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

  She shook her head. “Not while singing. I have to concentrate on one or the other. What about you? You used to juggle.”

  When he’d been younger, juggling, manipulation, and all sorts of tricks fascinated him. However, his mother hated such activities, berating him for foolish pursuits, so he gave it up. Now that he considered it, that might be a useful skill to hone again. Especially now that the brooch’s magic gave him the power to move objects. In fact, juggling might be the perfect thing. He smiled. “I’ll find good, round stones tomorrow and practice. I’ll be rusty, I’m sure.”

  “Your body will remember how.” Lainn spoke with such certainty, Conall couldn’t argue.

  As he pried the roasted fish from the stone, Lainn poured the last of the mead into their mugs. “At least we’ve plenty of fresh water with the river nearby.” She shook the wineskin several times, trying to coax the final drop out. She peered in to ensure it was empty and a drop fell in her eye. Conall laughed as she squinted and shook her head, trying to wipe the honey alcohol out.

  He snorted as he served her a portion. “And we only need to freeze to death to get it. The cliff is steep here. I wish we’d found a gentler shore to access the water in a safer place.”

  His sister stared at him, not touching her fish, for several moments. “I do believe you would complain if a god sat next to you and offered you the crown of the world.”

  Conall took a sip of water and when he put his cup down, pursed his lips. “Well, you would invite the goddess of d-d-death in for a d-drink and a nice chat.”

  She scowled and poked at her fish. “I see nothing wrong with that. Everyone deserves kindness.”

  “Except Sétna.”

  Silence reigned as they ate their fish in sullen contemplation. Conall regretted his words, his reminder to Lainn of what she’d almost suffered at their stepfather’s hands. He wished his magical talent allowed him to wrestle time backwards, just long enough to erase the last few moments.

  Instead, he stared at the thatch. The one big spot would take a lot of work to fix. Even just covering it with branches and bracken would take a lot of effort, securing it in place with twine. Such a temporary repair wouldn’t stand up to the fierce wind of a winter storm, much less a heavy layer of snow. To truly fix it would require dried hay, which they’d have to trade for from a farmer. This late in the season, no farmer would want to part with their livestock’s fodder. Maybe some sedge grass or cattails would do for this season?

  Lainn hummed low, a sad melody with poignance and pathos. Though she sang no words, the tune distracted him from his plans, making him long for his father with an aching need. Did his father still live somewhere in the world? If so, why hadn’t he come back for them? Why had he left?

  He swallowed against the tears and wondered how their mother fared. She must have realized they’d disappeared by now. What story had Sétna spun about their flight from home? Conall knew the truth wouldn’t have been any part of it.

  His sister’s voice wrapped around his body, the melancholy music making him close his eyes and fall asleep in untroubled slumber. When he woke, the morning sun shone strongly on his face, but he felt more rested than he had in weeks.

  Had Lainn sung him to sleep? Had she used druidic magic to soothe his troubled soul? He glanced at her, peacefully snoring under her brat, close to the banked peat fire. She must have more magic than even her druid tutor had realized.

  Had their father given her a magic brooch as well?

  No, her magic seemed more primal, more visceral. Hers seemed an innate talent, not one granted by a magical artifact. Conall didn’t know why he knew this, but as he said the words in his mind, he realized their truth. As he had many times in the past, Conall considered telling her about the brooch. His father’s words, urging him to keep the magic safe and secret, kept him from sharing.

  Despite his resolve to keep his secret, if she had given him a decent night’s rest with her magic, he’d be grateful. It felt like years since he had slept peacefully through the night.

  He stirred the peat to rekindle the fire, adding several pieces of kindling and branches. Fetching water from the river, which involved a treacherous climb down a slippery cliff, he heated it in the pot. Some warm fruit would be a welcome morning meal.

  Lainn still hadn’t woken by the time the fruit stewed. With a resentful glance at her sleeping form, he ate his portion and wandered outside, intent on gathering what materials he needed to repair the roof. He found several thin, dry branches that spread flat rather than round. Those might work for the framework if he could secure them to the existing eaves.

  Once he gathered that pile, he clambered down to the water’s edge to search for dried sedge and grass. The trick to thatch being waterproof was layer upon layer of thin straw. It took so long for water to work its way through the layers, it coated the straw rather than drip into the roundhouse. While he had no true straw, reeds would do for now. He found cattail roots, flat grass, and several stands of winter-dried sedge. After cutting them with his small knife, he made another pile.

  As he reached for another clump of cattails, the ancient bronze knife held ready to saw at their base, the mud below him shifted, and he slid down into the icy river. He tried to save himself from the water, but the bank gave way too quickly, and soon he was waist-deep in the freezing river.

  “Blood and bones! That’s cold!” With chattering teeth, he dragged himself to a rocky outcropping and dragged his sodden self to dry land. Conall lay on the rocks, panting from his effort and wishing for a hot, crackling fire to warm his icy skin.

  After just a few minutes, he forced himself to rise. If he gave in to rest now, he might never get up again. He could die from a chill easily here next to the water, half-frozen from his spill. With renewed determination and clenched teeth, he attacked another tuft of sedge grass, working his way toward firmer ground along the riverbank.

  By the time he had sorted, stripped, cleaned, and bundled the grasses, he sat on a log outside the roundhouse and wiped his brow. Despite his dunking, he’d grown overheated with his efforts. While his boots remained squishy and his toes were numb, his Maelblatha had almost completely dried, and his stomach growled with startling volume. Lainn should be up by now.

  The sullen glow of the fire didn’t illuminate the interior well, especially after the brightness outside. When Conall’s eyes adjusted, he saw Lainn still curled up next to the fire.

  With a frown, he shook her shoulder. “Lainn? Lainn, wake up, lazybones.”

  She grunted and waved her hand in dismissal, turning away from him.

  Exhaling deeply, he stared at his sister. If she needed sleep so badly, he should let her, despite his envy of her peaceful rest. He left the remainder of the stewed fruit in a bowl next to her. He grabbed a stick of dried venison and some bread and cheese from yesterday’s barter and went outside.

  Clouds had chased the bright sunshine away, and the air grew considerably colder. He shivered and pulled his brat back around his shoulders. He should get the roof repair started, at least, before those dark clouds brought a storm. Still, he didn’t wish to wake Lainn from her sleep.

  First, he tied all of the frame branches into a bundle and tossed it onto the good part of the roof. Then he did the same with the grasses. He missed the first time and kicked himself for stupidity, using his talent to ensure it worked the second time. Next, he used the doorway to haul himself up, at the expense of a few scraped knuckles. He held his magic ready in case he fell. He’d never tried to lift himself as he lifted a piece of stone. He didn’t want to try unless he had no other choice.

  He worked with the twine, securing the branches in place, so they stayed parallel with the edge of the roof. However, he needed at least three more to complete the job. He scampered back down but, before he jumped the last few feet, he tried to lift himself to the ground with his magic. It worked, but he experienced such a strong wave of nausea, he realized he should only use such a trick in extreme need.r />
  Several moments later, after he dry-heaved a few times, he scoured the nearby brush for three more stout, flat branches. He only found two. A rustling in the bracken startled him, and he took a few steps back, only to get a face full of black feathers and raucous screeches. He covered his head with his hands and cried out, falling on his backside as he tried to escape the attack.

  When he opened his eyes, a huge black raven sat on a branch, cocking his head several times in curious regard.

  “Rawninn, is that you? Did you find us?”

  The raven cawed once, flapped his wings, and then flew into the roundhouse. With a sigh, Conall gathered his two good branches and followed. While relieved the raven had found them again, the annoying bird had best let Lainn sleep.

  Inside the chilly roundhouse, the raven picked at the stewed fruit and Lainn still slept. Conall whispered, “Leave that, Rawninn! That’s for her. Here, have some fish.” He tossed the bits of bone left from last night’s dinner, still with some flesh on them, toward the bird. Rawninn caught the bones in his beak and fluttered off to a stone along the wall to enjoy his treat.

  The sky grew dimmer with more clouds, despite being only mid-afternoon, and Conall rushed back up to the roof to finish his repairs. He did his best to bridge the gap with only two branches. Once he secured the frame, he placed a layer of grasses cross-wise, so they pointed from the center of the roof to the edge. After the first layer covered the frame, he tied down twine and set a second layer, and then a third and a fourth. He wished he had enough grass to do a fifth or even a sixth, but the first drops of freezing rain convinced him his efforts would be sufficient for now.

  Conall slithered down the doorway, almost slipping at the last moment. His hip felt better now, but he didn’t need to injure himself again. He’d had horrible luck so far, and he didn’t wish to make it worse.

  Rawninn still picked at his bones and Lainn still slept. The first glimmer of concern washed over Conall, but he shrugged it off. The last few days had been full of trauma and uncertainty, pain and physical exertion. If Lainn needed time to recover, he would make certain she got it.

  He sat inside the roundhouse and stoked the fire up to a comfortable level. The rain outside pounded on the thatch, but not through it. His patch job had held so far, and he smiled in satisfaction. Despite his stepfather’s assertions, Conall could do something well.

  Anger shoved aside for survival’s sake boiled inside him now. That Sétna should try to molest Lainn felt so wrong, so evil, Conall couldn’t breathe when he considered it. The attack seemed a dream, something too horrible to be real. Yet it had been real. Sétna had tried to bed his own step-daughter.

  Perhaps people did such things elsewhere. Perhaps this would be normal to someone else. Where Conall grew up, this wasn’t normal, and he wouldn’t allow it to be, not with Lainn. He’d promised their father he’d care for her, and no matter what happened, he meant to keep that vow.

  He swallowed back unexpected tears and glanced at his sister, still slumbering beside the fire. Darkness had fallen outside, the glowing fire casting strange shadows on the walls. The shadows danced and writhed, forming demonic shapes in the strange roundhouse. These dancing shapes lulled Conall into a fitful sleep.

  The sliding ice shifted beneath his feet, and he couldn’t find balance in the world. Around him, screeching creatures reached for him, tugging and pulling at his ragged clothing. Frozen wind whipped against his face, numbing his skin and stealing his breath. Everywhere he looked, terror awaited him.

  Conall sat up with a scream, his heart pounding within his chest. All remained quiet within the roundhouse. Lainn lay in her spot and Rawninn slept with one wing tucked over his beak.

  His blood raced with the vestiges of his nightmare. Knowing he would never get to sleep again, he flung the blanket off and rubbed his face. He glanced at the door, but no light seeped through the wattle cracks. It might be near midnight, or it might be near dawn; he had no way of knowing. However, the fire had burned down considerably since he last noticed, so it must have been a few hours at least.

  He glanced at the plate with stewed fruit, still untouched since the day before. Lainn needed to eat, and soon this would be more important than sleep. Didn’t she need to relieve herself? She might have done so while he repaired the roof. She might also have eaten then. Reassured, he kept himself busy by unpacking the food onto the stone shelf along one wall, forming a pantry. He took stock of their supplies.

  The food might last most of one moon if they ate carefully. Fishing would help, and they’d set snares for rabbits. Midwinter would be barely a half-moon away, but three more moons of winter remained before the spring growth would provide food. Animals would be lean from winter and wily.

  Lainn could sing and tell stories. He would do repairs to stones, even roofs or doorways. Conall remembered Lainn’s suggestion about juggling, and he cursed himself for forgetting to find suitable stones. They both might entertain surrounding túaths. Travel in the cold season would be difficult, but not impossible.

  Only two apples remained, so Conall grabbed three of the remaining turnips. They weren’t round, but they’d do for practice. He cut off the greens and the pointed tips and hefted each one, testing their weight. One hefted lighter than the others, so he’d have to compensate for that.

  He stood near the glowing fire and drew in his will, gathering his magic. While a bouncing turnip on the ground wouldn’t make a lot of noise, Lainn still slept. Better to have his magic primed and ready for immediate use.

  Since he’d gotten the brooch, Conall had learned he didn’t have instant access to his full power. He needed to concentrate on the brooch, pull his power in through the earth and into his body, and then direct it from his body to whatever object he wanted to lift. Perhaps this explained why he’d been so nauseous trying to move his own body. If he didn’t prepare the power ahead of time, he might get a trickle of the power, but never the full effect. And afterward, he lost a lot of body strength.

  Even if he prepared for using the power, his strength drained easily using the magic. As a result, he’d learned to use the power sparingly.

  While re-learning to juggle wasn’t a life or death situation, it might mean the difference between eating and starving over the course of the bitter winter months. The price might be worth it.

  Thinking back to when he first learned the skill, he took just one turnip at first. He practiced tossing it up in a perfect arc and then passing it low between his hands. Over and over, he made a perfect oval with the single turnip until he grew dizzy from focusing on the heavy vegetable in the near-darkness.

  Once he grew more comfortable with that action, Conall turned in place, keeping the oval perfect even as his body spun. Careful step by careful step, he turned once, twice, three times, all while concentrating on his oval.

  His body remembered what to do, even though it had been at least four years since he’d tried to juggle. He didn’t yet need his magic to assist his dexterity. He smiled in the dim light, proud of his talent.

  The raucous caw of the raven shattered his concentration, and the turnip thumped onto the ground, rolling across to tap the sleeping Lainn on her head. She mumbled but didn’t wake.

  “Rawninn! Shush. You made me mess up.”

  The annoying bird ruffled his wings and opened his beak, but remained silent. He settled back down on his perch but didn’t sleep again.

  Conall stared at his sister, his brow wrinkling in bitter confusion. “Really? Even that didn’t wake you? You must really be away with the faeries to sleep through that racket.”

  Light seeped in through the door and walls, so the dawn must be approaching. Conall stretched his back, making it crack while he replaced the turnips on the shelf. His muscles already ached from the unusual activity, and he knew better than to hurt himself with over-weaning effort.

  He considered the foodstuffs on hand and decided they needed seasoning. Not much grew in winter, but he might find a few stalk
s of sage or rosemary in the bracken. Glancing up at the roof, he considered the cattails. He remembered the roots were edible. Maybe he should cut some down? No, they needed the roof. He’d just have to find more. He might find parsley or coltsfoot for a touch of saltiness. Pine nuts would add some flavor, and he could also make pine needle tea. Turnips tasted much better with butter and salt, but they’d not found butter in the túath so far. Wood ash would give it a salty taste, but Lainn hated the charred aftertaste.

  He grabbed his smaller travel sack, now almost empty of clothes, tools, and supplies, and put his almost-dried boots on and walked outside into the crisp pre-dawn air. Crystalline dew and mist covered every object, making the landscape ethereal and wondrous. Not a creature moved in the stillness, and his breath created puffs of steam. He almost didn’t dare to breathe on the spider’s web sparkling with frozen dewdrops. The beauty and delicacy required that he stop and admire the wonder.

  A lone bee few across his line of sight, buzzing lazily around the web. Conall shooed it away lest it got caught in the gossamer creation. Lainn would be pleased to find bees nearby. It flew around the back of the roundhouse in a wobbly spiral.

  Conall flung his empty sack over his shoulder and walked to the river’s edge. Most plants grew better near the water, as the river would keep the land less frozen in the winter months. He walked to where he’d found the cattails the day before, searching for the tall sprigs or rosemary or the ground cover of coltsfoot or parsley.

  A roe deer lifted her head from the other bank of the river as he approached, her dappled coat betraying her youth. Conall stopped, allowing her the chance to get used to his presence. “Don’t worry, doe. I’m no hunter.”

  She flicked an ear several times before she bowed her head, took one more drink, and then bounded off into the brush. Her graceful leaps made almost no noise.

  The grace of such creatures never failed to amaze Conall, no matter how many times he witnessed it. The freedom to run as far and as long as he liked seemed like the ultimate joy.