Into the Shadows (Islands in the Mist Book 4)

by J. M. Hofer

  “Of course,” he replied in a cheerful tone. He sat down across from her, the babes between them in a cradle, nestled together.

  She let him play a spell before unburdening herself. “I can no longer bear it. I have deceived Uthyr. I suckle not one, but now two children who are not his. God shall condemn me for this, Taliesin.”

  “What do you mean?” Taliesin looked at her in a way that made her feel worse. He looked down at Arthur. “So, the boy belongs to Gorlois?”

  Igerna shook her head.

  Taliesin wrinkled his brow. “I don’t understand. If not Gorlois, then who?”

  “I shall tell you all that has happened to me, for you understand the ways of magic, as Myrthin does. I have told no one else.”

  She confided what happened at Tintagel, all the while hoping he would be as compassionate as Myrthin had been, for she could not confide in him any longer. “You must believe me, I thought it was my own husband come back to me—although, I admit he was so changed in nature I should have known. But a lonely woman is easy to deceive.”

  “So Arthur was born of magic, as was his sister.” Taliesin’s eyes sparkled in a way that reassured her. “Do you believe his father was a spirit of the sea, as Myrthin suggested?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know what to believe. All I know is that when he came to me, for the first time in my life, I felt deep passion and love for a man. I ignored my misgivings because I was happy. Now, of course, I’ve been blessed with Uthyr’s love, but the father of my child, who or whatever he was, was the first. God help me!”

  Taliesin gave her a compassionate look. “And all I know is that these babes were meant to be together. You and I are but their stewards. I suspect there will be many powerful secrets in their future. Yet, I understand your anguish. If you wish to tell Uthyr the truth, I’ll not stop you. We can tell him together if you wish. But, if we do, I shall have to take Morgen to Affalon to keep her safe.”

  “No,” Igerna dismissed the suggestion. “How can I tell him now? It’s far too late. I couldn’t bear to wrench such joy from his heart.” Her face twisted under the strain of her torment, distorting her beauty. “Besides, losing Morgen would break my heart. I’d not survive it.”

  Taliesin looked in her eyes. “My queen, may I ask you a bold question?”

  “Please.”

  He glanced down in the cradle. “Which of the babes do you love more?”

  A look of horror crossed Igerna’s face. “Neither! I love them both fiercely! I couldn’t bear to lose either of them.”

  “Yet, Morgen is not of your blood.”

  “It makes no difference. Truly, none at all.”

  “That’s good to hear. I am pleased you love them both so much, and so equally. Don’t you think Uthyr would feel the same? Perhaps you should tell him what happened to you in Tintagel.”

  She gave him a half-smile. “You misunderstand me. It’s not that I fear he’ll reject the children. It’s that I fear he shall cease loving me—that he’ll never trust me again. I’ve deceived him terribly, allowing him to believe that he’s the father.”

  “I lament your suffering, my queen—more so, because I’ve added to your burden.” He glanced down at Morgen, who was staring up at him as if she knew she was being spoken of.

  Igerna bent over and stroked Morgen’s head. “No, please—don’t ever say that again. Morgen is no burden—she’s a blessing—one I feel guilty for enjoying each day, knowing such motherly joys should belong to my dear friend, Arhianna.” She gave him a bittersweet smile. “But I fear you are right. I must tell my husband what happened, or I fear I shall never sleep easy again. I thank you for that.” She nodded, resigning herself to the idea. “I shall tell him, and pray the gods find a way to lead us back to one another.” She looked up and lowered her voice. “But I swear to you, I shall never reveal Morgen’s origins to him or anyone else. Her secret is not mine to tell. As far as he will ever know, she was conceived in the same way, on the same night, as Arthur.”

  Taliesin let out the breath he seemed to have been holding. “So be it, then. I will ask the Great Mother to soften Uthyr’s heart so that the love you bear him will speak louder than your words.”

  “Thank you.”

  Taliesin left her alone with the children. Her hands began to shake as she imagined speaking the words she had rehearsed a thousand times in her mind. When he comes to bed, I shall tell him. I shall be brave. Courage, Igerna! Courage! Be strong.

  ***

  Uthyr came to bed earlier than usual. Oh, Great Mother. I’m not ready. I’m not ready. Help me. Though she had learned to pray to the Christian god, she never asked for his help with womanly matters. What does a male god know of such things?

  She lay beside her husband a long time, summoning her will. Then, like jumping into an icy lake, she threw the words from her throat. “I must tell you something, husband. Something you may wish to send me away for. But I must confess it to you. I cannot live with it any longer.” She felt his muscles tense beside her in the darkness and the air in the room thickening. There’s no turning back, now. It’s done. Though I’ve not yet said the words, it’s done.

  “It happened at Tintagel, before we were wed. Gorlois had left to meet you in battle, but returned home unexpectedly. I was surprised. I had expected the battle to go on for some time.” She swallowed the temptation to bend the truth. If I am to tell him, I shall tell him all of it. “He rode back home a new man, full of youth and vigor, and I thought—”

  “Stop,” Uthyr interrupted. “Please, stop.” His voice trembled, causing Igerna to lose courage.

  He sat up, lit a candle, and grabbed her hands. “This confession is not yours to make, wife, it is mine.”

  Igerna felt shocked. “But, I’ve not told you any–“

  “It was me, my love. It was I who came to you, disguised as Gorlois, by way of Myrthin’s magic, because I loved you to the point of madness, as I still do. And I’m ashamed. I’m so ashamed I’ve not told you—that I’ve let you carry this burden…that I’ve let you think you’ve been deceiving me for so long, when the truth is that it has been I who have been deceiving you…”

  Igerna felt as if the bed had given way beneath her. Both fury and relief assaulted her with equal force, driving her into a state of paralysis. Every night since coming to Caer Leon, she had pictured this conversation, and she had been wrong. So terribly wrong about it all. “You…you came to me as Gorlois? You let me believe you were my husband?”

  “Please, Igerna. I know it was loathsome and wretched of me, but I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you at your father’s table. I’ve thought of no other woman since that moment—I swear it upon our children’s heads. It was a sickness I did not know how to cure, except to have you. Thoughts of you plagued me day and night. They kept me from sleep, from my duties as Pendragon, until, in my desperation, I prevailed upon Myrthin for help. It was he who changed my form, so that I might go to you unhindered, and you would welcome me to your bed.”

  The torment that had gnawed at her organs since leaving Tintagel swelled up into a confusing torrent of relief, indignation, and burning anger. She felt as if she were drowning.

  “Please, Igerna. Say something.”

  But she had no words for him. Not yet. I had so much more to lose than he did! I was a widowed woman with a child, in danger of losing everything! How could he let me suffer so, knowing how I must have felt? How worried I must have been? It then dawned on her the depth of Myrthin’s treachery—coming to Tintagel and befriending her, knowing full well what he had done. He knew all along the child was Uthyr’s—that was why he encouraged me so to come forth with my confession, the schemer! Her anger blazed. She turned toward Uthyr and looked him in the eyes. “Myrthin is never to come near this court again—do you hear me? Not if you wish for me to remain your queen.”

  Uthyr took her hands. “I shall go down to the sea and send him away—though it would be a mistake to make him shoulder the weight
of my sins.”

  “Oh no, dear husband. You shall carry those yourself. Just as I shall carry mine. The only comfort I have this night is to know my precious chil—Oh, Great Mother, I almost said child! –dren are yours.”

  Her indignation faded. There is still that deception between us. She took a deep breath and looked Uthyr in the eyes. “Promise me this, husband—never shall any other serve you as Pen Bairth but Taliesin. I will accept no one else.”

  “Anything you wish, wife. I am your servant.” He took her hands to his lips and kissed them. “With time, I hope you can forgive me.”

  Igerna envied the relief she saw in her husband’s face. I have no choice but to forgive you, husband—for I have deceived you as well. And I fear that game has only just begun.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Ash on the Wind

  Back home at Mynyth Aur, Bran and Lucia passed most evenings with Gareth, Inga and Branok, who was now three moons old. Bran had needed all of Myrthin’s medicine, as well as the water from the sacred pools, to complete their journey to Rheged—and even then, he had not succeeded in contributing much more than his presence. Now, it was gone, and his pain had returned with a vengeance, as if it had been welling up behind a great wall that had now crumbled from its force. Each day grew harder and harder to finish.

  He did his best in spite of it, spending every possible moment with his family, but he was no help in the forge or fields. Though the clan loved him, he knew they pitied him, and it was a burden more terrible to bear than any he had ever known in his life. Only the moments with his family could salve the ever-rising tide of his pain.

  Tonight, as they did most nights, he and Lucia had shared the evening meal with Gareth, Inga, Brokkr and Branok. Bran eyed his grandson from across the fire. “Inga, let me hold that cabbage you’ve got over there.”

  Inga smiled and brought the babe over to him. He laid him in his lap and poked a finger beneath his chin to tickle him. Branok giggled and grabbed it with both of his doughy little hands. “Seems Gofannon’s blessed him with quite a grip.”

  Gareth nodded and gave his thick beard a satisfied tug. “I’ll have him in the forge hammering away beside me before long.”

  Bran raised his brows. “You don’t yet know the full truth of what you’re saying, but I do—hold him as much as you can while he’s small. Enjoy this time. It will pass quickly.”

  Gareth grinned and put an arm around Inga, pulling her close. “No worries, we’ll just keep having more…then we’ll have wee ones to rock when the others get bigger and leave us.”

  Inga rolled her eyes. “We, is it?”

  Lucia chuckled. “Well, I’d be thrilled, of course, but she’s right,” she said, picking up the baby. She held him close and rested her cheek against his. “Oh, Great Mother. There’s nothing sweeter than the warmth of a babe against your chest.” She put her nose in his hair and took a deep breath. “And no better smell in the world.”

  Now, it was Gareth who rolled his eyes. “I’ll remember you said that, Mother—because I’m going to fetch you the next time he soils himself.”

  Lucia smiled and snuggled Branok closer to her. “Fine with me.”

  Bran gazed at his grandson, who was staring at him with huge brown eyes from behind Lucia’s shoulder. My time is over, lad. But yours is just beginning. He kissed his forehead and smoothed his hair. I’ll be watching you.

  ***

  Arawn had appeared to Bran nearly every night since he and Lucia had returned home. His mounting pain seemed to call out for the god, betraying his desire to escape the failing prison of his body. He kept his medicine pouch filled with mundane pain-killing herbs so that she would not attempt to get more for him. He did not want to live like a slave to Myrthin’s herbs, for even with their help, he was but a shadow of the man he once was.

  Every night it was the same. Arawn appeared at the end of the bed, and Bran followed him to the summit of Mynyth Aur. There, atop the great mountain, Arawn spoke to him of how the skulls at the bottom of his lake were mounting. If the Pendragon could not succeed in uniting the kingdoms of Brython against their common enemy, Woden would soon rule it. To illustrate, he would point things out in the world below, and they would leap to life from whatever direction they had happened and appear in Bran’s mind.

  Tonight seemed as if it would be no different. The moment he found enough comfort to fall asleep, there the black skull-faced god was, towering over him from the end of the bed, his ghostly hounds standing at his hips like two alabaster statues. He turned and went out into the night.

  Winter was coming, but Bran did not feel the cold. He followed Arawn through the village, marveling at how a place could at once be so familiar, and yet so strange. It was all there—the roundhouses, the stable, the forge, the fields beyond the walls, even Maur’s dog, Madoc, sleeping in their doorway—but it all seemed as if it were bathed in the light of a different moon.

  Tonight, Arawn did not head for the summit of Mynyth Aur. Instead, he led Bran along the fields, through the meadow, and into the forest that held the Sacred Grove. The hounds followed their master into the darkness and along the loamy path, their white coats shining in the night, but Bran hesitated. He looked back toward the village, struck with the sudden fear he would never see it again.

  Come, Son of Agarah. She is waiting.

  Bran walked on, following the glow of the white hounds into the woods until a spark of light flickered from a distance, beckoning to him with a flashing dance from within the lattice of tree trunks and branches. The smell of wood smoke and herbs grew stronger.

  Arawn pointed toward the flickering light and then disappeared into the darkness of the woods. Bran went on alone, crouching tentatively at the edge of the grove. A woman as old and gnarled as a yew tree stood at the edge of a cauldron he recognized all too well. It had somehow been fused back together but bore a scar from the terrible day it had been split in two. Occasionally, a tiny beam of light escaped from the scar and flew into the darkness of the surrounding forest.

  Bran looked more closely at the woman by the cauldron, feeling as if he knew her from somewhere. He ventured in for a closer look, but just when he was close enough to see her features clearly, the steam rising from the cauldron distorted her face, smoothing out her skin and thickening her hair, lifting her breasts and lengthening her gnarled fingers until they were the graceful hands of a maiden once more. He stopped in his tracks, arrested by her beauty—her black hair rose and moved about her face in the steam as if it she were underwater. Cerridwen. He moved closer, desire slowly eclipsing caution. Her breasts, lips and hips swelled in response, kindling a fierce fire in his loins. Drawn in, he approached the lip of the cauldron, only to see her beauty wither away until she once more became the old woman.

  At that moment, he recognized her second face. “Mabyn?” He felt disoriented by his desire, watching the woman’s features wax and wane between maiden and crone.

  I wear many faces in your world, Son of Agarah.

  Bran thought back on all of his and Lucia’s visits to Mabyn, and the counsel she had given them. It was she who helped Lucia shadow-walk and discover Aelhaearn’s plan of attack; she who counseled Elffin and Garanhir before him; she who watched over Taliesin as a young boy…How long has she lived there in Gwythno?

  Come. The cauldron calls for you. There is much you could know, if you have the courage to look.

  Bran looked deep within the liquid. Images rose up in the water, and some came forth in the steam, rising up and stretching outward, forming wide, life-like figures and scenes. They were confusing at first, nothing more than swirling tendrils, but the more he watched them, the more they began to organize themselves into pictures.

  Tell me what you see.

  “I see…the sun and the moon.” The two celestial spheres rose up together, side by side, until they hovered some ten feet above the cauldron. They floated apart and the moon began to circle the sun, round and round. Then, the water in the cauldron
below began to swirl in the same direction as the moon. The level of the liquid rose, like the sea at high tide, and turned red, as if blood had been poured into it. A gruesome head emerged from the cauldron, followed by folded wings that then stretched out some fifteen feet on either side, disturbing the trees of the grove. Bran stumbled backward in fear. A red dragon flew up over the grove, stretching its wings so wide they blocked out the stars overhead. It was soon followed by a white, its albino snout emerging from the water, flanked by rows of sinister teeth. Talons gripped the side of the cauldron as the beast pulled itself from the vessel. It sniffed the air, seeking the scent of its adversary, and then launched into the air after the red.

  Nidhoggr, Bran realized, heart racing.

  Nidhoggr flew above the red dragon and attacked, talons open and wings arched. The red fought back, returning in kind as best it could, but the white seemed to grow bigger with each blow. At last, it swooped down on the red, now no larger than a horse or cow, and surged upward into the sky. In a gruesome cry of victory, the white tore the red apart and let it fall into the cauldron below. Then it dove down and snatched the sun and moon out of the sky, surged back into the heavens, and disappeared into the night.

  The water in the cauldron stopped turning, its momentum slowly dying until its surface settled into a smooth mirror, reflecting nothing but the stars above.

  Bran looked up at Cerridwen. “Does this mean we will lose our lands to the Saxons?”

  The cauldron has shown you what you need to see. You must draw your own conclusions.

  Bran summoned his courage and gripped the edge of the cauldron. “There is more I wish to see. I want to know what happened to my daughter.”

  You will not like what you see, Son of Agarah.

  “I must know,” he insisted.

  Cerridwen put her staff into the cauldron and stirred. The waters swirled in response, turning silver and milky. Bran’s heart thumped in his ears as he watched the surface, bracing himself for whatever might emerge. It took all the strength he had to endure the images that came forth next. Fury and nausea churned in his stomach as he forced himself to watch the abuse his daughter had suffered. At last, the cauldron took mercy on him and cleared.