by J. M. Hofer
“Tell me how long it’s been since both occasions, if you remember.”
Uthyr nodded. “Well, almost two years since we left Eire with the stones, and just under a year, I believe, since the news came from Gwythno that you’d disappeared. I figured you’d woken up and set off on some grand adventure. Men like us weren’t meant for a quiet life.”
Taliesin scoffed and shook his head. “There, I must disagree with you. My destiny is to watch over the Sacred Grove at Mynyth Aur now, where, I desperately hope, a quiet life awaits me. I’ve had my fill of adventure.”
Uthyr’s expression changed, as if the clouds had just obscured the sun. “I’m afraid I’ve a confession to make, my friend. Your Nimue of Affalon came to me with a request. Well, rather, Myrthin brought her to me. She called herself Viviaine, however. I suppose that’s the name her mother gave her.”
Taliesin’s stomach lurched. “What?”
Oblivious to his tortured state, Uthyr continued. “She knew of your grove in Mynyth Aur and that Myrthin had left it without a proper guardian. She desired to care for it in his place, and asked if I would recommend her as such to Bran. As you were abroad and none knew when, or even if, you would return, I agreed. I could think of no one better to serve in your place and was sure you would approve.”
Taliesin’s mind thrashed like a bird caught in a snare. She must be looking for me. But why go to Myrthin? Anxiety brewed in his gut and fermented into anger. “Myrthin brought her to you, you say?”
“Yes. They seemed well acquainted with one another, which doesn’t surprise me. Myrthin makes it his business to acquaint himself with powerful people.”
Taliesin felt a sudden urge to flee to the nearest forest, far from the noise of the city and the fortress. I must get to Mynyth Aur as soon as possible.
CHAPTER TWO
Northbound
Arhianna glanced over at Jørren as they rode away from her childhood village, seeking strength and reassurance in his face. She kept her doubts and fears to herself. Who knows what we’ll find up north? It’s wild country. Always has been. What if there’s nothing left of his clan? She cringed and corrected herself. Our clan. She looked back toward Mynyth Aur, watching it fade into the distance behind her. Too late now, in any case. He’d never have been happy there. And perhaps he’s right—perhaps I won’t ever be looked upon as anything more than the young maiden I used to be.
In her silent reverie, she became aware of the rhythm of their horses’ footsteps on the path. They were in sync for a time, but then began to drift apart, falling into an awkward cadence. After a bit, they came back together again, but only for a short while. She felt a pang in her stomach and took a deep breath. Like us, dear husband. Like us.
As they rode through the meadow that she, Gareth and Taliesin used to play in as children, wistful memories drifted through her mind. The height of summer always brought forth a resplendent array of yarrow, white and red campion, and foxglove—her favorite. I never doubted who I was or what I wanted back then. Not once. Who is this woman I’ve become? So doubtful? So frightened? I was never fearful before. Not of anything.
She remained as vigilant as she could against the melancholy that seemed ever-ready to slink up beside her and loom over her shoulder like a silent predator since her long sleep, but in clear moments, like this one, she found it impossible to ignore the suffering in her heart. Something precious has been stolen from me, but I don’t know what. Where does it come from, this pain? Where once only curiosity and confidence had been, now fear and worry encroached. Only lately had she dared to entertain the idea that she might never be the same again. Something happened to me down in that dark sleep. I lost something. She felt a tear slip down her cheek. It wouldn’t be so bad without the dreams. If only they would stop. During the day, she could avoid thinking about the images that assailed her while she slept, but, try as she might, she could not keep them from haunting her at night. They lurked in the dark empty quietness, waiting for her like spurned lovers.
Then, on top of it all, were Jørren’s ever-fluctuating moods. In the past few moons, she had rarely glimpsed the man she used to love. Great Mother, please, now that we’ve left, help us find our love again. I need him to look at me like he used to. Without that, I’ve given up everything for nothing. She observed him as the day wore on. Indeed, as the hours passed, the deep lines forged in his stern brow seemed to relax, as if warmed by an imaginary sun emerging from stubborn storm clouds.
“We’re welcome at the house of Urien,” she volunteered at last. “He’s offered his hospitality to any of our clan crossing his territory. Father says he’s made peace with many of the Saxon chieftains in the area…”
Jørren’s face twisted back into his all-too-familiar scowl. “No. I will find my people on my own. I will not risk imprisonment again.”
“But—”
Jørren shot her a fierce look. “Your father might have an ally in Urien, but I am not willing to risk my freedom on it.” He must have noticed the look on her face, because he checked himself and softened. “But it gives me comfort to know that if anything should befall me, you will be welcome there.”
She nodded in response, shuddering at the thought. She felt a wave of gratitude for her Firebrand. That, at least, would keep them safe from danger, save being shot by an arrow she did not anticipate.
***
Morning turned to afternoon, and afternoon to evening. They approached the outskirts of Chester just as the sun dipped into the western sea.
“There is an inn.” Jørren pointed and handed her a pouch of coins. “You know what to do.”
They had discussed their plan at length. If anyone asked, she was on her way to Urien’s court, and Jørren was her manservant, whose tongue had been cut out for insolence.
They rode up to the stables of the inn, where a man came out to greet them. He wore high boots and had a bucket of oats gripped in his large hand. “Staying the night?”
Arhianna nodded. “Yes, thank you.”
“I’ll take your horses, then. Innkeeper’s inside.”
They dismounted, and Arhianna went inside. A fat man stood at the hearth, poking the logs with a stick. He turned around at the sound of her footsteps.
“Have you any rooms for rent?” she asked.
“Depends. How many?”
“Two. With supper tonight and breakfast in the morning.”
The innkeeper eyed her purse. “That I can do.” He named his price, she bartered, and they settled on half of what he had asked for. He took her coin and asked no more questions.
Unable to speak to one another, she and Jørren ate their supper that night in silence. She could not help but think of the last time they had spent the night at an inn together—the night he had saved her from the thief who had crawled in through her window, intending to steal her pendant and Great-Mother-only-knows what else. She would never forget the wrath on his face or how the veins and muscles in his arms bulged as he grabbed the thief and dragged him down the stairs. A surge of hot desire rushed through her. She reached beneath the table and gripped Jørren’s thigh. He glanced at her and nodded. She finished her stew, stood up, and went up the stairs to where the rooms were. She set her things down, washed her face, and then ventured back out into the hallway. Finding it empty, she crept to her husband’s room and pushed open the unlocked door. He was lying on the bed, waiting for her, wearing nothing but a peaceful look upon his face.
Perhaps he’s been thinking of that night as well. The night I fell in love with him. She took off her clothes and climbed into his bed, her heart pounding with excitement and hope.
***
The full moon still hung in the sky when they left the following morning. Yet again, she had awoken feeling sick, as if she had eaten something that did not agree with her. This morning, however, the feeling was more than faint nausea. She leaned over her horse and vomited.
Jørren turned around, looking back at her with concern.
She
shook her head and wiped her mouth. “Something in the stew.”
He nodded, turned back around and rode on.
Arhianna kicked her horse in the flanks, riding up beside him. She looked up at the moon and took a deep breath of the fresh morning air. A moment later, it hit her. I’ve still not had my moonblood…Not since waking from the long sleep. During her sleep, she had wasted away to virtually nothing but skin and bones. She knew it was common for a woman to skip her moonblood in times of ill health, so, at first, she had not paid its absence any mind. But now, she was her former self, her weight and strength regained. Now, I could be with child. She smiled to herself, a joyful panic filling her breast at the thought. I could be, couldn’t I, Great Mother? I could have within me the son Jørren so deeply wants. Her hand strayed to her belly and caressed it tenderly. This will heal our love. She felt as if someone had come alongside her and relieved her of a heavy burden. All will be well.
She longed to share her thoughts with Jørren but dared not raise his hopes until she felt absolutely certain. If she were right, she had no doubt they would grow as close as they had been before. If she were wrong, however, she feared the disappointment would drive a rift between them that would destroy the delicate progress they had made so far.
***
Days passed, and each morning, though she tried to hide it, Arhianna had to go into the woods to be sick. It was not long before Jørren figured things out for himself.
One morning, after she had emptied the contents of her stomach into a river, he came and sat down beside her on a boulder. He held out his drinking horn, from which she took a grateful sip. She felt his arm envelop her shoulders. “You are not sick, my love. I believe you are with child,” he whispered in her ear.
The tenderness in his voice caused her soul to leap for joy. Her throat constricted, and tears swelled in her eyes. “I believe you may be right.”
He took her face in his hands and looked into her eyes. He kissed her cheeks and forehead, genuinely smiling for the first time in moons. “The gods have blessed us. We will be reunited with our people. My mother will be so happy.”
***
The next few weeks took them into higher and rougher country, where inns and villages were hard to come by. The weather, too, became much less hospitable.
“Aaaach. This does not look good,” Jørren commented, pointing to a bank of slate-grey clouds obscuring the western horizon.
Arhianna had been watching the storm brew as well. “No, it doesn’t. And it’s moving this way.”
Jørren pointed to a copse about a mile away. “That will have to do. Come!” He kicked his horse in the flanks and took off toward the small cluster of trees in the distance. She did the same. Jørren pitched their tent of skins as quickly as he could. The inevitable rain caught up with them soon after, coming down in merciless sheets for a solid half hour, and then, at last, rolled on toward the east.
“That’s it, I think, at least for now,” Arhianna ventured. They emerged from beneath the skins to finish pitching their camp. Everything was soaked except what they had gotten beneath the skins with them. She had done a good job of keeping the blankets dry, and felt pleased they would at least have that luxury, the horses included.
Normally, Jørren insisted on lighting the fires himself. He believed it was bad practice to depend on Arhianna’s abilities, but not tonight. He frowned at the pyramid of damp wood he had built. “This wood shall only catch fire if you will it so. Alone, I would be facing a wet and cold night.”
Arhianna smiled. “Then consider yourself fortunate.”
Jørren locked eyes with her. “I do. Many times a day.”
She chuckled and held her hands over the wood to light it as she had a hundred times before. But nothing happened. A strange feeling came over her, as if she had just discovered she had been robbed in the night.
Jørren turned his palms up. “What’s wrong?”
Arhianna shook her head. “I don’t know.” She tried again to light the wood, but to no avail. She felt a quickening pulse of panic build within her. Almost to herself, she whispered, “I can’t do it.”
Jørren furrowed his brow. “Why not?”
“I don’t know.” Arhianna felt a wave of nausea come over her. She swallowed hard and ran off to relieve herself away from their camp. Freya, what’s happened? Have I offended you? Have you taken my power from me? She looked skyward, as if she might glimpse Freya’s face in the clouds. After a moment, instinctively, her hand went to her belly. Oh, gods. Is it the child?
She heard Jørren walk up behind her, and felt his hands on her shoulders. “What can I do?”
Arhianna felt a wave of helplessness and shook her head. “Nothing, I’m afraid. I think it’s the child.”
“That’s why you’ve lost your power?”
“I think so.” She desperately wished she were home, where she could ask Seren or her father if women blessed with the Firebrand lost their power when they were with child, and, more importantly, whether they gained it back after the child was born.
Jørren guided her back to their tent where he lay the dry blankets down and sat down, beckoning to her. “Come here.” She settled in beside him, and he took her in his arms.
“The more I think about it,” she said after a while, “the more it makes sense. My body becomes as hot as a forge when I use my power. If the child inside me does not possess the same power, the heat would surely boil the poor little thing inside me.”
Jorren stiffened. “Ugh! Do not say such things.”
“I fear that’s what’s happened.”
Jørren wrapped his large hands around her belly. “Well, then I am grateful for it. I do not want a boiled son.”
Arhianna smiled and kissed his cheek. She kept her other concerns to herself. Dear Freya, please protect us. Lead us safely to the clan.
***
The further north they traveled, the more confident and cheerful Jørren became. Arhianna assumed he, like she, passed the hours daydreaming about raising their child together among his kinsmen. She caught him gazing at her and smiled back. She felt it wither on her face, but tried to prop it up. Each surge of happiness seemed so fragile. She had felt this way often since waking from her long sleep. Something about the life she had returned to seemed unreal, as if she were trapped in a dream. It had grown into a fear that, at any moment, someone might shake her awake, and she would find herself somewhere else entirely, surrounded by different people. Though she had battled valiantly against the “whispers,” as she called them, she feared she would never be free of them. Freya, help me. I hate feeling afraid. And what of these dreams? What do they mean? Last night’s dream clung to her like a spider’s web. Try as she might, she could not free herself from its grasp. She and Taliesin had been at a feast in a courtyard with neither roof nor walls. The stars seemed to breathe in the night sky overhead, pulsing with shifting iridescent colors like raindrops in the sun. She could still hear the song he had been singing to her; somber and lilting, it drifted along in a minor key that occasionally soared up to stand upon the precipice of a few poignant notes so sublime she could not help fall down at his feet and put her cheek against his knee, letting her tears run across the bridge of her nose. In that moment, she loved him so deeply that nothing else existed. She had awoken awash in emotions—joy, sadness, guilt—all rushing through her one after the other, like fierce waves on a shore. Try as she might, she could not shake Taliesin from her thoughts. Was that the Summerlands? Is that where you are?
She and Jørren crested a ridge, and a strong wind shocked her out of her thoughts. She let out a yelp. Jørren laughed at her and fixed his eyes on the horizon, across the moor. “I like the wind! It reminds me of home!” he yelled.
Arhianna had noticed the landscape had grown steadily more rocky and windblown over the past few days. They were venturing into more mountainous country now, its harshness softened only by its plentiful lakes and streams. “We’re surely close to Rheged by now,
” Arhianna mused aloud. “Urien rules these lands. Father says he’s a fair and noble chieftain.”
Jørren shrugged. “I do not know him.”
She tried again. “His lands stretch from here clear up to the wall. On the other side is Alt Clud, where the chieftain Ceredig rules. He also considers my father an ally. We may pass safely through his lands.”
Jørren grimaced. “Are you mad, wife? Ceredig? The man whose dungeon I wasted away in for moons? We are going nowhere near his lands! Damn him and his men! Only cowards torment their prisoners. It is because of weak men like him that I pray to Woden every night for Octa’s swift return.”
Arhianna shook her head. “What are you talking about? Uthyr had Octa executed in Londinium at the games—everyone saw it.”
A wicked smile spread across Jørren’s face. “No, he was not. That fool, in his arrogant bloodlust, made a mistake.”
“What are you saying?” she asked, horrified. “That he killed the wrong man?”
Jørren grinned in a way that Arhianna found deeply unsettling. “He did. Once he knew the battle was lost, Octa fled for Germania, but not before giving his helmet to one of his brothers, Oeric, who assumed his name and took his place in the battle. It was he who was taken prisoner and put to death in Londinium.” Jørren looked skyward. “He surely sits as an honored guest at Woden’s table, now. It is only a matter of time before Octa returns with a strong army to take back his father’s lands and avenge his kinsmen.”
Arhianna felt disgusted. “And then what? Will there be nothing but war for us all as long as we live?”
Jørren shrugged. “I suspect Octa will make war in Kent. He has enough to do there. He will not bother with the north, nor will Uthyr. No one likes going beyond the wall the Romans built. We will live there in peace. My mother had a plan if ever I were killed or captured. If she has succeeded in carrying it out, our people are now settled where no one will disturb us.”
Arhianna’s stomach churned with new worries. “I pray to Freya she has, then.”