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

by Christy Nicholas

  On his deathbed, Conall’s father makes him promise to always take care of his little sister, Lainn. With her laughter, she can sing the bees from their hives and make the morning sun sparkle in the winter. He loves Lainn with all his heart, and will do anything to protect her, even without a promise to his father.

  He failed.

  Between an abusive step-father, a powerful Faerie Queen, and a maddened Fae Lord, every decision Conall makes seems to be the wrong one. Starvation, imprisonment, madness, and disfigurement plagues them. Even when he tries following his heart, it turns to disaster.

  Can Conall correct his mistakes and save Lainn’s life and soul?

  Will it cost him his own?

  AGE OF SAINTS

  Druid’s Brooch Series, #7

  Christy Nicholas

  Published by Tirgearr Publishing

  Author Copyright 2019 Christy Nicholas

  Cover Art: Cora Graphics (www.coragraphics.it)

  Editor: Sharon Pickrel

  Proofreader: Christine McPherson

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not given to you for the purpose of review, then please log into the publisher’s website and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting our author’s hard work.

  This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Publisher’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Pronunciations and Definitions

  Author Note

  Foreward

  Part I

  Part II

  Part III

  Part IV

  About the Author

  Other books by Christy

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  Publishers and authors are always happy to exchange their book for an honest review. If you have obtained a copy of this book without purchase or from the publisher or author, please consider sending a review to the author or publisher, as reviews help authors market their work more effectively. Thank you.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Many thanks to the wonderful folks in my authors’ group, who continue to offer valuable feedback and encouragement of course, as well as my beta readers, especially Mattea Orr.

  Siobhán of Bitesize Irish has been wonderful in her help with proper Irish pronunciations for my increasing list of Irish words.

  I also thank Walker Metalsmiths of New York for the use of their wonderful brooch for inspiration for the cover art.

  PRONUNCIATIONS AND DEFINITIONS

  People

  Adhna—/Eye-na/

  Áine—/Aw-nye/

  Ammatán—/Om-ah-tawn/

  Aoibheall—/Ee-vul/

  Bodach—/Bud-ukh/

  Conchobhair- /Kruh-khoor/

  Crimthann—/Krih-hin/

  Cú Chulainn—/Koo Khu-lun/

  Deichtire—/Jeh-chir-eh/

  Dianaim—/Jeen-em/

  Flidaisínn—/Flee-sheen/

  Gréine de Leicne Bán—/Gray-nye jeh Lek-neh Bawn/

  Rawninn —/Raw-nin/

  Oonagh—/Oo-na/

  Sawchaill—/Saw-khil/

  Sencha—/Sen-uh-kha/

  Setanta—/Se-tan-ta/

  Places

  An Mhi/Mide—Meath /on Vee/ /Mee/

  Cnoc an Dúin—Hill of Down /Kruk on Doo-in/

  An Bhóinn—The Boyne River /On Voh-in/

  Maelblatha—Mullingar /Mayl-blah-ha/

  Cnoc Uisneach—Hill of Uisneach /Kruk Ish-nukh/

  an Mhumhain—Munster /On Woo-in/

  an Chláir—Clare /On Khlaw-ir/

  Tiobraid Árann—Tipperary /Tib-red Aw-ren/

  Sliabh Fuaid—Shleev Foo-id/

  Tír na nÓg—Land of the Ever Young /Cheer nah Nohg/

  Cluain Eraird—Clonard /Kloo-in Er-erd/

  Fir Rois—Airgialla /Fihr Rish/

  Other

  Alban Eilir—Spring Equinox /Ol-bon El-ir/

  Bean sidhe—Banshee, a female spirit who presaged death by wailing /Ban-shee/

  Fochlac—Druid rank, 2nd year /Fukh-luk/

  Forrach—About 40 yards /Fur-rukh/

  Géis—A curse or requirement /gesh/

  Iníon fuirmedh—Druid rank, 3rd year (female) /In-yeen foor-may/

  Maelblatha/léinte—A long belted tunic (singular/plural) /Lay-na/ /Layn-tah/

  Túath—Medieval extended household /Too-ah/

  AUTHOR NOTE

  The 6th century in Ireland was a time of great change. The Christian religion had only recently gained a foothold upon its emerald shores, and the change amongst its people grew slowly. Even today, strong elements of the pagan past shine through Celtic Christianity. St. Columba, born Crimthann, is but one of three patron saints of Ireland, along with St. Patrick and St. Brigid. He took Christianity from Ireland to Alba’s shores. Still, the details of the new religion hadn’t yet filtered down into the small túaths of rural Ireland.

  FOREWORD

  As a nation, Ireland wasn’t called such until later in history. At this time, the people were Gaels and called their land Hibernia, if they called it anything at all. It was called Ériu by the Ostmen (Vikings), which later became Éire or Erin.

  AGE OF SAINTS

  Druid’s Brooch Series, #7

  Christy Nicholas

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Cnoc an Dúin, Mide, Hibernia, 520 AD

  Conall grunted with effort, struggling to lift the heavy stone block into place. As he pushed it in the precisely-cut space, he scraped his fingers and panted once it fit flush against the edge. His legs ached, and he shifted his posture until he could stand at a different angle, alleviating the pain. He wiped sweat and his curly, black hair from his eyes with an already-soaked rag, glancing to his stepfather, Sétna, for approval.

  The tall, blond, burly man chuckled as he traced the thin line between the blocks, the dappled sunlight shining through the trees in a shifting pattern. “Not bad, young man. Not bad. Now, cut five more like that, place them in their spots, and we’ll be done for the day.”

  Sétna whistled for his deer-hound. When the gangly, gray dog bounded to his master, he played with the dog for a few moments before he settled on the wall to observe Conall prepare the next stone.

  With a cough to clear the stone dust from his parched throat, Conall sat on the low stool in front of the rough-dressed blocks. He marked the edges to be cut with his chalk, whistling a spritely tune as he worked. The scent of stone dust tickled his nose, and he rubbed furiously to keep from sneezing.

  Both Sétna and his hound, Grárhund, watched intently as Conall chiseled the sides of the stone block, sanded them smooth, and wrestled the heavy thing to the half-built stone wall.

  As he dug his fingers beneath the block, Conall lifted one edge, and the dog scampered around him, distracting him from his task. He wished Sétna would call the hound away, but he daren’t spend attention on the beast. With only a few scraped knuckles, he managed to get the block high enough to lift it from the ground, inching it toward the spot on the wall waiting for the next stone.

  A sudden bark startled him, and his grip slipped. Despite scrambling to catch hold, the block slid away from him. He had no strength to stop the stone from falling, and Grárhund’s sharp yelp made him wince in sympathy.

  The dog sprinte
d away, whining as he ran. At least the dog could run, which salved Conall’s worst fears. Sétna thundered over him, and he welcomed the pain when his stepfather boxed his ears. “Pay attention, you dolt! You could have killed Grárhund! I’m off to check his leg, and you’d better finish your chore before supper!”

  After his stepfather stalked off, Conall sat on the offending stone, his head in his hands, upset and worried for the dog. He noticed no blood on the ground. He hoped he’d not hurt the poor thing too badly. With a deep sigh and a glance toward where the hound ran off with his master, he stood to finish this stone.

  While he greatly appreciated his stepfather’s instruction and knowledge, Conall preferred to work alone, out from under any scrutiny. He worked much more quickly when no one watched.

  Now he must lift the errant block into its place on the wall. His eyes flicked all around the small clearing to ensure no one watched.

  While closing his eyes, he drew upon the power of his father’s brooch. While the artifact remained well-hidden in his sleeping alcove, he only needed to concentrate his will upon the magical object to call its strength to him. He willed the magic to flow through the ground, into his feet, up his legs, and out of his hands, making his fingers tingle. The surge made him grow dizzy, but he braced himself against the power and directed it to the newly-cut stone.

  With the gentle touch of practiced magic, the stone drifted to the wall and settled into its waiting place with a scrape. Conall opened his eyes and grinned. Practice made perfect, and when his stepfather didn’t lurk about, he could wield his magic with impunity.

  Conall whirled at a rustle behind him, frightened his power had been discovered, but the chittering of a squirrel reassured him no human witnessed his antics. The squirrel darted away, and he sighed with relief.

  His father had warned him to always keep their secret close.

  Conall swallowed a sudden surge of melancholy at the thought of his father. While Sétna cared for him, his sister, and their mother, Conall wished his father hadn’t disappeared two years before. He missed him with all his heart.

  He shoved away the memory of those heart-breaking days and wiped the sweat from his forehead as he bent to work the next stone. A few dry, lonely leaves drifted from the autumn trees. One landed on his stone, and he brushed it away. He sat at the next stone and picked up his chalk. He had three more stones to carve and place before he could collect Lainn and return home for supper.

  Conall’s hand trembled as he marked out the lines. He grunted with dissatisfaction, rubbed out the chalk, and drew again. Three times he drew the lines before they looked as straight as he could make them. Finally, he rolled his eyes and reached for the mason’s pouch of tools Sétna had lent him. He’d almost forgotten the string.

  He rubbed the chalk along the thin jute rope, holding it taut against the side of the stone. With the lower end secured by his foot, he snapped the rope against the stone surface, causing the chalk to leave a faint line, straight as an arrow’s flight.

  Conall grinned at the clever trick, as he did every time he used it. In short order, he’d marked the rest of the stone’s sides and carefully returned the string to his pouch.

  The freshly-sharpened chisel and small hammer offered no tricks or shortcuts, so he spent the next hour carving the stone and refining the edge to fit into the wall. His sweat had become coated with stone dust, making his skin gritty and itchy.

  Once he’d dressed the stone, he brushed the stone dust away and surveyed his success. Then, after a quick glance around, he lightly lifted it into place with his magic, taking a moment to wipe down his face and hands. With a long-suffering sigh, he sat at the fourth stone.

  Before he finished the last stone, the sun had dipped considerably lower in the sky, behind the dappled canopy of autumn trees. He ran his fingers along the fine cracks as Sétna had, marveling at the fine work he’d finally achieved. For two years, he’d practiced under his stepfather’s exacting tutelage. While Sétna remained a tough taskmaster, he taught well. Conall brushed away another coating of dust and smiled, proud of his work.

  With a quick glance at the lowering sun, he gathered his mason tools and wrapped them in the leather-strapped bag. He’d better hurry if he wanted to meet Lainn at the crossroads.

  The half-hour walk along the edge of the bog offered him little challenge, as he’d been exploring this area for many years. They hadn’t been born here but had moved when his father found the great fishing in An Bhóinn, the river which ran past the ancient bogland. Conall didn’t remember why they’d left his previous home, as he’d been too young to know much beyond their move. His sister, Lainn, had only been a baby.

  While she’d been a merry, laughing child, his little sister grew more annoying with each year. He had been heartily grateful when the druids had accorded her the signal honor of studying with them. Every day, she spent time in their oak grove, learning histories, songs, and chants. She’d used this new knowledge to torment him often, though he wouldn’t let on how interesting he found the tales. If she realized he actually enjoyed them, she’d instantly stop.

  He spied her dark auburn curls bouncing as she jumped, trying to reach a yellow apple which hung from a low branch. He chuckled at her predicament and reached above her, calmly plucking the prize and taking a big bite. The last two years of growth meant he towered a full foot over his younger sister. He’d seen seventeen winters, but she’d only had sixteen.

  “That’s my apple, Conall! You’ve no right!”

  He shrugged. “T-t-taller people get the better apples, Mouse. Height is right!”

  “You know I hate that name! Give it!”

  When she kicked at his shin, he skipped back, holding the apple above his head and out of her reach. “You can’t catch me!”

  She growled and charged him as he laughed and ran. He spied another apple and picked it as he skipped by so she’d have a treat when she tired of chasing him.

  Lainn came close to grabbing his Maelblatha, so he put on a burst of speed. It would do no good to let her win. He wove through the trees, zig-zagging until even he panted for breath. When he finally stopped near a small stream, she limped up, her freckled face red and sweating.

  Conall offered the second apple as a peace offering with a wide grin. His sister growled at him before snatching it from his hand. They crunched the sweet fruit in silence as the trickling brook sang in the evening air. Bees buzzed around them, making Conall swat one away from his face.

  “Don’t hurt him!”

  He blinked at his sister. “Him? Blood and bones, Lainn. It’s a bee, not a p-p-person.”

  “You should be kind to bees. Adhna says so.”

  “Adhna’s madder than a drunken hare, Lainn.”

  She shrugged and took a final bite of her apple. “That doesn’t mean he’s wrong. Are you done yet?”

  He tossed his core into the stream. “Sure. Ready to go home?”

  She gave him a sly smile. “Not yet. I made a promise. Follow me!”

  As she ran off to the north—the opposite direction from their home—he rolled his eyes and ran after her. He’d worked hard all day and had little energy or patience for his sister’s antics. He realized her education with the druids must be less physically demanding than his own training as a mason, and she still had the endless energy of youth. With a groan and a protest from his aching leg muscles, he felt every one of his seventeen winters as she led him on a merry chase through the glades.

  * * *

  Through several copses of trees, along the edge of the bog, and through two clearings, Lainn led her brother. He knew exactly where she must be headed, so he slowed as the stitch in his side ached. She darted through some bushes into the shaded clearing where bees buzzed in the slanted afternoon sunbeams.

  As the crumbling turf cottage came into view, he slowed with a frown. Another bee buzzed in his face, followed by three more, but he didn’t swat these away. These were Adhna’s bees and Adhna’s home. To offer an insu
lt would be dangerous. The old man might act batty and scattered, but Conall sensed his power. His father had often warned against angering those with power, be it mortal power or otherwise. Conall didn’t intend to ignore any of his father’s precious lessons.

  When one bee landed on his nose, Conall froze, crossing his eyes to look at the creature. Lainn glanced back to see what had halted her brother and then laughed with delight. She danced around him, chanting a nonsense song about bees, flowers, and honey. He glared at her and tried to swat her, but she skipped out of range and stuck out her tongue.

  These antics caused the cottage door to creak open. Out stepped a spry, dark-haired man, using his elaborately-carved oaken walking stick to help him down the rickety steps. Conall doubted he actually needed it as he’d caught the man in some rather acrobatic acts in the past.

  Adhna’s long, intricately-braided beard had several ornaments of silver and gold, glinting in the light. His bright blue eyes laughed at the scene. “I see you’ve found Barnabus. He seems to have taken a shine to you, lad. Off now, Barnabus. Shoo! You’ve work to do before the sun sets this eve.”

  The bee obeyed, and Conall’s eyes ached from being crossed. He blinked several times to give the old man a sheepish smile. “Good afternoon, Adhna. I hope our intrusion isn’t too disruptive? I didn’t know you named them all. Don’t you run out of names?”

  With an earnest chuckle, Adhna shook his head. “Not all, by the stones! No, never all. They won’t stay still long enough for me to name them, mostly. But a few deserve our regard and respect. Barnabus here has helped me on several occasions. Lainn, my dear child, do stop flitting about like a butterfly so I can see you. Would you like to hear one of his stories?”