The Willow Branch

by Lela Markham

  The Willow Branch

  Book 1 of the Daermad Cycle

  Lela Markham

  Breakwater Harbor Books, Inc.

  Scott J. Toney and Cara Goldthorpe, Co-Founders

  www.breakwaterharborbooks.com

  Amazon Edition

  Text and graphics copyright © 2014 Lela Markham

  ISBN #978-0-9909358-0-3 E-Book edition

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Thank you for downloading this ebook. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. If this book is being offered for free, it remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support and respecting the hard work of this author.

  For permission requests, write to the author/publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below:

  Laurel Sliney

  Lela Markham Publications

  P.O. Box 70731

  Fairbanks, Alaska 99707

  lelamarkham@gmail.com

  My Thanks!

  To my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. 1 Corinthians 10:23-31

  To my husband and children who allowed The Willow Branch to happen. Thank you for putting up with my staring into space, burning dinner, and the mock sword battles in the back yard that really had the neighbors wondering about us. Without you, none of this would have been possible and most of it would not have been worth it. There’s a little bit of each of you in some character in this book. I know – Writers are weird, but it is my gift to you.

  Thanks to Black Dog, canine pirate, for making me believe that animals can think for themselves without being cartoon characters. Joy and Sabre owe their existence to you, you ungrateful beast.

  Immense thanks to the Authonomy writers who acted as alpha readers and critics. You all know how invaluable that was and remains. Special thanks to Scott Butcher (author of the Stillwart Chronicles) and Scott Toney (Breakwater Harbor Books) for acting as beta readers and editors and going above and beyond the Authonomy call of duty.

  Hint

  The Willow Branch occurs in a number of time periods. The first quote explains why – that the present is built on the past. Please note the sub-chapter headings to stay oriented. I explain more fully in the end matter.

  Table of Contents

  Map of Celdrya

  Fate

  Storm Clouds

  Grief

  Green Eyes

  Fog

  Journey Begins

  Shadowplay

  Wolves

  Dragon Speak

  High Celdryan Fallen

  Confluence of Healing Streams

  Shadow Brothers

  Sanctuary

  Under the Mountain

  Light

  Solstice

  Bastard Book

  Willow Branch

  Timeflow, Geography & Culture in The Willow Branch

  A Word about Language in Daermad

  Excerpt from Mirklin Wood

  About Lela Markham

  Titles from Breakwater Harbor Books

  Map of Celdrya

  Fate

  As a tree’s leaves are nourished by the roots, the present is established in the past. The history of the kingdom is older than the lives of man. We are upon the land only a moment and then depart, leaving others to learn anew lessons our fathers grasped. The map of the kingdom overlays an older land, but none remember it so. The true king descends from God, not the king in High Celdrya. Celts, ignore that strong truth at all our peril!

  Gwenedd, Druidess of the Christian Celts (FY 448)

  Founding Year (FY) 931

  A Century Ago - Spring

  Fate took Maryn ap Trevellyn, crown prince of all Celdrya, by surprise. Naught warned him that he’d been marked. Deryk ap Fyrgal camped with him in a wood off the King’s Highway between the coastal city of Llyr and High Celdrya on a pleasant eve following a relaxing day of fishing.

  They enjoyed cups of wine with fresh bread, soft cheese and rolls of thinly-sliced spiced meat.

  “I do think that second marriages agree with a man,” Deryk commented. He’d already had a bit too much to drink, as was his wont. Soon the tall blonde swordsman would settle back on his cot and sleep, leaving Maryn to contemplate the eve and his own thoughts alone. Twas always the way with them since boyhood.

  “How so?” Maryn asked, leaning back in his camp chair, his darker brown hair and beard setting off his merry blue eyes. As heir-apparent to the High Seat of Celdrya, he craved the rare honest moment with a vassal who would speak freely.

  “Do you not remember the first marriage, my friend? You were cockled for months before the ceremony. This time, you ducked into Llyr, confirmed the engagement and flitted away for the important things in life.” Deryk demonstrated this by waving his wine cup about this den of manly comfort. Owing to his lighter hair, he had not yet grown a full beard, though his moustache had grown in nicely.

  “She’ll be in Dun Celdrya soon enough,” Maryn assured his friend. “Aye, you are correct about Melynda. I was much in love. I’ll not make that mistake with this one.”

  Maryn’s first wife had died at childbed, delivering a stillborn daughter, at midwinter. He still mourned them both, but the kingdom demanded an heir, so his father had arranged a betrothal as soon as the official period of mourning was over. He would not lose his heart to this one, so it would not hurt so much if the gods were cruel again.

  “Good for you.” Deryk was on record as one more in favor of lust than love. “This one’s already tried and found fertile, for all that she’s a widow and childless. What more could a prince ask for?”

  Gillian of Llyr, one year junior to Maryn’s 23, had been married to a younger son of Galornyn and borne him a healthy son, but both the husband and child had perished in a fever last fall. With King Vanyn in ill health, it became urgent for Maryn to produce an heir and clearly Gillian could provide that. There were worse reasons to marry beyond political expediency.

  “I liked her well enough,” Maryn explained. “She’s intelligent and being raised in court at Llyr made her wise. I won’t love her, truly, but we’ll enjoy each other, I think.”

  Deryk gave Maryn a searching gaze until the younger man set his cup aside.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Did you sample the wares?”

  “Oh, aye!” Maryn assured with a roguish grin. “She seemed as pleased with me as I with her. We’re not children to mince about the issue.”

  “As I thought,” Deryk said, draining his cup and yawning hugely. “I’m for sleep, my brother. And, you?”

  “I think I will walk the pickets,” Maryn decided. “Tis a pleasant evening and that cheese will disturb my sleep if I don’t let it settle.

  “Then good night to you,” Deryk said.

  Donning his cloak of red and silver plaid, Maryn stepped into the night. A few riders still talked round fires here and there, but most were retiring to tents and blankets.
It must be nearing middle of the night, for a moon hung like a golden banqueting plate just above the southern trees and the cool air scented more of dew than spring flowers. Several fires burned down to coals, though the guards would keep one of the cook fires going through the night.

  Maryn strolled along the horse picket first, knowing that there would be a guard stationed at the far end. He found Traegyr staring out into the quiet dark, standing at ease with his hand near, but not on, the pommel of his sword.

  “Good even,” Maryn called long before he approached. Traegyr, captain of Maryn’s personal guard, knew his voice well and did not startle.

  “Sir, is somewhat amiss?”

  “Naught except for a belly of fine wine and good cheese. I’ll walk tonight. Anything about?”

  “I saw a fox at the start of my watch, but nay, naught else beyond a few night birds.”

  “Good then. I’ll say good night to you.”

  The next sentry, having heard him chatting with Traegyr, greeted Maryn with good cheer. Leomyr, a grizzled man who had been with the warband at Maryn’s earliest memory, expected not but a quiet night with a few mosquitoes and naught more to disturb the camp. Maryn moved on.

  The alder wood seemed to shimmer toward the south as moonlight passed through fog. Somewhere nearby, a raven tek-tekked. Maryn thought he’d not heard many ravens at night. There must be a nesting ground nearby.

  “Sir,” the sentry at the south greeted. “I’m honored that you would review my work.”

  “Truly?” Maryn said with humor. He had learned from his pagehood that a liege lord should acknowledge the common-born men who guarded his back, so his personal guard were mostly comfortable with him in a respectful manner. This guard was new to him, having been part of the dun’s war band until Traegyr had called him forth to the personal guard this winter. He was just shy of his middle years, with a lean unlined face and curiously slender through the hips. “You don’t think that I am inquiring beyond what is needful?”

  “Nay, sir, for I am employed in your service and good work should welcome attention.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Pedyr, sir,” the guard said.

  “Unusual name,” Maryn noted.

  “Aye, my mam was from Dublyn.”

  “Dublyn, is it? My brother Donyl is at the collegiate there – or will arrive shortly, I suppose.”

  “The collegiate is up in Denygal,” Pedyr explained. “My mam does hail from there, but I’ve never been. I did travel to Clarcom with your father once.”

  “Mayhap we can arrange for you to be in the honor guard to collect Donyl when the time comes. He’ll not want to go, knowing him. Bit of a bookworm, you see.”

  “I have heard,” Pedyr said with a slight smile, then jerked round as a raven scream split the night. Before he could draw his sword, there came a whistling and Maryn was thrown back against a tree.

  Death took him by surprise as he looked down at the two feet of dressed wood protruding from his chest. He couldn’t feel his legs, but he knew that he was staked to the tree like a squirrel.

  I’m done for! I thought death would be more painful.

  Pedyr bellowed for aid and the camp came alive as Maryn died, staring up at the moon with his life leaking away into the dirt by his feet and wondering why the shaft that killed him was the only one to fly.

  Kindred Cycle 24573

  Trading Grounds, Five Cycles Past

  The moon shone out of time and dumped a shovelful of cold down Gil’s back as he stared up through the smoke hole of the conical tent. He’d been contemplating the freedom of the Basketlands and hating the remembered stench of Celtmen as he dozed. Fully awake now, he rolled from under his blankets to pull on a pair of trews under the loose siarc he’d worn to bed. He walked out of the tent into what was meant to be darkest night and was as bright as day.

  The silence had awakened him. A Kin camp was never silent, even in the dark of night. There was always someone singing, horses nickering, goats chewing on ropes.

  Where is that cursed goat?

  Nothing moved save the fires in a dozen rings scattered among the tall conical Kin tents. The goat had laid down asleep outside of Astralyn’s tent. On the other side of the nearest campfire, Gil could see one of the dogs had also fallen asleep.

  Where are the guards?

  The female standing by the central fire must have something to do with it. Dressed in a black shift of breast-skimming fabric, her waist length dark tresses moved in a wind that he could not feel as the power of her golden eyes drew him forward.

  The most beautiful female I’ve ever seen, he thought. She was not so tall as Ryanna, but here was a woman who was comfortable being a woman. A female to make a man forget his woes and foes.

  “Do I owe the music of silence to you, my lady?”

  “You owe all to me, Farenlucgilyn.” She spoke Celdryan with an odd accent.

  The silver-eyed witch was right, and that bitch I’m mated to did nothing to forestall my fate. Do I even care? Should I?

  “You know who I am?” Gil queried. A fragrance of roses wafted from her white skin. When was the last time I scented a female wearing essence. They all think they don’t need it.

  “I know your soul, Gil. And, if you allow, I might be yours.” Her voice flowed like warm honey. The cadence of her accent made him think of the old Celdryan texts his father read aloud.

  “Many females have been mine,” Gil told her.

  “Have they? Lying with one such as me is not the same as possessing. Would not your mate agree?”

  “What do you know of my wife?” he demanded.

  “She is not here.” It wasn’t a question and the hair on the back of Gil’s neck tingled.

  “No,” he agreed. The bitch is Wise now! “She chose another,” he explained. True enough!

  She had moved closer … or he had. He scarce remembered. Her hands lay upon his chest, heat radiating through his siarc.

  “Do you love your people, Gil?’ she asked.

  Odd question! Does she know me so well?

  Shanara’s silver eyes filled his memory. The seer foresaw this.

  “Both my peoples can burn in the deepest hells for my amusement,” Gil admitted.

  “Aye, you have anger enough to possess me,” she announced.

  “What must I do?” Gil asked. A quality mare always comes at a price. He felt himself, his will, falling into her golden eyes. “Shall I burn them?” His eyes scanned the rough circle of hide tents and he smiled.

  “That would be a good beginning, but a beginning only. You will be rewarded as you serve me.”

  “What grand treasure does my goddess desire?”

  This won a smile from her winsome lips.

  “Very perceptive, Farenlucgilyn! And you willingly pay the price?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said in Elvish and then switched back to Celdryan. “Gladly, so long as my father’s people suffer as deeply as they deserve.”

  “I think I can arrange that if you can give me a basketful of offerings.”

  “My mother’s people in the bargain? What a rich treasure indeed!” Gil bowed his head, which was as much as he could do with her standing so close. “I’m yours, my goddess, but what weapon do I possess that will destroy both Kin and Celt?”

  Her laugh was music.

  “Not destroy – enslave. The dead cannot worship me and give me offerings. That is not to say there won’t be streams of blood wherever we go. I envision many deaths and much blood, but we will preserve a remnant for my temples.”

  “Of course, my goddess.”

  “After you burn this camp, enter the byway to the north. You’ll know where I wish you to go. Others have already laid the pyre. They need only your spark. We shall blaze across Daermad and your legend will be writ large and sung round the campfires for a millennium.”

  A lifetime, twice that for an elfling, and twenty-five for the Celt. That is reward enough.

  A torch appeared unbidden in h
is hand, the flame hot upon his face. The tall conical tents caught easily as one by one they blossomed against the night sky. When the last was lit, she grabbed his braid in a strong hand and sliced it free. The heat from the fires beat the air round them as they kissed for the first time, but all was forgotten as she pulled him into his tent to lie with him. He climaxed to the smell of burning flesh. Only later would he wonder why no one screamed.

  When Gil awoke from the dream, the Kin were dead down to the goat and dog and he owned a hundred strangely docile horses laden with a fortune in trade goods. He left his people where they lay, the beaded braid laid beside the central campfire. Due north was the opening to a long-unused byway. With confidence to which he had no rightful claim, Gil opened the portal and set forth north to claim the treasure he deserved.

  Kindred Cycle 24578/

  Founding Year 1028

  Blue Iris Holt – Three moons past

  The music swirled round them, driving hands to clap and feet to stomp. Padraig spun Ryanna round in a complicated reel of dancers, letting go, weaving, circling, and rejoining. Ryanna laughed as the other dancers called the steps and feet tapped to the rhythm of the harp and pipe.

  At last Padraig lost step and pulled Ryanna down on a ledge to watch the other dancers continue their revelry. Ryanna giggled, her eyes lake blue in the lantern light, twinkling with merriment.

  “It’s been so long since I laughed like this,” she admitted. Some said he’d brought the light back into her eyes. Such was an awesome responsibility.

  All round them the merriment of the solstice feast spun as they smiled at one another. Her full lips were pink and moist. He thought of kissing them, but she remained a married woman, as testified by the single beaded braid tangled in her loose dark tresses. Padraig straightened, putting distance between them, and her grin grew rueful.

  “There’s a council a half moon from now,” she said in Celdryan. Although many in the crowd knew Celdryan, it provided them with a modicum of privacy, at least from the children. “I’ll make my intentions known. It’s been a five-cycle and I’ve done all I can. He removed his braid and left it. Even if he had not … done what he did … I am within my rights.”