Age of Saints: Druid's Brooch Series: #7 Read online

  Lainn nodded so hard, Conall feared her head would snap. The old man sat back into the gnarled tree trunk he’d carved into a comfortable chair. The wood shone where his hands rested, showing many years of loving use. Lainn crouched next to a small circle of autumn flowers, playing with the petals as three more bees buzzed around her head. Conall chose a mossy stone around the front of Adhna’s cottage, noting the length of the shadows. They’d only have time for a short tale before they must return home for supper. He didn’t relish disappointing Sétna twice in one day, especially as he’d already experienced his stepfather’s heavy hand once. Worse, he could decide Lainn needed correcting.

  Adhna cleared his throat and glanced around several times, searching for something. With a grunt of surprise, he stood again, leaning on his staff, and walked back into the cottage. Several moments later, he re-emerged with a full waterskin and three mugs.

  “Today is a warm day for the late season. Would you two like some cool buttermilk? Here, child, hold the mugs while I pour.”

  Once all three had chilling mugs in their hands, Adhna drank half of his down, wiped his mustache and lip with the back of his hand, and let out a sigh.

  “Now then. Now then. Which story would most delight and amaze my young friends this day?” He tapped a gnarled finger against his lips and narrowed his eyes. Barnabus—or some other bee, as Conall had no way of telling them apart—flew into his long locks and buzzed in his ear. Cocking his head, Adhna nodded a few times. “Yes, that might be the best one, at least for now. It’s a blessedly short tale, to be certain. Our dear Conall is in a hurry this evening, Barnabus. We must be cognizant of his eagerness to be home.”

  Conall regarded the bee with renewed interest. Did the bee really speak to the man? Not that Conall believed Adhna to actually be a man, in the traditional sense. Many anomalies hinted at some unnatural blood, at the very least, if not a full blood Fae.

  Long ago, maybe three or four years past, Conall’s father, Fíngin, had given him many lessons on how to spot a creature of the Fae. While the most common sign—the cat’s slit pupils—didn’t show in the old man, other signs seemed true. Fíngin had spoken of an affinity for living things, be they creatures or plants. While Adhna constantly spoke to both, a mad human might do the same thing.

  Conall had once offered to help the old man shore up and repair his apparently crumbling and decrepit cottage, to sand the moss from the stones and re-thatch the roof. Adhna had laughed, and lights danced around his head like fireflies. He drew the boy into the dim space.

  His thin, raspy voice always came difficult to him, the result of a past injury. “Come here, lad. Put your hand on your wall, just there. Hit it. Harder, boy, harder! You won’t knock it down. It’s as solid as they come. Now, see up there, in the thatch?”

  Conall had to admit the stones remained solid beneath his hands. The thatch seemed full of growing things and drying herbs. Insects and birds crawled in the straw, but none of this bothered Adhna. No cobwebs or mold grew within the straw, only healthy plants and vibrant creatures.

  While the cottage looked decrepit, it lived more strongly than many people Conall had met. This alone made him think Adhna must have at least some Fae blood. He’d only known the man for the few years since his father disappeared. In that time, however, Conall had witnessed more magic and unexplained things than in his entire lifetime, short as that had been.

  The only other magic he remembered had been his father’s. Despite his resolution, the memory of that day came crashing through Conall’s intentions, flooding him with emotion and pain.

  Fíngin had brought Conall to an empty glade on the edge of the bog one spring morning. The glade was special, as it had several faerie stones in a circle, which everyone recognized as dangerous. No one wished to be caught in their spell. This time, his father sought them out.

  As the bright morning sun did its best to pierce through the thick fog, beams of gray-gold mist caressed them in the center of the circle. No birds yet stirred in the damp air, but his father sat cross-legged and gestured for his son to sit.

  Slowly, carefully, he removed a small packet of white linen from his pocket. One by one, he opened the folds to reveal an exquisitely-carved brooch, inlaid with blood-red gems. Dancing animal forms gyrated on the design in gold and silver. The sunbeam broke through the mist to highlight the brooch, making it glow like magic.

  “We have a legacy, my son. A legacy that dates back to your great-great-grandmother. She helped a creature of the Fae escape from a fate worse than destruction, and for that aid, he gifted her this brooch.”

  Conall, impelled by the shining treasure, reached out to touch the prize. However, his father pulled it away. “Not yet, my son. I must give it to you soon, as my health is failing, but I must prepare you before I give it to you. Rise.”

  They scrambled to their feet. The sun had now cleared only the center of the circle. The glade remained shrouded in silence.

  His father led Conall around the outside of the stones, sun-wise, slowly marching and trailing his hand across each stone in a loving caress. Conall did the same, amazed at how warm and dry the stones seemed, despite the lingering fog and the chilly air. When they’d completed three circuits, the center of the stones glowed like coal in a sullen fire. Conall didn’t want to enter, but his father pulled him in.

  “Don’t worry, son. The magic is attuned to us now. It won’t harm you.”

  With a swallow, the boy straightened his shoulders and walked within, not daring to breathe.

  The brooch now glowed with a burning brightness. Shafts of blood-red light pulsed from the scarlet stones like a living heart. The pulse pushed from the ground, up through his bones and into his mind. The heartbeat of the world echoed through his head, and grew into a painful silent scream, like a sharp edge upon raw nerves.

  His father held out the sanguine jewel, and with only a moment’s terrified hesitation, Conall took it.

  Just as he thought he’d go mad from the pain and the sound, the entire world suddenly stopped. Conall collapsed into a pile on the ground, letting out a whimper.

  When he finally regained his wits, he glanced at the brooch. It no longer shone with its preternatural light, and the gemstones had turned to black.

  “That means the brooch has accepted our transfer, son. The magic and the jewelry belong to you. There are several rules you must abide to be a holder of the brooch.”

  “Wh-what rules?” That day had been the first he remembered stuttering, and always attributed the habit to acquiring the brooch. Some days, he wished he had neither, but usually felt his stutter a minor enough cost.

  His father patted his shoulder. “Good lad. First, keep it secret. The Christians are gaining much power in the land, and they have grown violent against anything that smacks of the old magic. Horrible deeds have been committed in other parts of the world. Secret is safe.

  “Second, the brooch gifts each holder a particular magical power.”

  Conall glanced at the jewel in his hand with renewed apprehension. Power might be dangerous. “Power? What sort of power?”

  His father shook his head. “I don’t know what yours might be, lad. My talent became the ability to communicate with animals, and this has helped me with my trade. You may have to experiment to find your own talent.”

  Conall’s mind swam with the possibilities, but his father’s words brought him back to task. “Third…” His father looked off into the distance where the mists swirled and thinned before the rising sun. “Third, when you see your own death approaching, you must pass it on to someone of our own blood, lest it be lost to this world forever.”

  The coldness that gripped Conall’s heart at those words never truly left him. In the weeks that followed, his father wasted to a thin copy of his former self, pale and wan as a changeling. He no longer had the strength to cast the heavy fishing nets into An Bhóinn, and they all despaired for his survival.

  Several moons after the brooch gift, on a dism
al, rainy morning, his sister Lainn ran to his bed in tears. For a few moments, he couldn’t understand her words, she sobbed so hard. Finally, she sniffed in and swallowed. “He’s gone! Da is g-g-gone!”

  “Gone? What do you mean, gone? He’s just at the river, checking his nets.”

  “No! I looked at the river. I searched each bank, all the way up and down.”

  “You could have slipped in the mud! Don’t do that alone, Lainn.”

  She shoved at his chest but had no power behind the angry gesture. “It doesn’t matter! He’s gone! He left us!”

  Conall hugged his sister tight as she bawled.

  When their mother woke, she refused to speak to them about their father. He must have left with her knowledge, for her to be so silent on the issue. No matter how hard Conall tried to extract information from her, she pressed her lips together and ignored him.

  Less than a season later, she’d married Sétna, and they’d moved upriver to the roundhouse near the quarry.

  The tears shoved against the back of Conall’s eyes, and his throat grew tight. He drank a sip of the now-warm buttermilk to break the blockage, but it only hurt when he swallowed. He blinked several times to disperse the drops on his eyelashes.

  Adhna clapped his hands as part of his story, bringing Conall’s attention back to the present. This time, he successfully pushed the pain away. “And then the raven swooped down to catch the bees, but Barnabus here, he let loose with his trap! Let me tell you, that raven never bothered Barnabus’s hive again.”

  The young man grinned at the theatrics and Lainn’s rapt expression. She clapped her hands once in delight at the tale, and turned to Conall, her face glowing with joy. She loved tales, any tales, and devoured them like a starveling. He’d hoped she’d gotten her fill of stories and histories at druidic training, but evidently nothing sated her desire.

  He sighed and glanced toward their home, knowing the hour for departure grew closer.

  The old man scratched his beard, eyeing Conall’s expression. “Ah, I see your brother glancing at the shadows again, child. It seems you must be off to the mundane humdrum again. Off then, shoo!”

  Feeling like Barnabus the bee, Conall grabbed his tool bag and tied it back onto his belt. He didn’t remember when it had fallen off, but he mustn’t lose it. The fine tools had been a gift from Sétna, necessary for his apprenticeship in the mason trade.

  He took his sister’s hand as he led them both away, Adhna speaking intently into his beard. Conall thought something moved within, but he couldn’t be certain.

  “Let’s not go home right away, Conall. Let’s find something for Ma! She loves blackberries. Can we bring her some blackberries?”

  Despite their tardiness, Conall nodded. “They should b-b-be ripe and juicy. Do you think the patch down near the bend would be untouched?”

  In answer, she pulled his hand until he laughed and ran after her. They pelted across the hilly grass, dodging random boulders and leaping over low walls. When he found the bramble patch, he frowned. Birds had denuded most of the berries, but some still hung within the thorny bush.

  They made a small pouch of the sweet berries, and by the time they finished, their hands felt sticky and stained purple.

  He glanced at the sun and spat a word he knew his stepfather would smack him for using. “Time to run!”

  They turned right into the solid barrel chest of Tomas. “Going somewhere, C-C-C-Conall?”

  Conall backed up several steps, shoving Lainn behind him without thought. Tomas grinned and Conall envied him the even white teeth, as one of his own front teeth grew crooked. He clenched his fists and scanned the area for an easy escape. One of Tomas’s cronies had blocked the best exit from the clearing. He glanced at the other option, back the way they’d come, but Tomas laughed. “Little C-C-Conall’s going to run! Be sure you don’t trip over your feet as often as you trip on your tongue, little stutterer!”

  The larger boy shoved Conall heavily in the chest, causing him to stumble back, but Lainn caught him. She wasn’t large, but she’d anticipated the need. Quick as a fox, she ducked under Conall’s flailing arm and punched Tomas square between the legs.

  “Oof!” The brute doubled over, and Lainn scooted off the way they’d come with her brother hurrying after her. Tomas’s friend helped him to the ground, yelling nasty names after them, but at least they’d escaped.

  For now.

  “You shouldn’t have hit him, Lainn. He’ll make you pay for that, you know it.”

  She skipped backward, her head cocked, and sang, “He has to catch me first!”

  With another turn, she darted faster, curving around the edge of the wood so they headed back toward their home. They would be very late, and Conall dreaded their arrival.

  The sun had well set by the time the forest opened to reveal their home. Their large roundhouse had several outbuildings attached, with stacks of quarried stone piled on one side. A kitchen garden and a pen for the animals stood around the back. The tall limestone hill next to them had supplied the stone, the main reason for living in this spot.

  Conall halted, suddenly fearful of his stepfather’s wrath, but Lainn cast him a half-smile and skipped right in. “Ma! We brought you blackberries, see?”

  With a deep breath, Conall squared his shoulders and ducked through the doorway. He’d grown in the last few years, easily a head taller than Sétna, but he barely weighed half as much. He stumbled on the step and caught himself on the frame, adjusting his eyes to the dimmer interior.

  Sétna sat at the head of the huge wooden block table, scowling into his mug of small ale. He glanced up when Lainn opened her bundle of blackberries, but his eyes then slid away to Conall. With a duck of his head, Conall avoided his stepfather’s glare.

  Their mother echoed Sétna’s scowl and began her evening chatter. “You should have been here ages ago. Look at the state of you! Purple stains all over your hands. Lainn, you’ve torn your Maelblatha. What have you been doing, diving into the brambles? You are well old enough to know better than this. You aren’t a child any longer. With sixteen winters and our current status, you must take better care for your appearance! You aren’t a lowly fisherman’s daughter any longer. You are a young woman with good status of almost marriageable age, and worth a considerable bride price. Off to the well to clean up. And you, Conall! Still covered in dust from the stones? I swear, between you and Sétna, I’ll be breathing that dust the rest of my days. Go clean yourself as well! Your stew is cold.”

  With a wry smile at their mother’s fussing, Conall led his sister to the well. The cold water made them gasp, but they made certain to clean their faces, hands, and the worst of the stains on their clothing. Cold stew would be better than being sent out a second time—a result completely within their mother’s custom if they didn’t wash well enough the first time. Not that their mother’s stew would ever be tasty, even hot.

  As they sat on their stools and shared a rye loaf, Sétna still said nothing. The heaviness of his stepfather’s regard grew leaden on Conall’s shoulders as he concentrated on chewing and swallowing a piece of roast turnip. The lamb had a piece of bone, but he surreptitiously removed it before he cracked a tooth. Their mother had always provided plenty of food, even as a lowly fisherman’s wife, but she had no skill at cooking. He’d had much better meals at Adhna’s house, and the old man barely cooked his food, preferring fruit and cheese to meat.

  His mother cleared her throat, and Conall glanced up to see her staring pointedly at him. At a loss, he shifted his gaze to his sister, but she stared at him. He covertly wiped his face in case he’d dribbled stew on his chin.

  His stepfather’s voice fell flat upon the silence. “Conall.”

  With a growing panic beating in his chest, Conall lifted his gaze to Sétna. The older man’s jaw twitched with tension, and Conall suspected he’d done something wrong.

  “Yes, Father?”

  “I must travel to Maelblatha tomorrow. The blacksmith nearby is a
feckless idiot, so I’m going to my uncle for some new iron tools. Teaching you has worn my chisels down twice as quickly as normal.”

  Conall waited. Sétna hadn’t asked a question and therefore wouldn’t appreciate a response. His face grew flushed with embarrassment as his stepfather stared at him for several moments before continuing.

  “Normally, I’d take an apprentice with me on such a mission. However, I’ve no interest in making a several-day journey with a thankless child. Therefore, you will remain here and help your mother with the farm work.”

  Conall nodded and shifted his gaze to his plate. He had to resist the urge to smile. Not only had he anticipated something far worse, his stepfather’s news actually came as a relief.

  Lainn kicked him under the table, and he gritted his teeth to keep a yelp under control. He glared at her, but she simply ate her stew as if nothing had happened.

  As the meal finished, Conall helped his mother with the cleaning while Sétna took Lainn out to the stable to help him check the horse for the trip.

  His mother used one finger to lift his chin, though he’d grown taller than her. “Conall, my child, are you upset about not going tomorrow?”

  He shook his head and gently batted her hand away. “No, not really. I mean yes, I’d love to travel, but I’d rather do so with someone—” He swallowed and glanced at the door, unwilling to speak of his dislike of his stepfather.

  “Conall, be cautious. You’re smarter than that.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  In painful silence, they washed the plates.

  When he finished helping Mother with her cleaning, Lainn hadn’t yet returned. The sun had already long since set, and Conall’s body ached from crouching and chiseling all day, followed by running and the tension at supper. While her tutoring might not be as physically demanding, Conall imagined his sister may become as exhausted as he.

  When she finally tiptoed into the darkened roundhouse, he whispered, “What kept you, Mouse?”