Misfortune of Time: Druid's Brooch Series, #6

by Christy Nicholas

  He bowed. “I am. Aes is my name.”

  “I’m Étaín. My husband is Odhar, the new priest.”

  “A Christian priest?”

  She nodded. Were the Ostmen still pagans? She’d thought they’d all converted.

  He laughed again and shrugged. “Some of us, yes. Some of us, no. I saw your question plain on your face.”

  She hadn’t met a true pagan in decades, other than the Fae. The last had been an old man who still followed the old ways, but they ran him out of the village. Unless the charlatan in Cluain Mhic Nóis counted, the one who had preyed upon Airtre. She didn’t want to think about Airtre just now. Étaín smiled up at the tall Ostmen, she asked, “And which are you?”

  He shrugged. “I grew up with the old gods, but the new one has much to say. I’m still making up my mind. Rognr, though, he still honors the old gods. Will that be a problem? I promise, he’s an honorable trader. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be left in the mess he’s in!”

  Étaín smiled, decided she liked this buff, funny man. “No problem at all. I would be happy to meet him.”

  “Let me introduce you, and I can help carry your purchases.”

  Aes put a plain léine on and his cloak, and they walked to the trader’s roundhouse. It looked like a residence, so Étaín would never have stopped there on her search, but Rognr worked in his back courtyard, organizing his stores. He turned when they approached.

  “Aes! What a lovely woman have you brought!”

  “She’s not for the likes of you, Rognr. She’s a proper Christian woman with a priest husband. However, they do need feeding. Do you still have all that salted cod from the Tinker?”

  Rognr chuckled, the sound rolling around. “I will have salted cod until the day I die. They will bury me in salted cod, and hand it out at my funeral feast. There will be sagas written of me on cod skin in rune ink made with the blood!”

  Aes slapped him on the back, and they shared a good laugh while Étaín stood shyly to the side, waiting for them to finish their joke.

  “How much would you like, good lady? I’ve cheese and bread, too.”

  She did several quick figures in her mind and decided a fortnight’s worth of food should be sufficient. Anything more would go stale before they ate. Not the fish, but bread and cheese had a shorter life.

  “How much for a quarter barrel, three large loaves and a small wheel of cheese? And Aes mentioned you might have cabbages?”

  He nodded, scratching his red beard and looking at his storage house. “I have several, true. With two cabbages, will one penny do? Do you have coins?”

  “I do. That will be fine.” She should haggle, but since she still had no true understanding of the value of the coins, she didn’t feel comfortable doing so. At least she’d gain the reputation of being easy to deal with.

  Aes took the heavier items, including the oilskin bag filled with dried fish and salt. He only let Étaín carry the bread and cheese. Together, they returned to the chapel.

  Liadan still spoke with Odhar, but they’d moved to the chapel itself. With a sigh of relief, Étaín had Aes plunk his burdens on the old table, making a mental note it needed to be thoroughly scrubbed and oiled.

  Aes glanced around and shook his head. “Christians do not honor their god highly, do they? This is a tiny place for a god.”

  “The chapel next door is for God. This is for the servant of God, his priest. Priests should live humbly and poor.”

  He snorted. “Then how can people realize they are great? A god should be covered in riches and gems! It shows they are honored and feared. I don’t think I will ever understand your Christian God and his love of simplicity and pain.”

  Simplicity and pain. Airtre would have loved his description of asceticism. She shook her head to dispel the haunting of her husband. Aes examined the walls. “You need repairs here, too. Will your husband do? Or will you need help?”

  “To be honest, we are but newlywed. I’m uncertain if he has the skill to do the repairs. We can’t do much yet, but if we need help, are you willing?”

  He grinned, showing a large gap in his front teeth, and clapped her on the shoulder so hard she almost lost her balance. “I love fixing things! Come fetch me if you need it.”

  “Will you stay for a drink? I have a little mead left, but I have no ale. Oh! Where can I get ale?”

  “Mead? I love mead! But if you’ve only a little, I won’t take your last. There is a woman who makes ale, but she’s visiting family. She should be back in a few days. I’ll send her when she returns.” With that, he grabbed his cloak, bowed to her and left in a swirl of energy.

  It was an odd sensation, to befriend physically powerful men and not be afraid of being beaten by them. She needn’t fear a misunderstood response or a misinterpreted glance. No flinching at an upraised hand or a loud voice. It had been many winters since she felt so at ease with men.

  Étaín wondered if her time in Faerie, her budding trust and relationship with Odhar or something else had eased her fear, but she relished the new freedom.

  Étaín sat on the bench, suddenly exhausted. She had so much to do, and not knowing how long they’d need to remain made every decision a trial. Still, her tiredness remained a happy exhaustion. This exhaustion was much more pleasant than either the eternally tiring effort her magic or the constant fear of pain.

  Murmurs followed by laughter from the chapel intrigued her, but she didn’t want to move. Perhaps a rest would do her good. She put away the food on the open shelves, arranged the tripod, hooks, and pot, and gathered wood from the well-aged pile out back. A hearth fire would take time to catch, but it relaxed her to go through the familiar motions. While it grew, she made headway in organizing their sleeping alcoves. The fur cloaks would serve as blankets and beds for now, but if they were to be here longer than a fortnight, she’d want something softer.

  More voices filtered in from the chapel, and now Étaín became curious. She considered going in, but surely their conversation should be private. It had been several hours, but they evidently had much to speak of.

  The door to the chapel burst open, startling her into a yelp. Then Odhar laughed and hugged her. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, Étaín! Come, I’ve offered Liadan our hospitality. Did you manage to find food, or must she be satisfied with the dregs of the mead and dried meat?”

  Étaín pressed her lips into a thin line. What if she’d not been able to find any food? She had no fit drink to offer, other than the half wineskin of mead. Dried travel meat couldn’t be offered to a guest. For Odhar to make such an offer without consulting with his wife first seemed rude and inconsiderate.

  For a horrible moment, Étaín cringed, certain her thoughts would bring upon her a rain of angry blows. A confused glance from Odhar made her realize that he was not Airtre. He would not beat her for an imagined criticism. The fact she’d even consider him rude seemed both frightening and refreshing. She’d never have thought Airtre rude; she’d only have thought of how much he’d beat her for not anticipating his needs. With that refreshing reassurance, she stood straighter.

  “Well, as an immediate meal, I’ve cheese and bread, but the dried fish will take time to stew into a palatable meal. I haven’t found any ale, though. Evidently, the local alewife is visiting family.”

  Liadan said, “I can get ale for you. The hillfort has many barrels. I’m sure the headwoman would sell you one.”

  Étaín still felt weary, and a trek to the hillfort to secure a barrel of ale would be a heavy task. Still, hospitality rules demanded certain minimums. Odhar put his hand on her shoulder. “You rest, Étaín. You look tired, and you’ve done marvelous work already. Liadan, can you take me to the hillfort? I’ll get the ale, and we’ll come back and sup like chiefs!”

  With a grateful smile, Étaín handed him the now lighter pouch of coins. He hefted it. “You’ve done well! And a cooking pot, too! Why don’t you soak some fish? I would love some fish stew tonight.”

  As much as sh
e enjoyed Odhar’s company, when he left with Liadan, Étaín sank onto the bench and just sat still for several minutes.

  Solitude remained a precious commodity. Even in her many lifetimes, she so seldom got the chance to be in her own company, to relish the quiet and peace of her own soul.

  The peat crackled in the hearth, and she stared at the glowing, flickering shapes. They danced with sinuous grace, beckoning for her to join them. A loud thump and a shower of sparks made her jump back from the fire as one chunk shifted.

  Étaín took a deep breath and glanced around the roundhouse. She still had much to do.

  Chapter 13

  By the time Odhar and Liadan returned with two kegs, one of sour ale and one of cider, Étaín had swept the roundhouse, scrubbed all the surfaces, and put several homey touches around the roundhouse.

  Odhar glanced into the doorway. “Is this the right place? How did you get so much done?”

  Liadan laughed. “Because she’s a woman, and women can always get more done when their husbands aren’t around. Isn’t that right, Étaín?”

  Instead of answering, Étaín approached Liadan with her hands face up. “Now I can finally offer real food and drink as a proper Gaelic household should.”

  “I happily accept, Étaín. Father Odhar tells me you’re a distant cousin of my husband, Maelan. Is this true?”

  With a glance at Odhar, Étaín nodded, thinking quickly. “It is. I’m told I look very much like his grandmother did.”

  “Then she must have been lovely. Maelan always speaks of her with reverence. She must have been practically a goddess to him.”

  These words made Étaín’s heart swell with pride. She’d worried if Maelan thought of her at all, much less with affection or respect. She had no idea what poison Airtre and Bressel may have planted in his young, impressionable mind when she’d disappeared in the middle of the night. Odhar had reassured her he’d continued Maelan’s lessons, for the full cycle of seasons before he’d gone off on his fostering contract, but he couldn’t know what happened after lessons.

  “I’m glad of that. Would you like cider or ale?” Étaín needed to do something with her hands. She’d almost said something to Liadan she wouldn’t know, as a distant relative.

  “Cider, please. It’s good cider. There’s a grove of wonderful apple trees just up the hill, near the stone circle.”

  Étaín almost dropped the mug she’d pulled from a shelf. “Stone circle? There are Faerie stones nearby?”

  The younger woman nodded. “Halfway up the hill. It’s not a large circle, but everyone knows it’s there. Rognr, the trader, goes up there occasionally. He’s still a pagan, you see.”

  “I bought supplies from him this morning, as a matter of fact. He seems a decent man.”

  “Oh, he is, despite his beliefs. Before I met him, I didn’t realize pagans were just normal people like you and me. Our old priest had called them daemons, full of evil and hatred. He claimed they sacrificed babies, bathed in blood, and all that. Rognr is just a man who happens to believe in the old gods. Rather pleasant company, at that.”

  Étaín breathed easier. If Liadan had this attitude, perhaps Maelan had become similarly tolerant as an adult. Gifting him the brooch might not be as difficult as she had feared.

  The three of them sat and chatted through the rest of the afternoon. Étaín decided she truly liked her grandson’s wife and hoped he treated her better than Airtre had treated Étaín.

  Soon, Liadan took her leave to return to her duties at the hillfort. She trained trackers on most mornings, but some afternoons she also took turns with the healer, helping to prepare lotions and nostrums.

  Odhar swallowed the last of his ale. “I told you she was lovely, didn’t I? Maelan is in good hands with her as wife.”

  Étaín nodded. “Did she have any idea when Maelan would return? I didn’t think to ask.”

  “He should be back tomorrow if all goes well. She said she’d bring him to the chapel after their morning duties were done.”

  Tomorrow. She’d see her grandson tomorrow. Her dear, sweet Maelan, child of her heart. For her, it had been less than a full turn of the seasons since she’d see the child Maelan. Now he’d be a grown man, and it had been eighteen winters for him. Would he recognize her? Odhar’s story of her being a distant relative should work wonderfully. She might gift him the brooch and never reveal her true identity. Family resemblance would be natural.

  So she hoped. She sent a prayer both to the Christian God and the old gods that this would be true.

  * * *

  Étaín knew she wouldn’t sleep that night. Instead, she ran through every possible circumstance of meeting Maelan, every permutation of conversation, reaction, and circumstance. In some imaginings, he became thrilled to meet her, and drew her up in a bone-crushing hug, twirling her around and around until she became giddy. In others, he grew loudly skeptical and suspicious, decrying her as a witch or a charlatan. Most were in between these extremes, but she never ran out of possibilities.

  She never slept well in a new place, and tonight proved no exception. Even if she hadn’t been highly strung and worried about her meeting the next day, she would have tossed and turned through the night. With the anticipation, though, attempting to sleep became sheer torture.

  Giving up, she pulled her yellow léine, her cloak, and shoes on and walked outside, not wanting to disturb Odhar in his slumber in the next alcove.

  The night had grown freezing, but clear. Étaín saw the stars dancing above her, and decided she needed to free her mind and walk out of the village.

  The forest grew quiet as only winter can make it. A blanket of snow muffled all sounds, shaping it into an otherworldly landscape, almost like Faerie had been. Amorphous white lumps hid each mystery. The dim light of the half-full moon bathed all things in a blue-white glow. An owl hooted in the darkness, making Étaín jump, and then chuckle nervously at her own silliness.

  She hadn’t intended to visit the stone circle, but it seemed the logical destination. A night like this was worth honoring, and that would be the best place. Halfway up the hill, Liadan had said. Through frozen bracken and across still glades, Étaín made her way up farther and farther. At one point, out of breath, she stopped to look down. The hill fort stood starkly on the next hill, a round black shape in the near-darkness. Nothing stirred in the world.

  With renewed energy, she climbed the remaining hill and found the stones. They weren’t large, as Liadan had mentioned, but five stones were arranged, one lying on its side.

  Someone sat in the center of the stones.

  Should she retreat? She didn’t want to disturb anyone who used the stones for their own worship. While she considered her actions, a voice said, “Don’t be afraid. I’ll be done shortly. Then we can talk.”

  Étaín recognized the voice as Rognr the trader’s. She found a small rise on the hillside and sat in the frozen grass until he finished his ritual.

  It didn’t seem to be a complex ritual. He sat cross-legged in the center of the stones, occasionally murmuring something in a language she didn’t understand. Finally, he stood and poured out his drinking horn around the circle, chanting something in the harsh, staccato language.

  When he finished the circuit, he looked up. “Ah! The little church mouse! I am surprised to see you here. Have no fear, I have summoned no daemons. I just gave thanks for my good fortune.”

  Étaín shook her head with a smile. “I’m not here to judge, Rognr. I have honored both the old gods and the Christian God in my lifetime.”

  He nodded, refilled his drinking horn from a wineskin and offered it to her. “That is good to hear. Mead?”

  Étaín took it, grateful for the warmth of the alcohol. Sitting on the hillside had chilled her. “I’d heard of the stones and sleep eluded me, so I came exploring.”

  He sat on the recumbent stone and patted it. “Come, join me. Ritual always leaves me needing food and drink to restore my soul. I have something other than
dried fish.” His white teeth flashed brightly in the blue moonlight as he held out a chunk of bread. Étaín took the offering, pleasantly surprised at the cheese baked within. White wisps of steam curled in the cold night air.

  “I come every fortnight or so. It renews my spirit to see the night sky from here. I can imagine I’m still on a ship, in the middle of the sea.”

  “Did you live on the ship? Or were you a raider?”

  He laughed. “Both! I lived on the ship, on the shore, and everywhere we went. I had no other home for more than six moons. A glorious time and I miss it still.”

  “Why did you stop?”

  He tapped his leg. “I received a grievous wound on a raid. They thought I’d die, but I defied Hel, the goddess of death. However, I cannot walk without great pain and a limp, so I’m no longer as effective as a raider. I took my wealth and settled inland, away from other raiders.”

  “How did you end up in Ceann-Coradh?”

  With a wide grin, he said, “I followed a beautiful woman! But she didn’t return my affections, and I ran out of coins, so I traded my last bit of wealth and bought one of your strange round houses and some goods from a dying trader. I built it up over the winters. I have good times, and I have bad times. You met me during one of my fishy times.”

  They both laughed, and Étaín took another swig of mead. Her head grew muzzy. Sudden darkness made them both look up to see a large, dark cloud blocking the moon.

  Rognr slapped his hands on his thighs, and the sharp sound echoed down the hillside. “Time to return to a warm bed. Will you stay and greet the dawn, or can I walk you back home?”

  She took his offer, and they carefully descended the hill. The path became much more difficult and dangerous without the moonlight, but together they navigated with only a few slips on the slushy ground.

  Outside the roundhouse, she bid Rognr thanks for his escort. As he limped away, she glimpsed a flash of color. A tiny purple crocus pushed up through the pale moonlit snow. Smiling, Étaín fumbled in her pouch for her hag-stone and used it to encourage the tiny beauty into full life.