by J. M. Hofer
Aveta stooped over a hanging pot that straddled the fire and prepared a new poultice, and then came over to remove the old bandages.
“Ugh!” Lucia gasped when Aveta revealed the wound. It was red and swollen, oozing blood and yellow pus, and hot to the touch.
Aveta glanced up. “I’m surprised it’s not worse.” She gave her a consoling smile. “This would have been a fatal bite, I’m sure. Though the icy water of the lake nearly claimed your life, I’m sure it also slowed the bleeding and prevented much swelling and bruising.”
“I am glad for it then.” Lucia gritted her teeth as Aveta dressed her wound. “I want to see Gwion. I’ve missed you both so much. Can you ask him to come and visit me?”
“Yes, of course.” Aveta smiled and tied off her fresh bandages. “I’ll go and fetch him.”
Gwion came to visit her within the hour.
“You’ve gotten taller since I last saw you!” she exclaimed. He smiled and knelt down into her outstretched arms. They embraced for a long time. “You and your mother are such blessings to me,” Lucia said when he pulled away. “I don’t ever want to be apart from you again.”
Gwion took her hand. “We’re glad you’ve come back.”
Lucia thought of Gethen. Please, let him be well. “How is Gethen? I put both our lives in danger. I should never have tried to travel by night. It was selfish of me.”
“He’ll recover.” Gwion gave her a nod of confidence. “As you will.”
“Thank the gods.” Lucia let out a sigh of relief.
Aveta came over with a bowl of steaming liquid. “Here, sit up and drink this.”
Lucia started to work herself into a sitting position when intense pain reached up from her leg and grabbed her, as if it had sharp, pointed fingers and a hand of its own. “Damn this leg!” she said in frustration. “I won’t be able to put any weight on it for days!” She winced until it subsided and then carefully took the bowl.
“No, you won’t—and don’t even think of getting up without help,” Aveta warned.
“I won’t,” Lucia lied, knowing the one thing she was incapable of was laying still for long stretches of time. The smell of the broth in her hands brought on a wave of ravenous hunger. She raised it carefully to her lips and sipped on it.
“Where’s Lord Bran?” Gwion asked.
Of course. He must be wondering why Gethen is with me, and not his master. “There’s much to tell.” She feared her voice would break.
Just at that moment, her grandmother entered the motherhouse. “You look better.” She knelt down to look at Lucia. “How do you feel?”
“Tired,” Lucia answered truthfully, “but grateful.”
“As you should be.” Her grandmother gave her a nod. “Now, tell us all what’s happened.”
Lucia took another sip of Aveta’s broth and nodded. “About a month ago, Belenus’ trackers arrived from the East. They helped Bran and his men track the cauldron-born to a remote area in the mountains, southwest of their village. It’s a cold and lonely place—ever more so with the coming winter. The cauldron-born live there in a network of caves and travel between them through underground tunnels. We set up a camp in the foothills. From there, the trackers find the entrances and the warriors guard them every night, waiting to ambush the cauldron-born.”
Rowan’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Why not go into the caves and kill them?”
Lucia shook her head. “None dare to venture in any more. Of all that have, only a few have ever returned. We could not afford to lose any more men. Lord Bran was the first to disappear.”
“What?” Aveta cried in shock. “No!”
Lucia wiped away a lone tear that had escaped. “Many believe he’s dead, but I don’t—and neither does Lady Seren.”
“Poor woman,” Aveta remarked. “Both her parents, and now her brother? No wonder she clings to hope.”
“Who leads the clan, now, then?” Rowan asked.
Lucia felt a bit irritated at her grandmother’s seeming lack of compassion. She took a deep breath. “Lord Aelhaearn. Seren gave him her blessing two nights ago, on Nos Calan Gaeaf.”
Rowan nodded. “Well, he does bear the Firebrand. Seems a good choice.”
Lucia grew indignant at her comment. Aveta seemed to notice, because she quickly asked, “How do our sisters fare?”
Lucia shook off her temper. “Well. Tired, as all are, but well. They’re mostly in the mountain camp, tending to the warriors.”
“Why did you leave, then? Alone, no less?” Rowan asked.
Lucia glanced at Aveta. “You’ll perhaps not believe me when I say this, but Lord Camulos came for me.”
“What?” Aveta’s eyes widened. “He lives?”
“Yes.” Lucia paused to sip the rest of her broth. “He came for me the same night Aelhaearn was named Chieftain—very late in the night. I’d had my share of mead, so when I first saw him emerging from the shadows, I didn’t dare believe my eyes until I heard him speak and ask for me by name. I thought for a moment that his ghost had come to comfort me—to let me know all was well and that he’d found the Summerlands—and free me at last from wondering what had happened to him.”
“But it wasn’t his ghost?” Aveta prodded.
“No,” Lucia hesitated, trying to think of how best to explain to them the man he had become. “He lives, but only what meets your eyes speaks of Camulos. In his heart, there is naught of his former spirit.”
“What do you mean?” Aveta gently took her empty bowl from her.
“In truth, I had misgivings from the start. He was violent and demanding when he asked for me, and managed quickly to anger Aelhaearn and all his warriors. I didn’t want to go with him. Later that night, I changed my mind. I thought perhaps his aggression sprang from an empty belly or the hardships he’d endured.” She looked up at the sky through the smoke hole for a moment before continuing. “Elayn reminded me that war hardens the heart of every man, and I thought perhaps he would soften into the man I knew before. I decided to go with him foremost to spare his life. I feared he’d be killed if I chose to stay and he protested. Aelhaearn had already extended him more patience than he deserved.”
“I see.” Aveta nodded in understanding. “What story did he give? Where has he been these two years past?”
Lucia felt a bit of strength returning to her. I wonder what Aveta put in that broth?“As he told it, he lay dying on the battlefield after a raid on the garrison he was leading. Nearly all of his men were killed or died shortly after from their wounds. He said a woman came to him and offered to save his life in exchange for his help in the future. He agreed. He woke to find himself being pulled from what he described as a vat of hot milk and tossed naked on the floor of a grotto. She told him she would find him when she needed him, and let him go. I asked where he’d been for the past two years. He told me he’d figured out he was far north of the wall, deep in Caledonia, but I think he lied to me.”
“As do I,” Rowan agreed.
All were silent a moment, each inwardly assessing what such a thing could mean.
Rowan broke the silence. “This is a turn of events I did not see coming. I suspect Cerridwen has known for some time that you have the Sight, and that is precisely why she saved Camulos’ life. I believe she sent him to get you away from the clan so that she would have an opportunity to win you over. The Sight is the one gift from the Goddess she does not possess, Lucia—if you were to accept an offer to be apprenticed by a sorceress as powerful as she, and aid her with your gift in her ambitions, I fear to think what would be possible.”
“That will never happen,” Lucia said. “I promise you. Besides, she is surely no more powerful than you!”
Surprisingly, Rowan shook her head. “No, Lucia. She is far more powerful than I. Not as wise, unfortunately, but far more powerful.”
Lucia was shocked. “What do you mean? How is that possible? Weren’t you her teacher?”
“Yes, but there are some who are born knowing, Lucia,�
� her grandmother explained. “So it was with Cerridwen. Even when she was very small, she seemed to have a natural grasp of anything I taught her, no matter how advanced. It was as if she were simply remembering, rather than learning for the first time. She never had to be shown anything more than once, no matter how complicated.”
Lucia thought for a moment, fear setting her heart to pound. “She must have visited my mother.”
“It’s likely,” Rowan said.
Aveta agreed. “It was through your mother that I found you, Lucia, and came to be in your husband’s household.”
Lucia suddenly became sick, the broth she had just had turning sour in her stomach.
“Lucia, I am sure your mother is fine,” Aveta said consolingly, guessing her thoughts. “Cerridwen was devastated when your mother left. I’m sure she wouldn’t harm her.”
Lucia heard Aveta’s words, but was not comforted, unnerved by her grandmother’s silence on the subject.
They were interrupted by some of the other sisters coming into the motherhouse with armloads of firewood. Rowan turned round. “Leave the wood and go, please,” she said, at once both kind and commanding.
“I never should have gone with him,” Lucia rued. “I knew I’d made a mistake, but I couldn’t go back. He would have come for me again and Aelhaearn would have killed him.”
“And so you came to us,” Rowan concluded.
“Yes,” Lucia answered, unable to tell if her grandmother approved or not. “The only chance I had to escape was after he fell asleep, which is how I came to be traveling by night.” Lucia took a deep breath and coughed. She was beginning to tire, and could feel a fever coming on.
“I fear the coming days,” Rowan said. “King Belenus is dead, and, I’m sorry, Lucia, but it’s likely Lord Bran is as well. Hopefully, Aelhaearn will lead well, but I fear for the East. Neirin now sits in his father’s place, and far too soon, in my opinion. Let us hope he has a good portion of his father’s wisdom and will live a long life. I would hate to see Queen Eirwen both widowed and childless.”
Gwion, who had said nothing throughout the entire conversation, spoke up. “Lady Lucia, you say Aelhaearn was named Chieftain two nights past, on Nos Galan Gaeaf?”
“Yes,” Lucia said.
“There’s a ballad Talhaiarn used to sing about four kings,” Gwion said. “Grandmother, do you know it?”
“Yes,” Rowan said. “Three kings who will rise and fall…”
“—and a fourth, who will fall and rise,” Aveta added thoughtfully.
“Yes,” Gwion said, reciting the ballad softly:
Three kings will rise, and then will fall,
The first betrayed within’s own walls,
The second will pledge his all away,
to the unborn son of’s enemy,
The third a false crown is bequeathed
when flames rise high, with bones beneath
The fourth will rise up from below;
to him the Mother will bestow
all things lost when he didst fall,
to rise again, and rule them all.
“When flames rise high, with bones beneath,” repeated Gwion.
“The bonfires of Nos Galan Gaeaf,” Rowan said softly, obviously comprehending Gwion’s meaning, which Lucia did not.
Aveta noticed Lucia’s confusion and explained. “The ballad is believed to be an old prophecy, one so old I’d forgotten it. Gwion suggests Aelhaearn may be the third king the ballad sings of, falsely crowned.”
Because Bran still lives, Lucia realized. “If Aelhaearn is the third king, then who are the other three?”
“Time will reveal who they are,” Rowan said. “It also means, when all is said and done, we will have a High King who will unite all the clans, one chosen by the Great Mother, and that would be a good thing,” she said. “A very good thing, indeed.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lucia
As soon as Gethen had fully healed, Gwion left the Isle to find Bran, convinced he still lived as well. Aveta tried to be strong without Gwion, but she struggled. Without her son she seemed ever far away, lost in her thoughts.
“You must stop worrying, daughter,” Rowan said to her one night at the evening meal. “Gwion is wiser than men three times his age, and more gifted than all of us. He is no warrior, but with his abilities he has no need of strength.”
“It’s not that.” Aveta shook her head. “I don’t doubt his abilities.”
“Then what is it?”
“I can’t shake this horrible feeling that I’ll never see him again,” she finally admitted, nearly unable to voice the words.
“You can’t think such things!” Lucia cried abruptly. She sat down beside her and put her arms around Aveta’s shoulders, as Aveta had done for her so many times in the past. “Of course you’ll see him again! He’s the cleverest young man I’ve ever known! If he says he is going to find Bran, we must believe him. I’m sure we’ll see both of them again.”
Aveta stared into the fire. “I hope you’re right, Lucia.”
“He will soon be a man, Aveta,” Rowan said. “Better he leaves us now to seek his place in the world. The Great Mother means Gwion for greater things than being your son, or my grandson.”
“I know, Mother!” Aveta burst out, but then checked herself and softened her tone. “I know, all too well.”
The others looked at her with understanding, as surely many of them had also sent their own sons away and grieved as she was grieving.
***
Lucia’s leg healed enough for her to walk on it, save for a limp that she regarded as a gentle but constant reminder to be grateful to the Great Mother for saving her life. She could at least sit at the loom, prepare food and keep the fire burning, all things she was more than happy to do. Lying on her back with nothing but her worries to keep her occupied had been torture.
As she sat at her loom, she reflected on all that had changed since her dramatic return. Over the past month, she had fallen in step with the rhythm of life on the Isle, and found it was one she very much enjoyed. During the day, they fished, hunted, collected water and firewood, worked at spinning and weaving, brewed mead, made candles, embroidered, or practiced throwing a spear or shooting a bow. The older women taught the younger many things. She put all her effort into learning as much as she could, for it seemed even the youngest girls were beyond her in many of their skills.
“Don’t worry, Lucia,” Aveta would remind her when she became frustrated. “You learn quickly. Just keep trying.”
Every night, as the sun dipped close to the horizon, they gathered around the fire in the motherhouse and prayed, each woman communing with the spirits in her own way. After a certain amount of time, never quite the same, Rowan would speak. Sometimes it would be about mundane things important to their survival, like a shortage of wood or water that needed attending to, and sometimes about the messages or revelations she received in prayer. After that, Rowan would invite the rest of them to share. After everyone who wished to had spoken, they shared the evening meal. It was usually some kind of stew, or fish roasted over the fire, bread, and apples—apples such as she had never tasted before in her life. Apple trees grew all over the Isle, and the fruit they bore was better than any she had ever tasted. The Sisters made wine from it. Given her choice of mead or apple wine, she always chose the latter.
All of the Sisters could play the harp and sing, but some had been gifted with voices that set the heart to soaring and eyes to weeping—voices so exquisite, that when they sang, the soul leapt in joyful recognition of the divine.
Her mother was such a woman. Hearing the women of the Isle sing took her back to the childhood hours she had spent sitting at her feet, listening to her. Her mother had sung to her whenever she suffered from the terrible visions that haunted her as a girl. All children have nightmares from time to time, and parents comfort them by saying they are naught but dreams, but not hers—no, hers, unfortunately, did come true, and it was her moth
er’s voice that had kept her from falling into the abyss; her beautiful voice, which flew into the dark storm cloud of her fear like a dove on silver vespers, white wings cutting through the blackness and guiding her back out.
For hours each night before retiring, the Sisters took turns singing songs of great kings and queens, gods and guardians, heroes who vanquished great enemies to save their people, women so radiant and glorious that no man or god could refuse them anything, and common men with courageous hearts who were challenged by the gods and emerged victorious.
Night after night, as the sound of their music rose up through the thatched roof of the motherhouse, Lucia began to notice that she could feel the Guardians draw near to listen. It was a feeling so sublime, she would weep for joy, because she no longer only sensed when evil approached—she could also feel when the divine leaned in closely.
As she learned more about the many faces of the Great Mother, she found she already knew one of them very well. In the Christian faith, the Great Mother wore the mantle of Mary, the mother of Christ Jesus. Lucia realized the altar dedicated to Mary that her mother had worshipped at was likely, in truth, an altar to the Great Mother whom she had grown up worshipping on the island.
Yes, the Great Goddess was known by this name, but also by many others. She was Maiden, Mother, and Crone, constantly changing, yet ever-willingly surrendering herself in love to her lord and consort.
The Lord, too, had many names—Cernunnos the Horned One, Warrior, Protector, Father. Lucia learned that the Great Mother’s power was not subordinate to his, but equal. They stood forever loyal to one another, side by side. Together, the Lord and Lady danced eternally, in a never-ending spiral, as many different partners throughout time and in all aspects of life. His strength was like the sun to her moon. His passion, like a lover to her maiden. His wrath, as a champion for her protection. His guidance, like a father to his daughter, his knowledge, like light penetrating the darkness of her mystery, and his action, born out of her inspiration. The Lord to the Lady was all these things, but a suppressor, controller, or silencer of his beloved, he was not.
