linen and returned them to their places, treating each with respect and care, though they had not managed to please his customer. “Excuse me, please. I’ll be but a moment.” Rufus disappeared through a door behind his bartering table.
So that she did not appear to be eavesdropping, Arhianna joined the young lady in regarding Rufus’ merchandise. In
addition to the beautiful silks, there were bolts of soft wool, woven and dyed in an array of patterns and colors, fine cloaks for both men and women, and well-tooled leather goods.
“Here we are,” Rufus announced upon his return. Arhianna could not resist turning around to see what he had chosen to please his discriminating customer.
Rufus laid the blade down on the linen as if it were a newborn prince, and Arhianna stole a peek. At first glance, it looked to be a fine sword, but she was too far away to tell. She pretended to be interested in the silk as well, making friendly conversation with the young lady about its fine quality and what lovely colors it came in, all the while ambling closer to the sword for a better look.
Over the years, she had learned how to identify an excellent blade from a poor one. It was one of the benefits of growing up around a forge. As a young girl, she had found it fascinating and begged to watch Gareth as he learned the craft. Einon had allowed her to be there as long as she did not interrupt her brother’s work. Soon, she was granted a clear view of the sword Rufus had brought out. To her shock and delight, she recognized her brother’s symbol upon the hilt. She smiled to herself and kept quiet, curious to see how much his work would sell for.
“This is the best I have.” Rufus raised his eyes and gave Amlawth a somber nod, indicating he was holding nothing from him.
Amlawth picked it up and hefted it. Though he pretended not to be impressed, Arhianna saw him smile while his back was turned toward Rufus. He inspected the blade carefully, squinting down its edge with a critical eye. “How much? And don’t forget I’ve just come from Londinium.”
Rufus sighed. “That one I cannot let go for less than fifteen pounds of silver.”
“Fifteen pounds?” Amlawth feigned astonishment. “That’s triple the price of most fine swords!”
“True, but the one you hold in your hand is three times better than most. I do recall you saying you wanted the best.” Rufus raised his brows.