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

by Christy Nicholas

  While the dim sky overhead swirled with dusky storm clouds, the brooch glowed with its own light, bathing the area with warm summer radiance.

  Maelan backed away until he stumbled into the recumbent stone. “This is an evil, pagan thing! I’ll have nothing to do with it!”

  She pulled on her magic, stronger here at the circle. Étaín pushed time back to before she unwrapped the brooch.

  ∞

  Before Maelan backed away this time, she drew a cross on her chest. “This is not evil, Maelan. This is our family legacy, something passed down through generations.”

  He said nothing, but he didn’t denounce her, either. Étaín drew comfort from the latter.

  She fought down the renewed queasiness and walked to the edge of the stone circle, the brooch held high. She held out her hand. “Come, you must walk with me, Maelan.”

  Not uncrossing his arms, he slowly took several steps and stood beside her. He didn’t take her hand. She let out her breath and walked around the stones. He followed one step behind.

  After the full circle, she entered the center of the stones. At first, Maelan waited at the edge, but at Liadan’s urging, he walked in, though not without a resentful glance back at his wife.

  “So I was told, and so I shall tell you. This brooch had been gifted to our family many generations ago. A grateful man gifted it, someone our ancestor saved from certain death.”

  “What sort of man?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know, Maelan. The tales just mention a man. Does it matter?”

  He crossed his arms again. “It does. I have my honor to think about. I’ll not take a gift from a thief or a murderer.”

  Suddenly, Étaín grew exasperated at his intransigence. “I am neither a thief nor a murderer, Maelan. Did your grandmother never teach you to respect your elders?”

  “You aren’t any older than I am! You can’t be more than thirty winters yourself.”

  With a shake of her head, Étaín pulled time back again. This could quickly get out of hand. This time, the revulsion became so strong she had to hold her stomach to keep it from rebelling.

  ∞

  “What sort of man?”

  “A good man, one who knew how to pay his debts.”

  Maelan nodded, evidently satisfied. She hoped she wouldn’t need to do this again. Her stamina had almost drained, and she swayed several times before she continued.

  “Now, this brooch is blessed with magic. Each holder, and it must be someone in our family, someone of our blood, is gifted a magical power.”

  He narrowed his eyes, but didn’t cross his arms again. “What sort of power?”

  Étaín shrugged. “Each one is different. It might be talking to animals, or making plants grow, or healing an illness.”

  “What is yours?”

  Étaín took a deep breath. She grew weary of the lies, and daren’t keep pulling Maelan back in time. She had no strength left for it. He used to be so smart. He would figure it out, regardless. Throwing caution to the wind with her hopes, she said, “I don’t age.”

  He stared at her for several moments. Outside the stone circle, she heard Liadan gasp and Odhar murmur something reassuring to the young woman. Étaín only stared at Maelan, begging him to accept her.

  Her grandson’s eyes grew wide, and his mouth dropped open. “I knew it! I knew you were my grandmother! You’re a witch! A daemon! A devil!”

  His face contorted into a rictus of anger and betrayal, and he shoved her onto her back.

  She wrenched time back, but couldn’t do more than a few moments.

  ∞

  “What is yours?”

  She had to tell him, but how to do so without tripping his extreme prejudice? The illness rose again, making her cough and choke before she shoved it back down. She clamped once again on the mad laughter that stretched the barriers in her mind. Maelan offered her a sip from his waterskin, and she gratefully took it, using the moment to think.

  “My power is… time. I can manipulate time a little bit.”

  “Manipulate it how?”

  She handed him the waterskin, wiping her mouth. “I can pull it back, just a few minutes, to change something.

  He frowned. “Just a few minutes? That doesn’t sound very powerful. What can you do in a few minutes?”

  Étaín felt so relieved he hadn’t instantly repudiated her, she grew casual in her reply. “Not much, that’s true. Each time I use it, I get ill.”

  He stared at the waterskin in his hand and back at her. His mouth compressed into a thin, angry line.

  “You get ill, you said. Does that mean you’ve been doing this magic on me? Would I have any memory of such manipulation?”

  The exhaustion dragged her will to a halt. She didn’t think she’d be able to pull back time again, but she tried. This time, she retched noisily to the side, but time didn’t move. Maelan grabbed her shoulders and shook them. “Stop that! Stop it this instant! I’ll not have you witching me with your pagan evil!”

  Liadan’s voice penetrated Étaín’s exhausted fog. “Maelan, behave yourself! Stop hurting the poor woman! She’s just trying to get you to understand. Can you not see how it affects her? Would she keep doing this if not absolutely necessary?”

  Maelan stopped shaking, but didn’t let go. “Is this true? Are you changing time?”

  She simply nodded. Maelan let go, and she dropped into a heap of wretched bones, unable to move. Odhar cried out and ran to her side, cradling her in his arms. Étaín trembled, trying to keep her stomach from heaving once again.

  Liadan spoke to Maelan, but Étaín didn’t hear the words. She clutched at the brooch so hard, the metal bit into her fingers, making her bleed.

  It glowed more strongly.

  Suddenly, a bright light flashed with a blast, like lightning struck close by. The entire hillside lit up with shining light, and Étaín shut her eyes against the painful glare.

  Her ears rang with insistent pressure, and she shook her head to relieve the pain. The low mumble of a male voice finally filtered through the ringing, and she realized Maelan had asked her something.

  “What?” Had she spoken aloud? It didn’t sound like her voice in the slightest. A stranger’s voice came from far away, in another realm.

  “I asked, are you my grandmother? Are you the real Étaín?”

  Shaking her head, Étaín said, “No, no, I couldn’t be…”

  “But you could. You said you can change time. Can you make it go backward? Can you change it like clothing? You sound like her, you look like her, you even use her phrasing, her accent.”

  His voice, though it started out calm and entreating, rose in volume with each sentence. Soon he shouted, “I can’t believe you are simply a relative. You match my every memory of her, despite your youth. Are you my grandmother? By all you hold holy, woman, tell me the truth!”

  Odhar hissed as he stroked Étaín’s hair. “Be gentle, you prime idiot! She’s hurt and ill, and this is your fault. If you didn’t behave like the blustering fool your grandfather is, this would be over by now!”

  Maelan glared at Odhar. “You know the truth, don’t you, monk? You know if she’s my grandmother. You remembered her then, and you know this Étaín now. Tell me.”

  He didn’t yell these last two words. He spoke them with calm precision and quiet menace, the threat if Odhar didn’t comply clearly implicit.

  “Yes, Maelan. If you absolutely must know, yes. This is your grandmother. She never grew as old as she looked. She remains at thirty winters old because of her brooch. Its magic keeps her young.” Odhar gasped and held Étaín more tightly. “Étaín, is that it? Is that why you didn’t want to tell me what you intended tonight? Will you die of old age as soon as you pass on the brooch?”

  Étaín didn’t answer him at first. She remained too feeble to even nod or shake her head. He cradled her, rocking back and forth for several moments before she croaked out an answer. “I don’t know.”

  She cracked
her eyes open and saw Maelan’s face had grown pale and bleak. Liadan stood next to him, her hand on his shoulder, urging him to take the brooch. Odhar hummed to her while he rocked. With the last of her remaining strength, she stretched out her hand, the brooch still flecked with her blood. Stains spread on the white silk in sanguine blossoms.

  Mute, Maelan stooped and gingerly took the brooch. Another flash boomed across the hillside, and Maelan fell backward, cracking his head on one of the standing stones. Liadan cried, shot an accusatory glance at Étaín and fell to her knees, cradling his head in her lap. “What did it do to him, Étaín? What did it do?”

  She couldn’t catch her breath. The weakness felt worse than when her first husband had beaten her and made Airtre’s efforts seem paltry. Every bone within her body ached with an ever-present pain. Every muscle and joint screamed at her. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t even move.

  Suddenly, power swept over her like an ocean wave, forcing every emotion out of her at once. The echoes of Fae laughter burst forth in her mind and in her voice. She laughed in another voice, with gleeful abandon. The crazed laughter echoed across the glade and bounced from each stone, pummeling them with increased hysterics until Odhar grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. Slowly, slowly, the laughter died to a sobbing whimper.

  When she finally gained control over herself, she whispered, “He’ll… he’ll recover. It hurts… the first time. Give him time.”

  Odhar stroked her hair again. “I need to get you home, mo ghrian. You need rest, food and drink. Liadan, can you take care of Maelan? I think I can carry Étaín down to the chapel, but I can return if you need me.”

  The younger woman shook her head. “He should wake soon. I’ll wait with him.” She glanced at her husband. “What power did it give him?”

  Odhar shrugged. “Étaín said it took her a moon to figure hers out. It may take a great deal of experimentation to find his. Just remember the strictures. I recommend keeping the secret close. More people are like Maelan in their opinions of such magic.”

  She nodded, and then Odhar stood. When he hefted Étaín into his arms, her vision blurred to gray and she grabbed for his shoulders, terrified he’d drop her. It became too much for her already drained body. She blacked out.

  Chapter 14

  When she awoke, dim winter light shone through the roundhouse window, and glinting dust motes danced in the sunbeam. Étaín listened for Odhar. Either he slept or had left, as she heard nothing within the room. Someone passed by with a cart outside, but no one came near.

  It seemed her life wouldn’t end immediately. Perhaps she even had a full lifetime ahead of her, a lifetime of love with Odhar. Étaín smiled, for once looking forward to the day, the season, and the future. Looking forward had become a rare joy, a treasured optimism, the more precious for its scarcity.

  Her bladder insisted she’d been asleep a good long while. She attempted to stand to find the sand basket but fell back quickly. Her legs were shaky and wouldn’t hold her weight in the slightest. She crawled to the corner. Pulling up her léine to relieve herself, she noticed the hem looked ragged and filthy.

  That, at least, she could attend to. When she finished, she pulled the torn garment off and pulled her yellow léine from her half-packed bag. Something hard remained inside the inner pouch. She’d given her brooch to Maelan, so what could it be? Feeling for the heavy object, she found her hag-stone. She had just pulled the léine right-side out to don when the door to the roundhouse burst open.

  Étaín clutched at the garment to cover her nakedness. She opened her mouth to protest the intrusion. However, when she saw the man who had entered, she gasped instead.

  She’d expected Odhar. Even Maelan would have been understandable. In the back of her mind, she thought Bressel might have even returned, still bent on whatever errand had brought him here earlier.

  Instead, her husband, Airtre, stood in front of her, anger storming on his face.

  “So, it is true. You’ve somehow returned from the dead and as your young self. What witchery is this?”

  Trying to order her thoughts in the face of sheer terror, Étaín grasped the léine more tightly. She must refute his accusations, but her mind went completely blank, gibbering with fear and the urge to flee, to hide, to get away from the pain he would visit upon her.

  She used her feet to push herself back from him, against the wall. The cloak she’d been sleeping on lay beside her, so she pulled this up as another layer of safety between Airtre and herself. Where had Odhar gone? Why didn’t he protect her? He’d promised to protect her.

  A shadow hovered in the doorway, and Étaín prayed for Odhar, Maelan, anyone who might help her. Instead, Bressel stood blocking the light, and the sheer glee and malevolence on his face made her break.

  She cried out.

  People cried to relieve the pain, and she’d long since learned to hide the pain behind several masks of silence and patience. Now that pain burst forth, and she couldn’t halt the flood. The struggle with Maelan the night before left her with no reserves, no ability to keep her mask strong. It shattered into a thousand pieces and lay in crystalline fragments at her feet.

  Airtre spat a disgusted oath and strode forward, grabbing her shoulder in an agonizingly cruel grip, yanking her to her feet. The cloak and hag-stone fell, but the léine remained entangled in her fingers, the only scrap of modesty she retained.

  He stooped to pick up the hag-stone. “What’s this? What’s this? Devil’s magic, indeed!”

  Out of the roundhouse, he dragged her. He grabbed her bag, as well. She finally found her voice in the scuffle. “I’m not who you think I am. I’m not a witch. Help! Let me go!”

  Bressel slapped her, making her head ring. “Silence, witch! You are not to speak! We know how to deal with those who traffic in evil.”

  Étaín felt the icy kiss of the large, wet snowflakes as he pulled her to the village square. A few onlookers followed, attracted by the shouting. Could Odhar be nearby? Étaín wished she’d been in the village longer so someone she knew might intervene.

  She saw a glimpse of a familiar face. Aes’ tall, muscular form stood with the crowd, and next to him stood Rognr. Neither looked pleased, but neither of them moved to help her, either.

  They must fear retribution to themselves, and Étaín didn’t blame them. Where had Odhar gone?

  She closed her eyes and clasped her clothing tight around her body, praying to the old gods, the Christian gods, Flidaisínn and Adhna, Odhar, the spirits of the land, whoever might answer her call.

  With a cruel shove, Airtre pushed her to the high cross in the center of the square. She whimpered when the hard stone cracked her naked knee. The stone had been carved with elaborate pictures, scenes from the life of Christ. Without waiting for her to recover, though, or slip the léine over her head, Bressel seized both her hands and wrenched them behind her back. Her last shred of modesty fell into the muddy slush, and all saw her wretched nakedness.

  Bressel tied her hands tightly and painfully. Had he brought the rope? He’d known where she lived. Her blood chilled to ice. If they had planned this, they’d have arranged for Odhar to be elsewhere. She would have no rescue.

  Still sobbing and unable to wipe her face or her eyes, she bowed her head. Whatever they planned on doing, she hoped it would be quick. At least the brooch would no longer keep her alive through any torture.

  Bressel stood and addressed the crowd, holding her bag. “This woman is a witch. I have proof here of her potions, nostrums, and malficium.”

  Rognr’s voice rang out with patent derision. “Every woman uses herbs. That’s no proof. You might as well burn every woman in the land!”

  “This woman tried to poison me on several occasions.”

  Aes cried out, “Then you were a fool to stay and let her try after the first one!”

  A sprinkling of laughter fluttered through the crowd. Airtre had disappeared, leaving Bressel alone on the stage.

  He held
up the hag-stone. “Behold the witch’s stone, used to curse God-fearing people!”

  Rognr laugh rung out across the square. “It’s a river stone with a hole in it. Do you want more children’s toys to play with?”

  Bressel glowered at Rognr’s flippancy, but set his mouth in a grim line. “I first met this witch over thirty winters ago. She had the appearance of a crone, with white hair and wrinkled skin. Now, look at her. Tell me what can it be but evil magic?”

  His words hushed the crowd. No one spoke against such a statement. Étaín could say nothing in her own defense. These people didn’t know her, didn’t love her. The only two she’d met had already done their best. She felt grateful for the attempt, at least, and tried to smile at the Ostman. She couldn’t even focus on the people. How many were there? Her crusted eyes betrayed her, refracting them into many amorphous shapes.

  Airtre returned with several bundles of wood on a small cart.

  So it would be a burning.

  Though she couldn’t escape, she struggled against her bonds. Bressel was skilled in tying knots, and the ropes remained tight. She twisted and turned, trying to pull her hands from the bulky knots. Some of the men in the audience made lascivious noises at her movements.

  If it had been raining rather than snowing, it might have helped. The snow, while wet with big flakes, wouldn’t douse a well-started fire.

  Airtre glanced at the cart and back at her. He stared at her with a flinty gaze, but then something shifted in his eyes, and he turned to Bressel.

  “Bressel, I’m not certain about this.”

  “What’s to be certain about? The woman is a witch. You know this to be true. You lived with the woman for over thirty winters, and she’d grown old. Now look at her! What can this be but witchcraft?”

  Frowning, Airtre dropped his gaze. “She remains my wife, Bressel. We are joined by God.”

  Bressel threw his hands up. “Why are you arguing with me, Airtre? She must be destroyed, for the good of the church. Imagine how your career might have soared without her shackled around your neck! Remember the scandal when she disappeared? She ruined any chance you had at a bishopric. Such perfidy is unforgivable, and she must be punished.”