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

  In the night, he only saw her form as a deeper black against the edges of the night. “Nothing. I’m tired.”

  “Why did Sétna keep you so long? Did you find something wrong with the horse? Has his fetlock healed enough for the journey?”

  “Go to sleep, Conall.”

  Her tone brooked no argument. This startled Conall, as she sounded very like their mother when she got upset and tried to hide it.

  He glanced back out of the alcove and across the murky darkness to where his mother and stepfather shared an alcove. Murmured voices with undercurrents of annoyance drifted across the silent space, but he couldn’t make out the words. Anger and fear bubbled inside Conall, crowding out his sense of place and propriety. He clenched his fists and thanked the gods his stepfather would leave in the morning. Sétna was double his mass, but if he hurt Lainn, the older man would feel Conall’s retribution.

  Chapter 2

  By the time Conall woke, Sétna had left on his mission. Their mother had prepared a morning meal for them and gone to work in the garden. Lainn had already risen, as her cot lay empty, blankets in habitual disarray.

  He dressed and grabbed a bowl of porridge, pouring more honey than he would normally be allowed. Without Sétna to glare at him, he felt free and wild.

  Female voices in the garden called him outside, and he turned the corner to see his mother arguing with a young man. No, not a young man, but Lainn dressed in his old clothing.

  “I will not have you traipsing around like a vagabond, young lady! Get back into that roundhouse and change into a proper women’s Maelblatha. I should have burned Conall’s old things as soon as he grew too tall for them. You look ridiculous!” She turned around at Conall’s chuckle. “Conall, don’t you think she looks ridiculous?”

  He scraped the last glop of his porridge and ate it, taking time to circle his sister. He inspected her from each angle, the corner of his mouth screwed up in concentration and evaluation. “I think she looks natural as a young lad, Mother. Without a beard, it’s difficult, but give her male warrior’s braids and a proper belt, she could just pass. Maybe rub some dirt on her chin to make it like the beginning of a beard.”

  His mother sighed with exasperation and threw up her hands. “I will not allow our family to be open to mockery for…this…deviance. March right back into your cot and change your clothes, Lainn. I’ll not hear another word about this.”

  Lainn sighed and rolled her eyes. “Yes, Mother.” She didn’t seem as contrite as she sounded, but their mother didn’t seem to notice. He, however, had seen the twinkle in his sister’s eyes and followed her back into the roundhouse.

  He cleaned his bowl and found her in their alcove, dressed in her own clothes and calmly folding his old Maelblatha into her carry-sack. She glanced up as he watched and winked at him. He rolled his eyes.

  “Are you ready? We’re running late already.”

  “I’m just about ready.”

  “Lainn? About last night—”

  She stood up and threw her bag over her shoulder. “Let’s go.” She affixed a steely gaze on him, forbidding further inquiry. He really wished she didn’t seem so much like Mother when she did that.

  The walk to the oak grove remained silent in words but rich in birdsong. The autumn sun had burned through the morning haze already, flickering puddles of sunlight dappling the leafy path. Lainn skipped from sunlit spot to sunlit spot, laughing as she hopped.

  Conall followed in a more dignified manner, hiding a smile at his sister’s antics. Whatever had bothered her the night before didn’t affect her now. She whistled at a dove, which warbled back to her, and they had an incomprehensible conversation while he caught up to her.

  “C’mon, Lainn. I thought you wanted to get to the grove on time?”

  “Time is fluid in the grove. I told you that.”

  She’d never told him any such thing, as far as he recalled. However, arguing with his sister when she became inscrutable never resulted in clarity, so he grunted and walked in the right direction, trusting her to follow when her whimsy allowed.

  He’d only gone a few steps before she raced past him, jumped a fallen log, did a somersault in the middle of the path, and ran forward, arms up and head back. Just as Conall thought she’d run smack into a tree, she weaved to the left, then to the right, twisting through the obstacles like a fish in a stream.

  “Catch me if you can, Turtle!”

  With a roll of his eyes, Conall concentrated on his measured steps. Yesterday’s efforts made his leg muscles ache, and he had no wish to chase her this morning, no matter how fine the weather.

  “Aren’t you going to run after her, Conall?”

  He spun at the coy feminine voice to spy Aoife leaning against a tree, her arms crossed. She looked at him from under lowered lashes, and her bright red Maelblatha shone so brightly in the morning sun, he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t seen her from leagues away.

  After pushing off against the tree, she sauntered toward him, her hips swaying. “I rarely see you wandering the woods at this time of day, Conall. What brings you so close to our farm? Could you have been hoping to spend time with me?”

  Now barely an arm-span away, she lifted one finger and traced his cheek down to his chin.

  He swallowed as his skin pebbled. “N-n-no, I’m just walking Lainn to the grove. In fact, I’ve lost sight of her, and best c-c-catch up.”

  He turned away, but her hand caught his arm. “Surely, you can tarry a few minutes? I won’t bite, you know.”

  He shook his head hastily. “No, no, we’re already much too late. I’m so sorry, Aoife.”

  “Ah, another time, then.” She kissed him on the cheek, a butterfly touch.

  He hurried off, trying to make sense of the tingling in his nether region, at odds with his distaste of the encounter. He found Lainn picking wildflowers of purple and yellow in a small glade.

  She glanced up with a puzzled frown. “What have you been doing, brother? You’re red as the setting sun.”

  He shook his head and grabbed her hand. “We need to go, Lainn.”

  Finally, the grove entrance came into view. While the druids never built a structure to study or worship within, they had encouraged trees to grow into an arched tunnel.

  He’d only come this far a few times since Lainn had begun her lessons in the spring. The sight never failed to impress him. Even in the autumn, with leaves fading from their summer glory into crunch brown, the tunnel loomed to cut off the bright sunlight. He shivered, thinking of the frightening mysteries that lay behind that darkened path.

  Lainn tugged at his arm. “Aren’t you coming in? I want you to hear me sing today.”

  He yanked his hand from her grip, taking several steps back. “Come in? Lainn, I can’t go in there! I’m no druid acolyte!”

  She sighed and rolled her eyes. “The proper term is fochlac. After several winters studying the basics, I’ll move to the next rank. That’s the—”

  He held up his hand. “I didn’t ask for a lesson, Lainn, and I’m not going in there.” He eyed the darkened entrance and shivered.

  “Scared, are you? Conall is scared of trees! Trees!” She bounced around him, grabbing his hand again and turning him in a circle.

  Conall’s heat rose in mortified embarrassment. “I am not!”

  With an over-sweet smile, she clapped her hands once. “Then you will come! Wonderful!”

  He didn’t resist when she pulled him in this time.

  Conall closed his eyes in the tunnel. With relief, when they emerged on the other side, the welcome warmth of the morning sun shone on his face. He opened his eyes and realized gratefully Lainn hadn’t witnessed his cowardice.

  Despite his fears, he studied the glade with great interest. A circle of ancient oaks stood around an empty glade, perfectly groomed and precisely maintained. Each massive tree grew gnarled and twisted, like old men curled with bone-ache, leaning heavily on their walking staves. Faces glared at him from within the
knotted bark, and he considered darting back out through the tunnel, despite his fears.

  Lainn laughed. “Those are just the guardians. They won’t hurt you, not if you don’t insult them.”

  What would insult a tree? A non-druid coming into the glade? His desire for flight grew stronger.

  “Come on, Conall. The beehives are this way.”

  This time, he didn’t resist her pull but kept glancing back with trepidation at the formidable sentries.

  Into the woods they traveled, following a path invisible to Conall. Lainn seemed to know exactly where she must go, though, and led him through several twists and turns until the trees opened to another clearing. This one stood full in the mid-morning sun, buzzing with bees and late summer wildflowers. The entire area dripped with white, purple, and yellow flowers, and he daren’t step lest he tread on the busy insects.

  “Walk around the edge, Conall. See that man over there? He’s my mentor. His name is Gemmán. Haven’t you met him before?”

  Conall glanced at the tall druid, wearing a threadbare brown Maelblatha and not much else. His long black hair hung in a dozen braids, each one decorated with flowers and amber beads. Entwined markings of blues and greens circled his arms, legs, and up around one side of his face. He didn’t seem particularly old but had an air of confidence and gravitas around him. Conall wondered how the sprightly and silly Lainn got along with such a serious teacher.

  “Gemmán! Gemmán, look who I brought!”

  The druid looked up, giving the impression of a very hooked nose and a long face. The saturnine lines of the man’s face broke into a joyful smile at the sight of Conall’s sister. He stood with the help of an elaborately-carved rowan staff, esoteric symbols limned in blue and disappearing in a spiral. Two other young men sat with him—one with white-blond flyaway hair and a scowl, and the other with curly black hair like himself.

  “Lainn! My precious flower. I despaired of seeing you this fine morning. What a shame that would have been, as the gods have smiled on us this day. Come, come, sit in your spot. This must be your esteemed sibling, Conall?”

  The man held out his hands in greeting, palms up. Flustered, Conall covered them in the appropriate manner. “I greet you, Druid Gemmán.”

  “Just Gemmán, my lad. We stand on no ceremony with outsiders within our grove. These promising young lads are Ernán and Laisrén. Have you come to see your sister take her final test as a fochlac?”

  Conall turned to stare at his sister, who sat daintily on a moss-covered rock and blinked at him in pretended innocence. “Final test? You never told me that, Lainn!”

  She gave him a half-smile. “You never asked.”

  He glowered but found a grassy spot to sit next to the blond, Ernán, and wrapped his arms around his knees. Both boys nodded in greeting and promptly ignored him.

  Gemmán cleared his throat and turned to Lainn. “In your own time, child.”

  At first, Conall heard nothing but the faint hum of bees and water trickling somewhere out of sight. Then the overall buzz of the glade fell to complete silence—a silence so heavy, his ears ached. The faint whisper of a tune drifted from Lainn. Calling it a tune might have given it too much credit. He didn’t recognize his sister’s voice. It seemed like birdsong, but no avian he’d ever heard. He closed his eyes as her delicate voice drifted up and down, gently like a lazy river wending through the rolling hills. The sound tickled his ears and caressed his soul. His chest tingled with the desire to fly into the hazy air and ride the dust motes until the sun set.

  When he opened his eyes again, every bee in the glade surrounded his sister. His heart leapt in panic, but a glance at Gemmán calmed him. The druid sat in tranquil approval, nodding his head at the scene. Conall couldn’t see one inch of his sister under the blanket of buzzing yellow and black.

  When the song drifted off into silence once again, Conall felt an intense longing for the sound to return. His heart became empty, forever bereft of the joy of her voice, her music, and the freedom it urged upon him.

  Tears ran unchecked down his cheeks.

  Gemmán clapped, startling the bees away from Lainn. Her cheeks had grown flushed with pride and pleasure at her success.

  “Well done, child, well done! You’ve learned this stage even more quickly than I’d imagined, even more quickly than my husband did. As much as I love him dearly, Olchobar made a reckless mistake the first time and got stung right on the nose! You have demonstrated your ability to recite the first thirty histories with the added talent of singing to the bees. Despite what the others say, I’m thrilled to confer upon you the title of iníon fuirmedh. Congratulations on graduation to the second tier! We must celebrate.”

  Ernán scowled, but his companion shot an elbow into his ribs, and both boys congratulated Lainn with mostly sincere smiles and a clap on her shoulder.

  Gemmán stood, and Conall joined him, though he didn’t know what to say to his sister. She’d only been with the druids for two seasons. He thought each stage of the druid education took several years. He’d never really considered Lainn to be particularly studious, but perhaps she’d been hiding her talent all along.

  A surge of sudden envy shot through Conall at his sister’s singing talent and the obvious approval of her mentor. He shoved it down as an ungrateful and ungracious notion, and hugged Lainn tight. She trembled in his embrace, and only then did he realize how nervous she must have been.

  He held her out at arm’s length and stared into her eyes, suddenly glad she’d insisted on his coming to witness her trial. “You make me proud, little sister. Da would be proud, too.” He choked back more words and hugged her tight again as the bees buzzed merrily around their heads. The sunlight faded as a cloud covered the light, dipping them into cool shadows.

  Gemmán clapped a hand on his shoulder. When he turned, the older man grinned fit to crack his face. “And you, young man? Have you a voice akin to your sister’s, to charm the creatures of the forest?”

  With a nervous laugh, Conall shook his head. “N-n-no, not at all. I c-croak more like a frog when I try.”

  Both boys tittered until a glare from Gemmán quieted their mockery. “Ah well, I’m certain you’ve your own talents. Everyone has something they can do. What’s your specialty, then?”

  With the man’s intense green eyes staring through him, Conall could only remember his father’s insistence to keep the brooch’s magic safe and secret. He managed to stammer, “St-st-stone-working. My stepfather is teaching me.”

  Gemmán narrowed his eyes and continued to stare at him. “Intriguing. Intriguing indeed. Well, I’ll not press you to speak of it. Come, it’s time to celebrate your sister’s success. Will you join us for mead? It’s the least we can offer as your sister’s trial involved bees.”

  Ernán begged off. “Our father is expecting us for supper, honored teacher.”

  “Go then, lads. I’ll see you on the morrow. Your test is next, remember! See if you can do as well as our dear girl here.”

  As the boys left, the blond shot a glare of pure envy at Lainn, but she remained oblivious. The obvious threat made Conall clench his fists, though, and stare at the young man as he disappeared among the trees.

  Gemmán placed a hand on his shoulder. “A druid should never seek a violent solution, lad.”

  “Good thing I’m not a druid then, isn’t it?” Conall ducked his head and glanced at Lainn, but she had a butterfly on her finger and brought it up to her face. The insect alighted on the bridge of her nose, and she crossed her eyes, trying to keep it in sight. When it flitted away, she giggled and twirled in place, her arms flung out for balance. Conall had to smile at the sight of his sister back to her cheerful, silly self once again.

  They walked out of the bee-loud glade and to a series of small fountains. Each one fell into the next one, down a hill, through a ladder of several decorative stone cataracts. The sound of trickling water drowned out the bees and the air cooled further under the canopy of trees. A faint breeze r
ustled the leaves as a few yellow ones drifted down into the fountains.

  Gemmán opened a small cupboard in the side of the fountain stones and pulled out several stone mugs. “Normally, I’d put the waterskin in the fountain for a while, to cool off the drink. However, I think we should celebrate while we can. Does anyone object?”

  After hearing no protests, he detached a waterskin from his belt and poured them each a mug of sweet, warm mead.

  Conall had only tried mead twice before. First, at his mother’s wedding to Sétna—a day so fraught with stress and celebration, he couldn’t remember exactly what happened during the ceremony.

  The second time occurred just a month before, when Aoife snuck some from her father’s supply, daring him to quaff the entire cup in one gulp. After much cajoling, he’d given in, though he coughed with the syrupy heat of the alcohol. After he’d won his dare, she’d been uncomfortably friendly, rubbing her hand along his hip and caressing his upper leg.

  Conall had grown flushed, whether from the drink or from her attentions. When her hand inched toward his nether regions, he’d stuttered some poor excuse and run away.

  His cheeks flushed again, either at the embarrassing memory or the alcohol. Either way, the chill of the shaded fountain grew warm. Gemmán and Lainn chatted about her next steps, so he stood and wandered, studying the fountain construction.

  The stones appeared at first to be rough-hewn and poorly set, many covered in moss and lichen in yellow and white. However, when he traced his finger along the spaces between the stones, he realized how precisely they fit together. Someone had cut each one to fit into the shape of the next one, even if they took irregular shapes rather than uniform blocks. Conall decided he appreciated the effect. A planned chaotic beauty.

  The stone puzzle construction fascinated him, and he studied the pieces, how they fit together, and how they’d been balanced in both physical space and visual beauty. Conall ached to try such a construction, but he knew without a doubt Sétna would never agree to such an artistic variation on the basic mason’s work.