The Embers of Light

by Tammy Farrell

  “Mother?” Malcolm asked.

  “Yes,” she said, blinking several times. “What have you gotten yourself in to, Malcolm?”

  “I don’t know,” Malcolm said. “But get me out of here.”

  The woman’s eyes shifted towards the door. “They have guards out there. Even I can’t get you past them.”

  “Can’t you take one of their bodies to let me go?”

  The woman shook her head. “They’re protected by some kind of magic. This one is the weakest of them all. She has the beginnings of a sickness. But I’m not certain how much longer I can hold this form.”

  “Why can’t I see you in spirit?”

  “Taking the body of another mortal is different than a Dia. You have no power to aid you. The same rules don’t apply.”

  “Well open this blasted cage, then. I’ll find my own way out.”

  Daria reached for the latch, but stopped. “They will kill you if they catch you.”

  Malcolm felt his face grow hot. “What good are you? Your son is trapped by slavers and you can’t even get him out? Open the cage and leave me alone. I want nothing more to do with you.” He had no control of his words as he spoke them. Fear and frustration gripped his heart.

  Daria sighed. “As you wish.” She moved to open the latch, but just then there was laughter from outside and the door swung open. Malcolm looked to his mother in a panic. “Don’t leave, I didn’t mean it,” he whispered, but the woman’s eyes rolled back in her head and when she opened them, his mother was gone. The woman shook her head as if trying to shake a thought and scowled at Malcolm. She grabbed the bowl and got to her feet just as Bram, the gigantic warrior, walked into the hut.

  “There’s our thief.” He stepped up to the cage and looked in like he was examining a bear cub on display. “He takes my sword, he takes my horse, my food, and tries to take my son.”

  “I didn’t know he was your son,” Malcolm shot back. “He was the one who found me in the forest, and he was the one who led me to this village.”

  Bram nodded and stroked his beard. “Aye, but it was you who took my sword. What have you to say to that?”

  Malcolm had no words as the overwhelming sense of dread came over him.

  “What will you do to me?” he finally managed to ask.

  “I will decide that later,” Bram said before stalking off.

  Malcolm stared at the unopened latch and let his head fall into his hands. But when he didn’t hear the door to the hut close, he looked up to see several people standing in the doorway. They all looked like ragged people of the forest. Their clothes were tattered and their hair unkempt. Malcolm challenged their stares, anger rising up in his chest. These people were worse than peasants; poorer than beggars, and viler than the wretched slaves they traded. He spat at them and grabbed onto the bars of the cage. His eyes fell on a young woman standing behind the rest. She had long curly chestnut hair and bright amber eyes. She raised her chin and looked over the shoulder of the woman in front of her. Malcolm saw her lips moving, but none of the others seemed to notice her speak, and when he blinked, she was gone. He scanned the group of faces once more, but couldn’t find her.

  As night fell, Malcolm sat under the watchful eyes of curious villagers that came and went out of the hut. By the time the torches were lit, he didn’t even care to glare back at them, and it wasn’t until he heard a familiar voice in the room that Malcolm finally looked up to see Wynn in front of him with a tray of food.

  At first Wynn said nothing, the look of guilt ripe on his face.

  “What do you want?” Malcolm hissed.

  Wynn took a cautious step forward and set the tray on the ground.

  “This is a fine mess you’ve gotten me in to,” Malcolm muttered, squeezing his shoulder to stop the pain.

  “I did not intend it,” Wynn replied. “I didn’t think he would be back so soon.”

  “And this warrior—this sea raider—he is your father?”

  Wynn nodded. “Though I don’t think he wishes it so. I am the youngest and weakest of his sons.” Wynn’s eyes fell. “I wanted to leave with you.”

  Malcolm reached out for the piece of stale bread. “Well it doesn’t look like either of us will be going anywhere now.” He took a bite. “What does your father have planned for me?”

  Wynn pursed his lips. “The last man who tried to steal one of our sheep ended up on a post outside the village. It took many days for the wolves to finish him.” He looked away.

  Malcolm almost spat out his bread. “You don’t think he plans to do the same with me, do you?”

  Wynn shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Malcolm sat forward “Come back here when all have gone to sleep. Let me out,” he urged.

  Wynn looked from side to side. “I will try, but I can’t make any promises,” he said. “Tonight is the full moon. There will be a celebration for their return from the sea.”

  Just as Wynn finished speaking, the door to the large hut opened and several peasants walked in. Malcolm couldn’t understand how such a small hamlet sheltered so many people.

  “I must go,” Wynn whispered and ran back out the door.

  Malcolm watched as women arranged trestle tables, lit candles, and started a large fire in the stone pit in the center of the room. This time, the women behaved as if Malcolm wasn’t even there, and all the while he watched for his mother, wondering if she’d really abandoned him.

  When the feast had been arranged, earthen cups filled with ale and a large cooked pig set down on the head table, the rest of the little village came in, their eyes following Malcolm until they took their seats.

  Malcolm was utterly humiliated. Here he was, once a great Dia, and now he was reduced to a spectacle for the amusement of barbarians.

  How had he sunk so low?

  “If there is a mortal hell, then I am surely in it,” he said to himself.

  The villagers were well in to drinking and laughing when the sound of a single drummer came from outside and the doors to the hut opened. The drummer came through the door, with Bram following triumphantly. His wild hair was pulled back from his face as he marched forward, his chest puffed out and his hands up. The peasants began to clap and bang on the tables when they saw what followed. Bram’s men marched into the room carrying crates of pottery, silver wares, and one chest filled entirely with gold.

  The room was a chorus of excitement, and when Bram and his men were finally settled at their table, the villagers quieted.

  “It has been a successful plundering this time. The Irish have taken our slaves and we have raided the eastern ships. Now it is known all along the coast that Bram the Pillager is to be feared!”

  The peasants cheered and followed Bram in raising their glasses. He took a large swig from his cup as ale dripped down his beard, and then his eyes fell on Malcolm. “But there is still one who has not yet learned to fear me.” He got up from the table and sauntered towards Malcolm. “This drifter with the fine clothes stole my sword right from under my nose.”

  The villagers gasped.

  “And then he crept over our fence, raided our food stores, and tried to take one of our horses.”

  The people taunted Malcolm; several of them threw bits of food and bones at him.

  Bram rattled Malcolm’s cage. “And then, he had the daring to try and take my son.”

  To the villagers, this seemed the vilest offense of all. They glowered at Malcolm as though he’d just slaughtered a newborn child.

  Malcolm felt the old defiance in him rise up, his pride not lost with his powers. He straightened his shoulders and sat up as much as the small cage would allow. “This is a mockery,” he shouted. “The child found me on the moors and brought me back here. I am no more a thief than your leader is!”

  Bram laughed and nodded. “It does seem that this thieving wanderer is correct in that.” He snapped his fingers and the doors opened. One of Bram’s men dragged Wynn, struggling like a feral cat, into the room by his colla
r.

  “Let go of me,” Wynn protested.

  Bram grabbed Wynn by the arm and steadied him. “And I suspect my little offspring is also guilty of plotting to set the vagrant free.”

  “I would do no such thing,” Wynn insisted.

  “You will do no such thing,” Bram said. “Until we decide what to do with him, you can be his companion.” Bram pushed Wynn towards one of his men, who then dragged Wynn over to Malcolm’s cage and secured both of Wynn’s hands to the wooden bars. For a moment, all eyes in the room were on them, but when Bram returned to his seat, the peasants went back to their meals.

  Wynn looked to Malcolm with tears in his eyes. “Do you see why I wanted to leave with you?”

  Malcolm nodded, feeling a hint of pity for the poor boy. “Does he have other sons?”

  Wynn motioned towards the long table. “Yes. Those three men beside him at the table, they are the three sons of Bram the Pillager,” he said with a note of contempt. “He has married off his daughters, even the ones not yet old enough to bear children.”

  “And what have you done to make him loathe you so deeply?” Malcolm asked with genuine curiosity.

  “My mother died in childbirth. To him, I was the dagger that took her life. He will never see me as anything more.”

  Malcolm looked back to the feast when he heard another drumbeat come from outside the door. A broad smile crossed Bram’s lips. The drumbeat quickened to a heated pace and the door flung open, letting in a gray mist that crawled along the ground. A fair-haired woman stepped through the doorway, wearing the mask of a lion on her face, etched in gold, and her stomach and bosom were barely covered by a top made of silver. The room was captivated, watching as she danced like a flower on the wind.

  “Who is that?” Malcolm whispered to Wynn.

  “That is Davina. My father’s mistress.”

  “What is she doing?”

  “She’s working her magic. They say she’s a sorceress.”

  Everyone in the room had their eyes locked on her, including Bram, utterly mesmerized by the dancing witch.

  “There is no such thing as sorceresses,” Malcolm muttered.

  “I don’t know about that,” Wynn said. “She’s the reason we’ve not starved out here. They say she casts spells so my father and his men will find riches and so our crops grow in all seasons. And—” Wynn stopped.

  “And what?” Malcolm asked.

  Wynn took in a breath. “Most of the people in this village, they don’t know where they come from. They say she steals children and brings them into the forest.”

  Malcolm shook his head at the notion and returned his gaze to her as she continued to dance to the beat of the drum. When the music finally stopped, the room erupted with cheers. The golden lioness removed her mask and leapt onto the table in front of Bram, and with a bow, she jumped into his lap.

  “Well done, my pretty enchantress,” Bram said.

  She took a long draft from his goblet and swept her eyes towards Malcolm. Her mouth curled in a subtle smile and her eyes flashed an intense shade of amber, the same as the young woman he’d seen earlier in the day. Malcolm refused to look away from the obvious mocking in her expression. She was challenging him, examining him, and telling him without words that she knew he was more than what he seemed.

  A loud bang of the door broke Malcolm’s stare, and he turned to see two more peasants walk in; a young man and woman who looked no older than twenty. Immediately, Malcolm recognized the young woman as the one who’d been observing him earlier in the day and like her, the young man had bright golden eyes behind his sullen expression.

  Davina beckoned to the two. There was a look of contempt on both of their faces, but they obeyed. The young man bowed to Bram and took his place next to the table. But the young woman seemed more hesitant, and when Bram reached out for her, Malcolm could see why. Bram’s hand lingered on her shoulder, and her lips turned hard in a line of disgust.

  Davina sat on the other side of Bram, drinking back her goblet of wine and watching Bram stroke the young girl. Malcolm couldn’t take his eyes off her and when she finally looked up at him, he could almost feel her desperation.

  “Who is that?” Malcolm asked Wynn.

  “That’s Seren and Tristan, Davina’s children. They say they’re sorcerers as well.”

  “It looks as though your father would have both mother and daughter in his little harem.”

  “I think you’re right,” Wynn said. “There are rumors of a marriage between the three.”

  Malcolm looked back to the strange little family with the golden-red eyes. They were more than mortal, that much he knew.

  Perhaps they could help him out of this mess.

  The celebrations continued well into the night, until the last of the revelers stumbled out of the long house just before dawn. Malcolm awoke with a terrible ache from the arrow wound in his shoulder, and an icy shiver that chilled him from the inside out.

  Wynn was asleep on the dirt and straw ground, his hands still secured to the bars of the cage.

  Malcolm’s head throbbed at the temples and he trembled with chattering teeth. He pulled a coarse woolen blanket tightly around his shoulders and looked around the darkened room. Clay jugs and cups lay scattered on the tables and stools lay overturned on the ground. The fire in the center hearth had burned out, leaving the smell of smoke and the sour stench of unwashed bodies still ripe in the air. Malcolm shivered again, though the room was still warm, and wiped the cold sweat from his brow.

  He was burning up with fever, and time was running out to make his escape.

  Bram was clearly the type to relish in making people squirm, and he’d made Malcolm squirm quite enough. Malcolm heard the sound of rustling outside as the women of the little hamlet fed the chickens and started the morning fires—an activity all too normal when just steps away, Malcolm sat in fear for his life.

  Through the stiffness in his limbs, he sat up and pressed himself against the bars of the cage. He reached his arm out and patted the ground, looking for something he could use as a weapon. If Bram meant to leave him as a side of meat for the wolves, Malcolm wasn’t about to willingly walk to his death. As he felt around, his hand landed on a broken piece of clay. He stretched out for it and pulled it into the cage, but it was too small to use as a weapon and nearly crumbled in his hands.

  Malcolm pushed his face to the bars again, willing his mortal eyes to see, when he spotted a long, narrow object partially covered in hay. He looked harder. It was a fire iron, carelessly left within his reach. His heart quickened and he extended his arm as far as it would go, but the pain in his shoulder forced him to draw back.

  He gritted his teeth and looked at Wynn. The boy was tied too far from the iron to reach it. Malcolm took a quick breath and stretched out again, his shoulder aching and his body trembling with weakness. His fingers crept along the ground like a spider until the tips grasped the iron. He pulled it towards him when suddenly the door to the longhouse swung open. Malcolm jerked back, abandoning the iron where it laid and shrouded himself in the shadow of his cage.

  A lone figure walked into the room, and when he stepped into the beam of light from the shuttered window, Malcolm saw Tristan, the son of the sorceress. Like his sister, the young man had a delicate, gentle face, but his golden-red eyes gave away a poisonously bitter stare.

  Tristan raised his brows when he saw Wynn, but didn’t bother to glance at Malcolm. He sighed and walked over to untie the boy’s hands. “Are you still in here?” he asked quietly.

  Wynn groaned and opened his eyes. “I didn’t mean to sleep so long.”

  “Never mind that,” Tristan said, helping Wynn to his feet. “Bram is gone on a hunt. You’d better get something to eat and make yourself scarce before he comes back.”

  Wynn rubbed his face and looked at Malcolm. “It’s my fault he’s in here.”

  Tristan finally flashed his reflective eyes at Malcolm. “It’s not your fault. You’re just a boy. He
should have known better than to steal from us.”

  Malcolm wanted to disagree and plead his case, but his mind wouldn’t form the words, the cold shiver inside him becoming a fire under his skin.

  “I am falling ill,” he managed to whisper. “Please let me go before Bram comes back.” Malcolm coughed, losing his breath for a moment.

  “And who do you think Bram will punish once you’ve escaped?” Tristan shook his head reprovingly. “Is there no end to your self-interest? Don’t you care about the trouble you’ve already caused for Wynn?”

  Wynn moved to protest, but Tristan silenced him with a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve gotten yourself in this mess, you get yourself out.”

  Malcolm fell back against the wooden bars with a weak smile. “Always,” he whispered.

  Tristan stared at Malcolm a moment longer and then ushered Wynn out of the hut.

  The silence they left Malcolm in swallowed him up, and as the minutes passed, he was losing the strength he needed to figure his way out. And what was worse, he was losing his strength to care.

  His entire body ached all the way down to his bones, and his hearing felt muffled, causing his spinning head to whirl even more. He crawled to the edge of the cage once more and tried to rattle the wooden rods, but he was too weak. With his last breath of energy, he reached out for the fire iron. His fingers grazed it and then he latched on. He pulled it through the bars. His stomach lurched and his mouth tasted sour. He slunk back in the shadow of the cage and wrapped himself in the woolen blanket, with the iron hidden close to his chest, shivering with a viscous mixture of fear and sickness.

  He slept a restless sleep, caught between the churning of wakefulness and horrid dreams. He couldn’t remember them when he awoke, but then he had little time to remember anything between the fits of vomiting that engulfed him. How long he’d been delirious, he didn’t know. Hours could have passed, or days. None of it mattered. He prayed for release, looking through the darkness, when he noticed a figure standing before him. Her golden hair was twisted in plaits gathered over her shoulder, and her simple blue dress was more like a queen’s than a peasant’s.