Age of Druids: Druid's Brooch Series: #9 Read online

  “What sort of surprises?”

  “Would you like to hear tales or learn magic?”

  Clíodhna bowed her head. “I’m sorry. Yes, I’d rather learn magic.”

  “Very well, let’s begin.”

  Adhna took her through several exercises like the one yesterday. When she’d finished, her body felt wrung out but vibrant, like she’d just run along a beach at full speed. Her skin buzzed. She rubbed her eyes and scrubbed her fingers in her hair to relieve some of the itch.

  “Now that you’ve gained a level of control, let’s try to do something with that power. Draw your tendril back in. This time, pull it in through your arm to your hand.”

  She did so and could almost see the blue light with her physical eyes, rather than her imagination. It sparked and twisted within her palm like lightning dancing across the sky in a thunderstorm.

  The air grew dark. She glanced up and noticed rain clouds converging above them.

  He followed her gaze. “Danú’s paps! Well, I know humans don’t wish to stay out in the rain, so we must delay the lesson. I shall see you again tomorrow.”

  “Would you like to come inside and have something to eat? I don’t imagine it’s any more pleasant for you to get soaking wet.” The first drops plopped on the stone beside her.

  With a wry twist of his lips, he agreed. “Would you happen to have any cheese?”

  Clíodhna laughed as they ran to safety. “I have plenty of cheese!”

  They didn’t quite make it inside in time. Shaking the water from their léinte, they crowded into the doorway and the now-dim interior of the roundhouse. The sullen glow of the banked peat fire let off little light. She coaxed it to life and brought out flatbread, cheese, and some wizened autumn apples.

  “I’m afraid I have little fruit left, but I’ve got some honey. Would you like that with the cheese?”

  His face lit up. “That is the most delightful offer I’ve had all season.”

  She fetched the honey and laid it on the table. As her guest fixed a plate of food, she considered him. He had pleasant humor and manners, and he wouldn’t be constrained by the stricture of the new religion. If she had limits upon the time she had with Odhrán, perhaps Adhna would prove to be an interesting alternative. Spring came closer every day. She owed it to her own beliefs to honor the life of the world. Such obligations became much more enjoyable with a well-chosen partner.

  Clíodhna studied him while he devoured the cheese with single-minded intensity. His hair and skin looked clean, well-kempt, and almost shining in the low light. He stood tall, with a lean strength to his muscles. His teeth looked even and white, and while he didn’t have Odhrán’s dimple, his eyes crinkled with true mirth when he laughed. She appreciated genuine folk far more than physical beauty, but he had both.

  Still, Adhna was her teacher, her mentor, by bound contract. She shouldn’t rush into any complication of that relationship. She must consider her options and the dangers inherent in each. True spring remained at least a moon away, perhaps more. She had some time yet to choose her partner.

  * * *

  For several weeks, Clíodhna and her family fell into a routine. Each morning for six days, she brought her children to the monk’s abbey for their lessons. After a brief discussion with Odhrán, she returned for lessons with Adhna. Occasionally, she returned in time to chat with the monk a little more before her children finished.

  On the seventh day, the monks rested and worshipped their God. Odhrán invited her several times to attend with them, and sometimes she did, but she discovered many beliefs within their doctrine she couldn’t agree with. Still, for appearance’s sake, she continued to attend at least every other seventh day. Her children went every time and began discussing the finer details of their theology.

  Would she lose her children to this religion? It seemed possible. She gently inserted other ideas into the conversations, ideas more in line with the beliefs she still held dear. Sometimes Etromma agreed with her, and other times remained adamant about the new religion. Donn remained quiet about it, evidently not wishing to get involved in the discussion, but Clíodhna could tell he paid close attention to both sides. As long as her children retained open minds, she would be content.

  Clíodhna’s favorite conversations with Odhrán became those discussing the aspects of her own beliefs within his. Each belief had a dedicated group of people, taught the deeper mysteries of the religion, to greater understand the message of their gods.

  One bright day, Odhrán explained the iron cross affixed to the top of their worship building, which he called a church. “When the Christos had seen but thirty-three winters, political intrigue resulted in his execution by being hung on a cross with nails through each wrist and one through his ankles. He hung upon this cross, in desperate agony, and yet did not denounce his torturers, the Romans.”

  “The same city you’re from?”

  He let out a low chuckle. “He lived in a different city called Jerusalem, far to the southeast across a vast sea. But the city of Rome is home to the Roman Empire, which spans an enormous distance around this sea and beyond. Jerusalem is part of the Empire, and thus the government is Roman.”

  Clíodhna’s head spun with the names and trying to imagine this empire’s scope, but she concentrated instead on the demigod. “So he died there on his cross?”

  “He did. They buried him in a cave. Three days later, he rose again, reborn as proof that he was God’s son.”

  “Oh, like The Dagda! He could bring people back to life with a blow of lorg mór!”

  Odhrán blinked and cocked his head. “Lorg mór? What’s that?”

  “A magical club. He could slay nine people with a single blow, but he could also bring them back to life.”

  He held out both hands. “This didn’t come from a mystical pagan artifact. This was a miracle, one of many based on His own divine heritage.”

  She furrowed her brow. “What is the difference between your God’s miracle and my gods’ magic?”

  He gave her a sweet smile, his dimple showing. “A miracle is the grace of God showing in this world, while your magic is your own creation. Magic can be used for evil, while a miracle is always for good.”

  “Do you see my gods’ magic as evil, then?”

  Odhrán hesitated before he answered. “Not inherently, no. The power itself is neither good nor evil. While some in my order might label any magic evil, I grew up with an aunt who worked as a witch. She worked spells to help people, especially women wanting children. We spoke of such things when I visited. She cautioned about ever working with lamia or daemons. Such workings were dangerous.”

  “Dangerous to her? Or in general?”

  He shrugged. “She didn’t say. But if she were caught, she’d be sentenced for six winters’ penance.”

  “Six winters? For working with Fae?”

  Shaking his head, he set his lips in a line. “I don’t think the Fae are the same as daemons. But I am no expert on the matter. Perhaps the Abbot could answer your questions more precisely.”

  Some aspects of his God still bothered her. “You mentioned your God died. Why would you celebrate his death? How do you, in this far land, benefit from someone who died in a desert so many leagues away?”

  “He returned from the dead and declared He died so we wouldn’t have to die for our own sins. He took the punishment for us. Because of that miracle, we worship the symbol of the cross to honor His sacrifice.”

  Clíodhna chewed upon that concept, still not understanding. Then she remembered the sacred kings.

  In some ancient legends, if the harvest became poor and remained so for several autumns, the tuath might elect a sacred king. This king ruled without bound during a full cycle of the seasons, given anything he desired. Women, food, riches, all things became his. Then, at the end of this cycle, he would be sacrificed with great ceremony and given back to the land, begging the gods to return the land’s health and wealth to those remaining. Clíodhna co
uld see a similar idea within Odhrán’s demigod’s death.

  She glanced at the cross on the church, stark and black against the morning sun. Then she noticed someone had carved it in the garden, on a vertical stone. This one had a circle surrounding the top part of it. Clíodhna frowned, concerned at such a dark and brutal sublimation of her beloved sun. “But why do you put the circle around it, like the Druid sun symbol?”

  “That only happened here in the northern lands. You already used the cross with the circle as a sacred symbol. We lengthened one arm of it to resemble ours, to make the transition between beliefs less jarring.”

  She found this explanation both ingenious and manipulative. This told her his church had both intelligence and ruthlessness. A dangerous combination for any native belief.

  Clíodhna glanced at the sun again, worried at how high it had risen. “I thank you for the information, Odhrán, but I must go.”

  He put a hand on her arm. “Wait, just for a moment. You aren’t going to rest, are you?”

  She flashed him an impish grin.

  “May I ask what you use this time for, then? I had hoped to relieve you from work by taking some of the burden from you.”

  She sat again and let out a sigh. “And I appreciate and value that help, Odhrán. I do. But I’m taking lessons of my own, lessons I need to help keep my mind and soul intact.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her and studied her expression. Whatever he saw there must have satisfied him. “Very well. Perhaps someday you can speak of these lessons to me. In the meantime, have a care. I don’t wish for you to become more frazzled than you must.”

  Clíodhna grinned wide. “Speaking with you every day helps me to relax far more than an hour’s nap would. You enrich my mind, Odhrán. I value that.”

  The monk smiled back, showing his dimple. “I’m happy to be valued for such a thing. Now run, lest you be late for your lessons.”

  * * *

  Spring came closer, and Clíodhna still hadn’t decided about Adhna. She lay in bed in the pre-dawn darkness, considering her options.

  Adhna acted, in equal measures, harsh and kind as a teacher. She worked hard to please him and master her lessons, but some didn’t come easily, to her intense frustration.

  Did she even want him as a lover? His body would please hers, that didn’t worry her. But his alternating flightiness and hardness confused her. Perhaps this flightiness stemmed from his Fae nature shining through, but it might make any intimate relationship challenging.

  Was she getting old? When had she ever backed down from a challenge?

  With that mindset, Clíodhna threw off her wool blanket and prepared for her day. She pulled on a clean léine, visited the sand basket for her morning pee, washed her face, and walked out into the early morning.

  First, she stopped at the stables, to milk the cows. Adhna had taught her how to increase their output, but she only worked magic on one cow each morning. She didn’t know what sort of ill effect this Fae magic might have on her kine, but she didn’t want to risk harming them with her practice.

  Clíodhna sat on the low stool and drew in the tingling bits of magic from the earth. It came much too strongly. She struggled to tamp it down, trying not to flood the poor beast with too much power.

  The cow lowed and mooed, stamping her hoof as Clíodhna pulled back. Her efforts produced no effect, not even the normal amount of milk.

  With a frown, Clíodhna glared at her cow. The cow couldn’t be faulted for her own inability to control her magic, but for now, the bovine remained a symbol of her frustration.

  She’d practiced Adhna’s lessons every morning, before greeting the dawn and heading into the village for the new church lecture. Sometimes her efforts resulted in brilliant success, but only about a third of the time. The other times either resulted in no effect at all, or near-disastrous failure.

  Clíodhna tried again.

  As she drew in the power and forced the small vine into the cow’s body, the milk erupted into a shower, covering both her and the cow with warm wetness. She mopped the white liquid from her face and spluttered, her jaw clenched in grim determination.

  At least her efforts in the garden had proved more successful. She glanced over to the herbs and decided she needed to do something which came more easily to calm her prickled pride. She rose, patted the cow on her flank, and stepped into the garden enclosure.

  Clíodhna had found she worked best when in direct contact with the earth itself. She sat in the dirt, her legs out straight in front of her, her palms flat on the ground. After drawing in the gentle earth power, she took one faint tendril and touched it onto the garlic plant. Just a feather-touch, nothing heavy or intense. The plant stretched as if a child waking from a deep sleep and grew a fingertip. Moving to the other garlic blossom, she tapped each with the gossamer stroke, urging each to rise to greet the coming dawn with open love.

  After the garlic, she moved on to the onions, the chervil, and each of the other herbs within her garden. When she finished, the entire enclosure seemed deeper, more lush, and most of all, more full of the joy of life.

  With a sigh, Clíodhna rose, brushing the dirt from the back of her léine. Her efforts this morning would have to do. She returned to the house to rouse and feed her children. She took some time to play with the baby before they left. Once both children and animals had been fed and cleaned, they walked to the abbey in the pre-dawn light. She missed being able to greet the dawn, but she also wanted to be part of this new community.

  She still rolled that word around in her mind. It sounded strange to her, along with the other words Odhrán used. Church, liturgy, sermon… she’d never encountered any of these words before. Did the Druí use them in their deeper mysteries? She had met with several Druí before, and a few Bards as well, but she’d never sat down to talk with them as she had with Odhrán. Perhaps these words applied to all religions, and because she’d never studied druidic lore, she’d not come across them before.

  For a moment, she appreciated that this new religion sought to share knowledge with the lowliest of its followers, and didn’t hold all their mysteries close to a small group.

  The abbey yard looked as if someone had poked a stick in an ant nest. Monks scrambled around, rushing back and forth. Several villagers waited at the edge of the frenzy, looking on the confusion with puzzled expressions. She found Ita and tapped her shoulder.

  “What’s happened? Did someone get hurt?”

  Clíodhna’s friend shrugged. “No, but someone important arrived in the night. They’re rushing to get things presentable for him. He might be the new leader.”

  “The new Abbot? Odhrán told me he’d be here soon.”

  Ita glared at her. “You talk with him a lot, don’t you? Don’t think we haven’t noticed.”

  Surprised at the censure in her friend’s voice, Clíodhna stared back. “Noticed what? We’re just talking.”

  “Yes, yes. But you’ve been monopolizing his time. He has other duties than entertaining you, you know.”

  Clíodhna did not enjoy being the subject of gossip. Her face grew warm thinking of the village women discussing her relationship with Odhrán. She wished she hadn’t come to the abbey today. With the bustle, perhaps no one would notice if she just left. But that would mean the children wouldn’t have their lessons… and she wouldn’t have hers. The same day she’d decided about Bealtaine, too.

  If she hadn’t been certain Ita loved her own husband well, Clíodhna might suspect her of jealousy, but the woman doted on her man. Why should her friend be so concerned about Odhrán’s time? He didn’t shirk his duties as a monk to be with her.

  The dawn broke over the hills to the east, bathing the valley with golden light. As it did so, a bell rang. Clíodhna had never experienced a sound like this, deep and sonorous, echoing across the farmland. If anyone still slept in the village, they’d be awake now.

  Ita clapped her hands. “Oh, I’d heard he brought a bell all the way from Rome! That
must be it.”

  The sound was pleasant enough, but so loud. Clíodhna gave thanks to Brighid that her home lay so far on the edge of the village. The bongs would still reach it from there, but they might not wake her up. Perhaps they would only ring it at dawn? She always woke before the sun rise.

  The yard emptied of rushing clerics. Where had they all disappeared to? Several moments passed before anything else happened.

  When the bell stopped ringing, a procession of religious men wended out from their sleeping quarters. Each monk stepped in time, one by one, perfectly spaced. Clíodhna had never seen them all together before and counted them as they walked by. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen… twenty-four in all. Behind them, a stranger in shining white and blue robes carried a standard with a strange marking. With measured steps, he walked stiff and formal. The symbol looked like a six-armed star, with a sideways loop on the top middle arm. Clíodhna hadn’t seen that before and made a mental note to ask Odhrán what it meant.

  The man appeared to be just past middle-aged with long, white hair and a gray beard. He stood wiry and slim, despite his shapeless robes. He kept his eyes forward, not glancing side to side at any of the rapt on-lookers.

  After he entered the church, the bell rang again, once. The villagers all milled about in confusion until one monk poked his head out and gestured for them to come in. With muddled reluctance, each villager entered. Clíodhna held back to be the last in. Aileran slept soundly against her shoulder despite the bell. Still, when Etromma reached for him, she allowed her daughter to take the baby. He didn’t wake during the transfer but snuggled into the fresh shoulder with a sweetness which made Clíodhna’s heart ache.

  The entire village had arrived. The interior stuffed so full of people, Clíodhna felt crowded and wanted to step out. However, her curiosity over this new Abbot won out over her need for open space. Clíodhna waited along the back wall. Since so many attended, no room remained for sitting during this sermon.