Islands in the Mist (Islands in the Mist Series Book 1)

by J. M. Hofer

  Whether it was Talhaiarn’s methods, the peacefulness of the Crossroads, or simply being away from the horses and swordplay that constantly called to him, he flourished more than his mother ever could have hoped for under the guidance of his wise teacher. When the year was over, reading and writing were the least of things he had mastered, and he returned to her full of pride. That was a good day. They had sat and talked for hours, and though she had said a great many things to him, there was one he had never forgotten: “The Great Father wears many faces, my son.”

  It was then that he realized what she had truly asked of Talhaiarn—to be the father to him Cadoc had refused to be—and he had indeed regarded him as such ever since.

  ***

  The next morning Bran woke to the sound of Gethen nuzzling in his pack, searching for oats. He rose and stretched, and pushed Gethen’s nose away. “By the gods, you’re impatient. I’ll feed you, don’t worry.”

  He rubbed his eyes and looked up at the sky. It was still dark overhead, but light was beginning to break in the East. He fumbled about, tending to Gethen’s breakfast while crunching down on an apple for his own, and then swung himself into the saddle, eager to continue their journey.

  As they made their way along the river, he thought back on the times he had come that way in the past. Happier times. Throughout his boyhood he had made the journey many times with his clan to celebrate the Greater Sabbats, meeting with their sister clans for a week of high council meetings, rituals and celebrations. Those were the source of his most cherished childhood memories—leaving home on horseback, sleeping beneath the stars, traveling through land where he did not already know every rock and tree and bend in the trail—these were the things that had given him an unquenchable thirst for what lay beyond.

  As young boys, he and his clanbrothers would spar or explore the forest with their friends from the other clans. As they became older, they traded running wildly through the camp at night for spending the evenings flirting with whatever beautiful girl they happened to fancy at the time.

  “Go on!” he remembered Gareth prompting him. “I dare you!”

  Gwyneth—he still remembered the name of the first girl he had ever kissed, even after all these years. She was two years older, but he had been taller.

  “She thinks you’re handsome! She told me so!”

  Bran thought back wistfully on their innocence, and how overwhelming the thrill of a simple kiss had been at that age.

  He no longer knew that boy. He had long ago been eclipsed by a hardened countenance, forged by dark times and bathed in blood. His mother had hoped he would become a council leader, but his strong appetite for the thrill of battle had taken him far from their small village.

  “Are you afraid?” He remembered his mother asking him, the night before he left.

  “No.” He had not hesitated. He had not been afraid. In fact, he could not remember ever fearing death. Or pain. He once stabbed himself with a knife, curious to know what it felt like. He had not returned home more than a handful of times since then.

  His mother blamed his father’s blood for this. “It will ever make you ever restless and thirsty for battle. He was a terror—a servant of Woden.”

  “Woden?”

  “The Saxon god of war.”

  He had never known his father. As a boy he had often asked about him, but his mother had revealed very little. The most he could ever recall her saying was, “He was a barbarian and a thief, but I, a better one; I captured his heart and stole the very best of him, and with it, knit your bones together inside my womb. You have his strength and fearlessness in your blood—it’s your destiny to become a great warrior.”

  Even at that age, before he knew anything about the ways of men and women and the treacherous sea of emotions that churned between them, he noted the change in his mother’s tone whenever she spoke of his father—she became tense, like a bowstring. Not wanting to upset her, he gave up his attempts to construct an accurate portrait of his father, and instead, embraced the myth she offered.

  Her prediction had came true—but for what? He had been away when she needed him most. His guilt moved in on him again, and he knew he had to kill it for the beast it was lest it lead him into another poor decision. After his mother’s death, it had not let him sleep or eat, demanding he do something. He had left too soon, and nearly paid a very expensive price for his impatience. He reached down and stroked Gethen’s side, shuddering at the thought of losing him. Thank the gods for Gwion. He pictured the boy cutting across the field, waving. He had greeted him with an enthusiastic, “Good evening, my lord,” as if he had been expecting him.

  Then, there was Lucia. She was another blessing he had not expected. He pictured her in the doorway, looking at him suspiciously, the orange sunset casting a fiery glow on her copper hair. Her green eyes had searched his face boldly, without fear, flashing like the sun on a restless sea. The thought of her still made his blood rise. He allowed himself to indulge in the pleasure of thinking about her as he rode along, for it was the only pleasure he had known in many long moons.

  The cry of a raven overhead snapped his thoughts back to the present. It soared overhead, black wings stretched out in the sun. He smiled. He always regarded seeing his namesake a good omen.

  He and Gethen traveled steadily throughout the rest of the day, stopping only briefly for water. When the shadows grew long and began swallowing up the road, he fished himself some dinner out of the river and then leaned up against a tree to rest.

  He watched the moon rise over the hills, covering everything in pale blue silk except for the river, which she adorned with ribbons of silver. The river wore the moon’s gifts as proudly as a young maiden, and they bounced and sparkled off her curves as she danced.

  Bran watched her dance all night, anxious thoughts keeping sleep at bay. He rose as soon as the sky hinted at the sun’s return, grateful the night was over.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Sight

  The morning broke crisply. Lucia went down to the lake for her swim, knowing she would not be able to enjoy them much longer. Summer was coming to a close, and the water would soon become too cold. She loosened her laces as she walked along. Once upon the shore, she undressed and dove in.

  The lake swallowed her up, welcoming her back with an icy embrace. Her breathing fell into a familiar rhythm, in perfect harmony with the strokes of her arms and legs, as her feet moved her gracefully across the water’s surface. She had always been a strong swimmer. She felt completely free in the water. In fact, she had been told she could swim before she could walk. She remembered her mother constantly warning her not to stay in the water so long when she was younger, saying, “The Gwragedd Annwn will notice your beauty and steal you away—then what would I do?” Then she would grab her and hold her tight.

  Lucia felt especially strong that morning. She swam steadily for quite some time toward the island. When she grew tired, she stopped to rest and get her bearings. To her shock, she found she was much farther out than she had ever been before—so far, in fact, that the island seemed much closer than the shore she had left from.

  She rested a moment, treading water, watching as the island mysteriously disappeared and then reappeared in the mist, beckoning to her.

  Her heart pounded. Do I dare?

  The lake folk often warned her never to try and swim to the island, for though it might appear to be close, it was said to be nothing more than a faerie trick. There was at least one story in every family of someone who had drowned or gone mad trying to reach it, and a few rare ones about those who had actually succeeded, but eventually met the same fate. Those who claimed to have been there returned with tales of the island’s pristine beauty, and bewitching women who swam faster than river otters and moved through the trees without a sound. Forever compelled to return, the poor souls had all eventually died in the attempt.

  Then, there was the famous tale of the three Roman soldiers, disgusted by the superstitions of the
peasants and intrigued by the descriptions of the island’s female inhabitants. They set out for the island vowing to return with the “witches” and make slaves of them. Over the next moon, all three of them were found washed up on the lakeshore, arrows lodged in their hearts.

  Thus, the island and the women who dwelled upon it were said to be cursed, but Lucia did not believe it. She longed to see the women for herself. Besides, no one could swim as well as she could. Lately, she had been getting close enough to see smoke rising from the island, or figures walking along its shores…but never had she been this close.

  I can do it, she told herself. She surged toward the island, putting all of her effort into her strokes. To her dismay, however, no matter how long or how vigorously she swam, she got no closer.

  Eventually, the mists closed in and swallowed the island. She waited for it to appear again, but the mist stubbornly refused to reveal it.

  Worry nagged at her. Go back, before it’s too late. She had never been out for so long before. She turned over on her back, trying to relax. She breathed calmly, looking up at the sky, as stroke after stroke steadily took her back home.

  She made it back by sheer will and dragged herself out of the lake, gasping and crawling out onto the bank. She squeezed the land between her fingers and collapsed. She lay there until her breath returned to normal, dressed, and began walking back. So close. Next time, I’ll make it.

  Exhilaration returned to her body as she walked. It was a warm day, quite rare so late in the season. She went to the field to practice. It was a good day for it. With Aveta’s help, she had been working on controlling her visions—how to trigger them, explore them, and most importantly, understand their messages.

  The first time she had received one was the night a man had come to her father’s villa to speak with him. In her dreams that night, she saw the man stabbed to death. He was lying face down in a pool of his own blood with his murderer standing over him. She had awakened knowing instinctively something was different about that dream, and it frightened her. Weeks later, what she had seen came to pass. Her fear turned to terror, believing she had somehow had a hand in what had happened to him.

  She kept her secret for weeks, but it gnawed at her. Unable to stand it any longer, she told her mother about it, confessing her fear that she had caused it. Her mother comforted her, telling her she had done no such thing—she had merely seen that which was yet to be.

  “Sweet daughter,” she said, stroking her hair, “you’ve been blessed with a special gift from the Great Mother called ‘the Sight.’ Your great, great grandmother also had it. It’s a blessing, but your father’s people will be very frightened of it, so you must promise never to share your visions with anyone but me. Though they once worshipped many gods, the Romans now only worship one—the Christ—and they would not understand.”

  Her mother never went to the Roman church if she could help it, but sometimes her father would insist upon it. Lucia had tried to speak to their priest once, and told her mother about it. “He mentioned a messenger called an angel, so I asked him if angels were the same as Fae. He said no, the Fae serve the old gods and the old gods serve Satan—he says they aren’t to be trusted.”

  “Stupid old goat,” was all her mother had said. That was the last time Lucia asked the priest any questions.

  Aveta worshipped the Great Mother, like her own mother did, and that made Lucia feel close to her. She also shared her mother’s calm manner—which she clearly had not.

  After Camulos died, Lucia spent more and more time with Aveta, eventually feeling safe enough to confide in her about her visions. Aveta offered to teach her what she knew and help guide her as best she could. She taught her ways to call upon the Sight, but encouraged her to find ways of her own. Lucia found that singing, weaving, or gazing into a fire or pool of water worked best. These practices most quickly took her into that place where the door between worlds would open—but sometimes, like now, it opened without her asking and beckoned to her.

  She felt a desire to lie down and let the sun shine on her. She went and collapsed in the barley field, crushing the long grain beneath her body. She felt hidden and safe within its tall sheafs. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the sound of the wind shaking the barley all around her. Her heartbeat and breath slowed down, and soon she was drifting in and out of sleep.

  She began to feel things shifting around her. Fear rose, as it always did, but she had learned to ignore it. She knew it would happen soon—soon, the door would open.

  The colors of a sunset began flashing in front of her eyes, and she found herself running through the barley field. The grain came up to her waist. She could feel it rushing against her legs and hands as she ran. She felt like the linen she had hung to dry the day before, blowing in the wind…her strides effortless, taking her twice as far as they should…the ground springing beneath her feet, propelling her farther and farther forward. The field stretched on forever in front of her, its sheaves moving and swaying around her. She looked up into the sky as she ran, stretching her arms out like wings, feeling as if she could soar right into it.

  She felt her arms changing, lengthening, thinning out gracefully, becoming light as air, until the wind picked her up and her feet no longer fell upon the earth. Instinctively, she thrust away from the ground, catching another current. Soon, she was soaring above the field, her blue-black wings stretching out under the sun. She weighed nothing, flying high above her land, her vision becoming sharper with each moment—she saw the villa, the stable, the lake beyond, and the river that fed it.

  She sailed smoothly upon the skirts of Danu’s zephyrs, flying along the river, mesmerized by the sun’s rays dancing on it. She followed the river for miles, riding the wind. She flew low enough to skim the water’s surface, and then up above the trees, until she spied a horse and rider far below. Curious, she flew down closer. Her heart leapt as she realized whom she had managed to find.

  When she woke from the trance, the sun reigned high in the sky. She sat up, light-headed, her whole body humming. She sat there for some time, until she was sure her legs would not give out under her when she stood up.

  The dizziness eventually faded and she walked back to the house, searching out Aveta. She discovered her just beyond the gate in the orchard, relieving a heavy-limbed apple tree of its burden. Her hair had partially fallen out of its bun, as it often did, and was hanging about her shoulders. She had already filled three baskets and was working on a fourth.

  “Aveta,” she called as she made her way to the orchard. “I’m sorry. I meant to come earlier.” She climbed up the tree next to hers and began filling her own basket.

  “I can see the light of the Otherworld in your eyes,” Aveta said after a moment. “Something’s happened.”

  Lucia nodded and picked a few more apples, seeking the right words. “This time it was different,” she began. “This time I wasn’t merely looking through the door, watching something.”

  “Go on,” Aveta smiled. Gwion looked their way with a curious glance. He abandoned his tree to come and listen.

  “This time I was in the place I opened the door to. At first, I was running through the barley field as myself, in my own body, but then, my body changed. My arms turned into wings, and I flew up out of the field. I felt my wings, carrying me upon the wind—and I could see with different eyes, in a way I could never describe to you in words. I saw the lake, the villa from above—the roof needs mending, by the way—the orchard, the garden—everything. Then, I came to the place where the river flows into the lake, and I followed it for many miles north—how many, I don’t know. As I flew along the river, I spied a dark horse and rider far below.”

  “Ah, Lord Bran?” Aveta’s brown eyes widened. She did not seem surprised at all to hear this.

  “Yes.”

  “Give thanks, Lucia. You’ve been blessed by the raven. The spirits of animals do not invite many to see through their eyes.”

  “No, they don’t,” Gw
ion confirmed.

  “What do you think it means?” Lucia asked.

  “What does it mean to you?” Aveta raised her brows. “What it means to me doesn’t matter, but I think we could agree your spirit is drawn to Bran’s for some reason, and took the form of his namesake. I would start there and see what comes to you.”

  The three of them picked apples for the rest of the afternoon, and Lucia thought much on it indeed—too much, for her liking.

  The daylight began to fade, the hills spilling shadows from their chins. Soon, it was too dark to work anymore, and they returned to the house. Aveta had prepared a stew with some venison that a neighboring farmer had brought by that morning. Such gifts came often, as it seemed most of the farmers fancied Aveta, although Lucia never saw Aveta give them any reason to expect anything at all in return.

  Gwion ate quickly and stood up. “I’m going to say good night to the horses.”

  “See you in the morning,” Aveta called as he bounced out the door.

  The two women dragged their chairs together by the fire, exhausted from the day.

  “Aveta?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  Smiling, Aveta reached over and gave her hand a squeeze.

  Lucia was surprised to find herself holding back tears. “Such a secret is like a heavy stone you must carry on your back everywhere you go. You can’t imagine how comforting it is to know I can set it down when I’m with you. ”

  Then it was Aveta who looked as though she would weep. “Oh, but I can. Such stones I’m most familiar with.”

  Lucia squeezed her hand in return and then let out a tired sigh. “I’ve spent my whole life hiding this part of me. There’s so much I have to learn.”

  Aveta laughed. “We all do. Remember, all things have a season, and they turn according to the Great Mother’s will. Think of your past as your winter. Perhaps now is your time to blossom.”

  Lucia smiled, comforted by her words, and looked over at her. She seemed very tired. “Please, Aveta. Go to bed. We’ve had a long day. We can talk tomorrow.”