Age of Secrets: Druid's Brooch Series: #8

by Christy Nicholas

  “I made this for you, Fingin. It has the power to heal, but it’s not instant. It takes time to work. Keep it close and use it when needed. You may feel ill afterwards, but all magic has a cost.”

  She turned to Bran and placed both her hands upon his head. He wagged his tail so hard it thumped against the ground. “For you, loyal hound, I give you my blessings. Take good care of your friend, Fingin, and protect him from harm. For that is the purpose of good hounds in the world of men.”

  With a final pat on Sean’s flank, she handed Fingin the donkey’s lead. When Fingin turned to thank her, she had disappeared.

  He turned in a full circle, but not only had she gone, so had the roundhouse.

  Fingin hadn’t imagined the place. He’d spent the good part of the day repairing the thatched roof. His fingers still bore tiny cuts from the straw. He rubbed his thumb over one cut and shook his head. He supposed if one dealt with goddesses, one must get used to magic.

  Into the empty glade, surrounded by the fog still clinging to the underbrush in the trees, he shouted, “Thank you!”

  The wind echoed the words, and he heard a faint response. “Blessings on your quest, young man.”

  The blessings of a goddess surely meant more than blessings from a mortal. Bolstered by this faith, he clucked his tongue at Sean, the donkey, and Bran, the dog. Somehow, after winters of aching loneliness, he’d gained two companions. Better yet, companions who didn’t judge him or his ability to speak.

  Friends who make one forget self-loathing are treasures beyond that of gold or silver.

  * * *

  Fingin’s optimistic faith flagged as he climbed his third steep hill. The first had been a challenge but a choice, as villages lay in the valleys to either side. The second had been a necessity, as rivers cut around the edge of the slope.

  This third one ended in a short cliff on one side, and impassable bracken on the other. He glanced at Sean. “Are you feeling tired yet, Sean? Ready for a rest? Or shall we tackle this hill?”

  Sean glanced up the mound and glanced over his shoulder at the path behind him. “We can’t go back to the woman’s home? She fed me.”

  Brigit had supplied a measure of hay for Sean, but Fingin hadn’t thought he might not have eaten yet that day. “Are you hungry? How about you, Bran?”

  He chuckled as the dog’s head perked up. “Fish?”

  “No fish, but I’ve some bread and cheese. Stand still for a moment, Sean, and I’ll get some hay for you. Or do you prefer fresh grass?”

  In response, Sean yanked a chunk of greenery from the ground near him and munched on the treat in contentment. A few purple clovers dotted the vegetation. Sean seemed pleased with his meal.

  Instead of pulling out hay, Fingin extracted bread, cheese, and a waterskin. He quaffed deep of the cool, clear water from Brigit’s well. He poured some for both Bran and Sean and shared his meal with the dog.

  His flagging strength returned as he peered up the path. He would conquer this hill. Only another obstacle to surmount.

  Fingin and his small band of friends climbed the third hill with renewed vigor, broaching the crown. As he did, the sun burst out from behind the clouds and illuminated the valley before him.

  What a sight to see! Fingin had traveled all around the midlands in his short life, but in truth, he hadn’t moved more than five leagues from his birthplace. Now, gazing across the landscape before him, the land extended so much further than he’d ever imagined.

  He’d been taught that an ocean surrounded their island, and lands existed beyond that ocean, like the legendary city of Rome. What would a city be like? Thousands of people lived in cities. Did they live on top of each other? Did they have enough space to turn around? How did they all eat? It took a large tract of land to feed just one family.

  A patchwork quilt of such tracts, green and black, lay before him. Low, rolling hills of emerald velvet dotted with dark forests and glittering lakes drew his gaze. A cloud to his left roiled with dark moisture, threatening to douse the bright sunshine, but a brisk breeze blew the shadow away to the south. Beams of sunshine played out along the ground, dancing between the white patches in the sky, shading in a merry frolic.

  The wind now found him, and he shivered. This hilltop allowed for anyone to see, a place of power but also of exposure. He hugged Bran tight for a moment and closed his eyes, wishing he sat at home in front of a warm, flickering fire, rather than being on this mad goddess-driven quest.

  How could he possibly complete this task? To find someone after fifteen winters, someone who had deliberately lost herself in the world, retrieve the brooch, and then find someone to make a family with. A lifetime’s work, and he must complete the quest quickly.

  In the far distance, where the horizon kissed the sky, the ocean reflected the sun. As the day waned, the sun would set the sky and water afire.

  Brigit had said the monk he sought lived on a western island, a rock jutting out of the ocean, far from shore. First, though, he must reach that shore. As much as he squinted into the soft mist, no islands appeared. Still, he only had to head west, she’d said. West toward the setting sun.

  The trip down the hill seemed easier. When he reached the valley, though, he needed to rest. Though the sun still burned in the sky, he stopped for food and water for his small group.

  The clouds returned with a vengeance, as if angry that the wind had blown them away. They darkened the sky with ominous speed, forcing Fingin to search for shelter from the sudden hail. Bran found the small cave on the hillside, a series of several along the ridgeline. They huddled within the nearest one as the pellets pounded the earth and stone in a violent cacophony.

  He might carry shelter with him, like a wagon. But wagons cost dearly, and people didn’t abandon functioning wagons on the side of the road as they did roundhouses. His father once had a wagon, a tall construction with a wooden cover. He took it into the larger village to trade farm produce. He’d stay away several days, time Fingin remembered as full of smiles and freedom.

  The hail became a raucous song, a hammering distraction to his own thoughts. However, he didn’t drift away as he normally did. The tiny cave had barely enough room for him, Sean, and Bran, and his desired trance eluded him. The rain and hail bounced up and got them wet, despite their shelter.

  Soon, the sun dipped toward the far shore, taking the hail with it. Twilight fell with sudden silence, loud in the absence of the constant drum of hail on stone. His ears rang with the emptiness of the evening. No birds sang, and no breeze stirred.

  Exhausted, Fingin curled up next to Bran. Sean stood guard as they slept.

  How many days must he travel to reach the world’s edge?

  * * *

  Menacing barking dragged Fingin from a deep sleep. A sneering voice filtered through Bran’s alarms. “Oho! What have we here?”

  Another voice joined the first. “Looks like a kid with too much wealth. At least, too much for one lone boy.”

  Shoving through the blur of sleep, Fingin sat up, putting a hand on Bran’s back. The dog stopped barking, but growled, his hackles raised and his fur bristling. Sean stood between them and the new arrivals.

  Nine men, dressed in warrior garb, lined the thin ledge. They all seemed to be around Fingin’s own age, if not younger. Their linen léinte with fine embroidery, peeking out from behind leather chest-plates and wolf-skin shoulder pauldrons, spoke of wealth and privilege. Their braids, the distinctive badge of warrior status, had been styled in a ritualistic pattern.

  The apparent leader stood with his arms crossed before him, eyeing the packs next to the donkey. Sean brayed and nodded, his eyes wide with alarm. He stamped his hoof several times.

  Fingin grew concerned that Sean might get hurt. The poor donkey wouldn’t be able to save himself if the warriors shoved him off the cliff. While the cliff didn’t seem too high, even a small drop would break the loyal beast’s leg.

  He clicked at Sean and pulled on his halter. “C-c-come over
here, b-boy. It’s… safer next to the wall.”

  The leader elbowed his nearest companion. “Listen to this one. He can’t even talk.”

  Fingin sent him a silent curse. Bran bared his teeth with a snarl.

  “How did you get such a strong, fine wolfhound? Did you steal him, boy? And all these goods. Food, cooking pots. You’re either a tinker or a thief. I’m betting thief. Tinkers must talk to barter their goods. What do you think, men? Do we judge this man a thief?”

  General agreements came from behind him. His closest companion frowned. “I’m not sure, Cailte. What if he’s related to someone important? He might just be a scion searching for adventure in the hills.”

  Cailte raised his eyebrows and made a show of examining Fingin’s léine. While he had newer ones in his pack, thanks to Brigit’s generosity, he wore his own older, threadbare clothing.

  The warrior frowned when his gaze reached Fingin’s feet. He wore the boots Brigit had gifted him. Cailte glanced at his companion. “Look at that, Fearghus. His boots are new. You may just be right. Is that who you are, boy? Some younger son of a noble, off to find your own adventure?”

  Fingin hated lying. However, he also hated being killed.

  He recognized the warriors. Their leather armor and their stylized braids gave them away. Not the specific men, but their garb marked them as the Fianna. The Fianna, legendary bands of warriors pledged to defend the island from all dangers, including those within. If they had judged him a thief, they would have been within their rights to execute him on the spot. They might also beat him almost to death and leave him to rot, should they choose.

  Despite tales of past heroes, though, Fianna had never been paragons of honor. They had a reputation for strength and might, not for being kind or gentle. Their justice came swift, at least. A string of pillaging by the Fianna in the winter happened regularly. But the summer offered enough game for them to support themselves as they roamed the countryside between each túath, keeping order.

  The leader of the Fianna waited for his answer with increasing impatience. With a deep sigh, Fingin nodded. “I’m a younger son. I’m searching for a p-p-place I feel at home.”

  He spoke the truth, as far as it went. He didn’t mention his father was a farmer, rather than a nobleman, but he let that implication float within his answer. If the leader took the wrong meaning from his truthful words, so be it.

  After a few moments’ consideration, Cailte gave a quick nod. “That’s that, then. Care to come with us for a while? Which way are you headed?” He glanced at Bran, who still hadn’t dropped his guard.

  Bran’s low growl grew, despite Fingin’s hand on his back. “I don’t like him. He wants something.”

  Fingin nodded, more for Bran’s benefit than in answer to Cailte. Hoping the warriors travelled some in some other direction, he replied, “I travel west.”

  “Excellent. We shall walk with you.”

  Hiding his sigh, he gathered his pannikin and secured it to Sean’s back with a few words of quiet encouragement. Bran calmed somewhat after the confrontation broke, but remained on his guard. Fingin didn’t blame him and hoped the dog would continue to keep his senses sharp for the Fianna leader.

  As they made their way off the cliff, the silence remained strained. Fingin didn’t wish to talk and highlight his speech difficulties. The warriors eyed him with both curiosity and calculation. If they wished to overpower him and take Sean, Bran, and all their gear, they could at any moment. But if Fingin turned out to be the son of a powerful chieftain or even a sub-chief, such an act could wreak unfortunate retaliation, even for the Fianna.

  If they discovered his father had not only been a farmer but a tenant farmer at that, he wouldn’t last another minute.

  Perhaps he could send them to his own father, and convince them Rumann was the thief.

  Fingin shook his head at the petty thought. While he had no love for his father, in the past or the present, he couldn’t set a squad of killers on his trail, even if he knew where his father now lived. If his father now lived. For all Fingin knew, he could have found a drunken grave in some brook by now. He’d been heading in that direction when Fingin left to find his own way in the world.

  Would he mourn his father’s death? It seemed disrespectful to not at least care. He simply never wanted to see the man again, ever in his life. His mother had been little better, inattentive, and concerned with her own comforts over everything else. His brothers… his brothers had tormented him, beaten him, and bullied him, but their deaths would still cause him sadness.

  One warrior murmured something to his companion, and both laughed with loud brays. Sean answered them, but in Fingin’s mind, the donkey spoke. “They want to kill you, Fingin. I can smell it. A nasty, sour smell.”

  Bran couldn’t hear Sean’s words but shared the sentiment. He still glanced at each of the men with suspicion.

  A village hove into sight as they came around a cut in the hillside. Not a large village; about six farms huddled together around the path, with a small, muddy pond to one side. A drover passed them with six head of cattle, nodding cautiously at the troupe. The leader, Cailte, nodded back.

  When the drover disappeared over the hill and they’d left the village, his closest companion punched Cailte’s shoulder. “Should we circle back tonight? I could devour one of those cows.”

  Cailte shook his head. “Too close to the last one. They’ll track our route if we’re too obvious. Wait a few days and quiet your demanding gut, aye?”

  Fingin gritted his teeth and tried to think of a plan to break away from the group. He needed to leave without arousing their curiosity too much. What would be a plausible excuse? If he said he needed to turn left at the next fork, they might follow, and then he’d be stuck. If he said he had a stop to make, they might join him. He must find some way to extract himself.

  Soon, they’d find out he had no noble birth, and his very life would be forfeit. They would take Bran and Sean and all the wonderful supplies Brigit had given him. The healing pendant remained buried under his léine, well out of sight. Not that it appeared valuable, being made of wrought iron, but anything jewelry-like was fair game.

  Maybe he should pretend to be ill? A mere cough wouldn’t be enough. He needed something truly disgusting. Diarrhea would be too dangerous. Projectile vomiting repelled people rather well but had its own dangers. Besides, he’d seen no herbs nearby that might induce such a reaction. But how about hives? He’d noticed nettles at their last stop. If he rubbed nettle on his cheeks, he could convince them to abandon him.

  They may turn noble and insist on escorting him to the nearest healer. In addition, any rash he gave himself might heal too quickly to be natural, due to Brigit’s pendant.

  Curse the crows. His head ached with the possibilities.

  When they stopped to eat at a glade near a brook, Fingin wandered off nonchalantly to relieve himself. He found a small patch of nettles and harvested some. He’d thought of no better plan. It would have to do.

  Cailte nodded toward Fingin’s packs on the donkey. “Have you any fresh bread in there? We ran out yesterday.” The other men nodded and watched him with an appraisal.

  Swallowing hard, Fingin shrugged. “I think I have a loaf left, but I d-d-don’t know how fresh it is.”

  With cautious movements, he found the bag he thought Brigit had packed with food. He snaked his hand inside to avoid unpacking everything to get to it, as that would show the entire company what he had. He would rather keep their knowledge of his supplies to a minimum.

  His hand found something soft, and he extracted it with care. He held up the large loaf of rosemary rye bread. The men nodded as Fingin handed the treat to Cailte. The leader sliced it with his belt knife, doling out the bread to each person.

  Fingin didn’t get a slice.

  That act alone told Fingin all he needed to know of their intentions toward him. The basic rules of hospitality meant nothing to them. He needed to escape before they c
ommandeered the rest of his possessions.

  Cailte handed out the hard tack, this time giving Fingin a small slice. The rough, preserved food took forever to chew, but it kept both the warriors and himself occupied while he considered his options.

  One of the younger warriors let out a deep sigh. “I’m bored. Who has a story?”

  Cailte’s second, Fearghus, sat up into a storyteller’s pose. “So, I went patrolling near the end of the last season. I’d not found anyone worth fighting in a moon and ached for a good battle. My company had already settled down in a coastal village for the winter, but I grew restless and went off on my own.

  “I walked along the edge of the land, in the west, along some lonely spit of land. A rugged island juts out of the sea, almost white with seabirds and their shit. I walked to the shore, hoping to find some oysters when there, on the beach, stood a woman.”

  The hoots and howls of his companions filled the glade, along with suggestive gestures and a few pats on Fearghus’ back.

  He waved off his enthusiastic companions. “Settle down! It’s a story, not a brag.”

  They chuckled but subsided as bidden.

  “She wore a black cloak, shiny as the sea, and stood with it drawn around her shoulders, as if in the winter wind, though the wind still warmed with summer.

  “That’s when I realized that though the sea breeze remained strong, neither her cloak nor her long, ink-black hair stirred in the slightest.”

  The silence that crept across the men grew heavy.

  “I knew then I beheld no ordinary woman. Besides the skin like milk and hair like night, she stood with one foot in this world and one foot in the other, without doubt. Her black eyes bore holes into my soul as I stared at her.

  “She lifted one slim hand and beckoned me forth. No force on earth could have kept me from obeying her command.”

  Fearghus’ jovial manner had turned grim. He took a deep sigh before continuing his tale.

  “When I got close enough to touch her cheek, she laughed.”