by J. M. Hofer
A woman approached and offered her a wet rag. “For your face. It will help the swelling.”
Arhianna recognized her—Sigrid, wife of Werian, a close friend of Jørren’s. “Thank you,” she managed to say.
Sigrid nodded, and then asked in an urgent whisper, “Did Ragna send you?”
Arhianna’s heart leapt at the mention of Ragna’s name, but quickly sank again at the answer she had to give. “No.”
Disappointment clouded Sigrid’s eyes, as well as the eyes of all the other women, who were now clustered around them. “You’ve not seen her, then?”
“No. That’s why Jørren and I came north. To find her.”
“Why did you leave us in Kent?” another young woman interrupted, her tone harsh. She stepped forward and met Arhianna’s eyes with a bold glare. “We needed you. You poisoned Jørren’s mind and then left us all to suffer his decision alone. Instead of honoring his oath to Hengist, he convinced our husbands to follow him and led us here. Thank the gods not all the men agreed. There were those who defied Jørren and went with Hengist. And blessed are their wives, for they yet live as free women and hold their babes at night. Not so for us. All of our husbands and children are dead.”
Sigrid stepped forward and put a hand on the woman’s shoulder, silencing her. “That is enough, Hilde. What is done is done. It does not matter why she left. The gods have sent her back to help us now.” She took Arhianna’s hands in hers. “Use your power and burn these demons black when they come for us. I am too old to carry one of their bastards in my belly, but these poor maidens are not so fortunate. End their suffering. We will not question why you left. Just help us now. We beg you.”
Arhianna looked around and saw hope ignite in the tired eyes of all the women around her. She felt dizzy with nausea. Please, Freya. Grant me the power to save these women. Please. She looked toward the cooking fire, raised her hands, and focused on the flames, willing them to reach up through the smoke hole. But nothing happened. She took a deep breath, quelling the panic in her heart. Again, she focused on the fire. Again, nothing happened. “I…” she stammered. “I can’t…” She shook her head and fought back tears.
Sigrid backed away from Arhianna, her face twisting into dismay. “What is wrong?”
Arhianna looked down at her hands, shaking with frustration and exhaustion.
Sigrid looked back and forth between Arhianna and the fire, realizing what Arhianna could not bring herself to say. She let out a long, hopeless sigh.
Hilde came forward and spat at Arhianna’s feet. “It is no wonder Freya’s forsaken you.” She turned her back on her and shoved her way through the women to the back of the barn.
Sigrid ignored the display. “What has happened to your power?”
Arhianna felt tears well up and flow in hot streams down her face. She stared at Hilde’s spit on the ground between her feet, and watched her tears fall down around it. She summoned her anger to stop them. “I’m with child,” she whispered to Sigrid. “I cannot summon fire until the babe is born.”
Sigrid’s eyes widened. She shuffled Arhianna away from the women and put her hands on her shoulders, looking her in the eyes. “Ingvar cannot know you carry Jørren’s child,” she whispered. “He is cruel to his core. He will either rape the babe out of you, or stab it to death right through your belly. You must hide this!” She glanced around at the other women. “Tell no one. If the gods have not completely forsaken us, Ragna will return with help, as she promised.”
A spark of hope ignited in Arhianna’s heart. “Where’s she gone?”
“Only Freya knows. She escaped while Ingvar and his men were out hunting you and Jørren. Pray he does not catch her. She has suffered enough for three lifetimes.”
Arhianna’s stomach seized up. “More than the rest of you?”
Sigrid sighed and squeezed her hands. “Oh yes. Much more.”
CHAPTER SIX
Praying to the Wrong God
Bran had run out of Myrthin’s herbs just after the harvest. After a few days, Lucia noticed the flesh beneath his eyes began to yellow. Within a week, his hands started to shake, and he seemed to be forever mopping sweat from his brow and neck. At night, when sleep came for him, which was rare, he did not slumber long before moaning or crying out.
He hid his agony from the clan by working in the forge, where every man wore sweat on his brow, all hands shook from wielding hammers for hours, and every eye was bloodshot and yellow from the fire and smoke. Only she knew the depth of his suffering.
“Let me write to Myrthin,” she entreated one night. “Please, my love.”
He groaned and shook his sweat-soaked head. “No. I’m no better than one of the cauldron-born with his medicine in my belly. I must learn to do without it.”
She put her head in her hands, overcome with defeat. It was true. Though Myrthin’s medicine eased his suffering, the amount required to hold it at bay had increased considerably over the past year. His dance between pain and relief had become deadly, the chasm between them ever-widening. The medicine granted him but a short window of time in which he felt no pain, yet could still converse and move about. She cherished those moments before it worked its way into his blood and took him away from her. She dreaded the signs of his departure—which she now knew intimately. First, his pupils widened. Then, as if dark clouds were rolling into the space they offered, his eyes glazed over. Soon after, his embrace loosened until his hands and arms slipped from around her onto the bed, as heavy and limp as if he were dead. His heartbeat slowed to that of a bear in hibernation. She knew, because she had laid her ear to his chest every night, listening to it. Then, they both slept, but each morning, it seemed a bit less of her husband awoke beside her. She knew, like drops of water leaking from a rain barrel, he was being taken from her. But watching him suffer is worse, Great Mother. I can’t endure it.
After several horrible days, she could take no more. She filled Myrthin’s empty herb pouch with gold, wrote him an urgent letter, and sent for Idris.
“Take these to Caer Leon at once. Ask for Myrthin, Pen Bairth. Deliver these only to him, and only in person. If things go as I wish, he will return this pouch to you full. Return as quickly as you can.”
Idris nodded, concern furrowing his brow. “Is there anything else you need? Anything I can instruct the men to do for you while I’m gone?”
“No. Your speed in this matter is all I ask. Please hurry.”
Idris seemed to sense she did not want to reveal anything further, because he did not pry. “I’ll leave immediately.”
Bran’s condition grew considerably worse over the next few weeks. Her conviction that she had done the right thing increased with his debilitation.
A week after Idris had left, she saw Bran collapse carrying water back from the river. The buckets hit the ground with a terrible thud, sending water lurching into the air. She ran to help him up, but he pushed her away with an angry roar.
“Leave me!” He struggled to his feet, stumbled into the house, and fell to the floor in a terrifying fit of convulsions.
Panic gripped her. “I’m going for help!”
“No!” He clapped an iron grip around her ankle, shackling her to him, giving her no choice but to sit by his side and watch him writhe, as if something were devouring him from the inside out. The fit eventually passed, leaving him as pale and hollow as the cast-off cocoon of a butterfly.
She had fallen to the floor weeping. She had never seen him so weak. What can I do, Great Mother? How can I stop his suffering?
Then, coldness overcame her, as if someone had removed her furs while she was sleeping. She felt a shadow fall over her, engulfing her in darkness. She fixed her eyes on her husband’s face, not daring to look up, for she knew who stood over her. Arawn.
You pray to the wrong god. Only I can end his suffering.
Lucia’s blood ran cold. Her mind thrashed away from the terrifying truth. No. Not yet. Not yet.
***
Idri
s returned a few days later with the herbs. Along with them came a letter from Myrthin:
My lady,
It grieves me your husband suffers so. Though this mixture is not the same as before, I believe it is a worthy substitute. It will dull the pain less, but he will remain more of himself. I am sending you a goodly amount that should last the winter, if properly rationed. I am also sending your gold back. I have no need of gold. Instead, I may ask a favor of you in the future. I trust you will do all you can for me when that day comes.
Your faithful servant,
Myrthin
She clutched the leather bag in her hand, grateful for how full it felt. “Thank you, Idris!”
She ran to Bran, who was curled up in their bed, clutching his chest. “Hold on, my love. Just a moment more…” Her fingers shook. The leather cords refused to succumb to her clumsy handling. She unleashed a storm of obscenities at them until, at last, she got the pouch open, pinched a healthy dose of the herbs into a wad and stuffed them inside Bran’s lower lip.
He did not protest, sighing with relief as he chewed them. Within moments, his hands and fingers, twisted from pain like the roots of an ancient yew tree, relaxed into their normal state. He stared into the fire, his breath slowing into a deep, oceanic rhythm. His eyes glazed over, until he looked so like a dead man that Lucia cried out and shook him. He did not respond. Oh, no, I’ve given him too much! She put her ear to his chest to listen for his heartbeat. After a few tense moments, she heard it whisper, I am still here.
She lay down and wrapped her arms and legs around him, letting her tears fall against his back.
***
Bran heard the sounds of the village beneath him. He was hovering above Mynyth Aur, gazing down on his clan from above. He floated in a state of freedom, released from the grappling clutches of the enemy he had, yet again, failed to defeat.
He watched his wife, working with the women to prepare the evening meal, and his son, Gareth, working late in the forge and laughing with his apprentices. He looked beyond the village walls, to the forest bathed in twilight, and up into the arc of the heavens, where the stars were beginning to appear. For the first time in weeks, he reveled in the beauty and love surrounding him. Arawn, I beg you—if there is any way I can be made whole again, please tell me. I’ll do anything—any quest you ask of me. I cannot live with this pain, nor with the medicine that takes it away. I cannot fight. I cannot work. I have become a burden to my people.
Bran felt Arawn draw near, causing the heat to flee from his body.
I can end your suffering in a moment, Son of Agarah. You have but to ask.
Bran knew what that meant, but he was not ready for it. “No, I cannot leave my wife and family behind.” And yet, in his condition, he knew he could not protect her, provide for her, or even make love to her.
Why do you resist your destiny? You chose it long ago. Come and take my place. As Lord of the Underworld, you shall be more terrible and powerful than ever you were in the world of men. You shall be of service once more. Stay here, and you will fall ever deeper into the abyss of your pain, burdening your people until all they hold in their hearts for you is pity.
Arawn’s words seeped into Bran’s bones, chanting their truth into his blood, yet he resisted. “No. I will fight. I will overcome this.”
As you wish, Son of Agarah.
Bran felt the coldness fade and the warm night fold in around him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Return to the Grove
Taliesin’s heart quickened as Mynyth Aur came into view. It had been years since he had seen his childhood home. He looked forward to wandering its meadows and groves and leaning his cheek against his beloved Mother Oak once more, but most of all, he longed to see Arhianna.
The road along the river took on a dream-like glow as the sky hinted of dusk, its colors deepening low on the horizon. “Come on, Chrysgod,” he encouraged, determined to reach the village before nightfall.
It dawned on him that Arhianna might not remember anything at all of Knockma, or, perhaps, only as one remembers a dream. This was often the case with those who had passed into the land of the Sídhe. The thought both frightened and soothed him; if she remembered nothing, they could start anew. He would have the opportunity to say and do everything the proper way. I’ll confess my love to her and ask Bran for her hand. On the other hand, the time they had shared in Knockma had been magical—far beyond what most men and women ever experience in their lifetimes, or, certainly, ever live to tell of. The wondrous, haunting kingdom of Knockma had been the backdrop to their love story, and the idea that she might not remember any of it filled Taliesin with a sadness that ached like one of his minor harp strings.
The road widened as he left the riverbank and wound up towards the village. He grew anxious, wondering who would spot him first. He did not have to wait long. Soon, a rider emerged from the village gates. He squinted, attempting to make out who it was. He kept his eyes on the figure until he recognized the face of the man who approached. Gareth.
Taliesin kicked his horse into a gallop, eager to close the gap between them. Soon, they were off their horses and running toward one another. Gareth nearly crushed his ribs with a zealous bear hug. “You roving bastard!” He gave him a few rough claps on the back, then stood back and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Where’ve you been?” he asked, looking him up and down. “We all thought you were dead, or gone off to gods-only-know where!”
Taliesin gave him a weak smile. “It’s a long tale. We’re going to need a good deal of ale.”
Gareth smiled and gave him a nod. “Done! Let’s go. How about a race to the stable, for old time’s sake?” Before Taliesin could answer, Gareth leapt back in his saddle and took off toward the village. Taliesin jumped back on Chrysgod and kicked him in the flanks, thundering in pursuit. Joy flooded his heart as they raced across the meadow, neck and neck, laughing and egging each other on from their mounts. Gareth reached the stables first and dismounted with a wide grin. “I win!”
Flashes of many such childhood races came to Taliesin’s mind as he dismounted. He smiled as he remembered Arhianna’s taunting victory dances by the stable doors. She had won the race home more times than either of them and never failed to tease them and gloat about it.
“How’s Arhianna?” he asked, more anxious than ever to see her. “Is she well?” He stroked Chrysgod’s black coat with pride as he dismounted. He had nearly beaten Gareth even after riding all day.
Gareth glanced over at him as he removed his horse’s saddle. “I hope so. She went north with Jørren to find his clan.”
Taliesin felt as if someone had run up and clubbed him in the gut. “What?”
Gareth shook his head. “I know. You’ll never believe this, but Jørren was captured after the battle at Mount Damen and kept prisoner by Ceredig. I came across him in the dungeons. That’s a long story as well, but the short of it is that Father convinced Uthyr to hand him over, and we brought him home with us.” Gareth scowled and shook his head. “Wasn’t happy here, though. Didn’t expect he would be. I wouldn’t have been, not without knowing what had happened to my people.” He pitched some fresh hay into his horse’s stall and led him inside. “Arhianna and Brokkr did their best to help him settle in, but he wouldn’t have it.”
“How long have they been gone?” Taliesin managed to ask.
A stable boy appeared, interrupting their conversation. “Excuse me, my lord, I didn’t notice you’d returned until just now.”
“No worries, lad. See to Taliesin’s horse. Mine’s cared for.”
“Right away, my lord.” The boy came and took the reins from Taliesin’s limp hand.
“Come on, then!” Gareth smiled and put an arm around Taliesin, leading him toward the motherhouse. “Let’s find my parents. Can’t wait to see the looks on their faces when they see you.”
Taliesin felt his hope drain away, like blood from a terrible wound. She doesn’t remember anything. Then, a worse thought came
upon him. Or she does, but it’s Jørren she loves.
***
“Taliesin?” Lucia rushed to embrace him, her face twisting into a grateful grimace. She reached up and cupped his face in her hands, shaking her head. Tears soon followed. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him tight. “I never gave up hoping you’d come back. Do you have any idea how many thousands of miles I’ve shadow-walked searching for you?”
Taliesin turned his palms up in apology. “And I prayed someone would find me, but I’ve been in a prison of sorts.”
Lucia nodded and tugged on his arm. “Come. Let’s get you fed.” She turned to Gareth. “Go tell your father. Meet us at home.”
“Right.”
Lucia led the way, rushing Taliesin through the village. “I don’t want the others to know you’re here until we’ve talked,” she said under her breath.
Taliesin felt glad for the opportunity to explain all that had happened in private. “Good. I’ve much to tell and don’t wish to share it with the entire clan.”
Lucia gave him an understanding nod as she held open the door to her warm, fire-lit home and ushered him inside. “Sit.” She soon had his drinking horn filled and some dried venison and bannocks in front of him. “Not much, but I’ll have something proper for you tonight.”
“This is more than enough. Thank you.” He fell to, grateful for the repast. Lucia let him enjoy it, refraining from asking him any questions until Bran and Gareth arrived.
“Gods, I can’t believe it,” Bran murmured, ducking beneath the door frame.
Taliesin stood up and Bran gripped him by the shoulders, looking down at him like a father. “By the gods, we’ve missed you—where the hell have you been?”
Taliesin had spent his entire journey to Mynyth Aur thinking of how to explain his absence, but wondered whether it mattered anymore. Arhianna’s returned to her husband. Jørren will protect her, as he always has—and so much the better. He can certainly protect her better than I can. “I hope my absence didn’t cause anyone grief. Some of the lands I’ve been to were…difficult to leave.”