Faeborne: A Novel of the Otherworld

by Johnson, Jenna Elizabeth

  “Whatever you are, and whatever curse you brought down upon yourself, I hope I do not curse you further by bringing you into my house,” he murmured, as he carried her light frame through the ever darkening woods, heading southeast and toward home.

  Chapter Two

  Stranger

  Rori sat in front of the hearth and poked at the ashes while he waited for his uncle to return. He couldn’t see the flames dancing before him, but he could feel their heat and their brightness registered as a yellow glow to his sightless eyes. He knew how close he could get without risking any burns, and he had become an expert at starting the fire when Brennon was out hunting or tending to the fields or their animals.

  As he waited, Rori recalled the events of his day with as much detail as he could muster. His uncle Brenn had woken early to venture into the forest to get them a deer, and Rori had spent his time alone at the house putting away the jars of fruits and vegetables they had preserved for the winter. This chore took Rori more time than it would have taken his uncle, since he had to use his other senses to carefully stack the glass containers, but it helped him pass much of the morning.

  Later, he’d checked the chickens for eggs, the new young rooster accepting his presence with a few clucks of recognition. Rori grinned at the memory. Most children his age feared roosters, but he wasn’t afraid of his Ruan. The bird had been found late last spring, still trapped inside his eggshell. Rori had brought the unhatched chick into the house, despite Brennon’s protests. He’d set the egg beside the fire and listened as the little chick inside slowly came back to life, pushing itself free in the well of the boy’s small hands. Contented cheeping had filled the main room, bringing a bright smile to Rori’s face. And Brennon had grumbled something about the indecency of having poultry in the house.

  “What does it look like?” Rori had breathed, his round, blue eyes staring in his uncle’s general direction.

  Clearing his throat, Brenn had answered, “Like most chicks when they first hatch, I suppose. Wet, ugly and loud.”

  Rori had set his lower lip in determination and turned back to face the new hatchling. “He is wonderful. And he will live a long life.”

  Brennon just laughed. “A he is it? We already have a rooster, and I’m sure some of this one’s siblings will be as well. And, hopefully, that means plenty of chicken dinners in the coming months.”

  Rori, who knew very well what happened to all the extra roosters, had whipped around. “We will not eat Ruan!”

  Brennon had only groaned in exasperation. “Don’t go naming it!”

  But Rori had remained adamant, and Ruan had thrived. The young rooster became Rori’s constant companion as he grew up first, living in an old wooden box in the house, and eventually, joining the chickens in the coop outside. He matured into a handsome, red and brown speckled specimen, and when the old rooster fell victim to his advanced age and the others became dinner, Ruan took his place as king of the chicken coop. And he turned out to be a gentle creature, never once attacking or pecking Rori or Brennon.

  Rori sighed wistfully once more as the old memories faded, wondering how late it was and if his uncle had started his return trip home yet. Deciding the fire needed more fuel, the boy felt his way to the corner of the room where the firewood was neatly stacked. Running his fingers over the logs, he found one which felt large enough and dragged it back to the fireplace, tossing it in and backing away, so the sparks would not land on him. After the crackling died down a little, he inched his way closer once again.

  The flames felt warm against his face, and he lifted his hands carefully to the fire, just close enough to melt away the iciness that had crept into his fingertips. Autumn was in full swing, and Samhain was less than a month away. Rori shivered at the thought of the autumnal festival. It was the Morrigan’s feast day which meant more faelah out and about after dark. Rori hated faelah just as much as anyone else, but living in the northern wastes, so close to the Morrigan’s realm, meant even more of the vile creatures than normal. They would creep beyond her borders, ravenous for easy prey since her realm was so devoid of life. The noises they emitted were enough to make a person’s nerves jump right out of their skin. For once, Rori was grateful he was blind; it meant not having to look upon the monstrosities when they wandered too close to the boundaries of their farm. Then again, his imagination provided plenty of pictures in his head. Fortunately, the standing stones kept most of them away, but during the week surrounding Samhain there was always the handful or so who tested the invisible barrier keeping him and his uncle safe.

  The sudden, sharp baying of seven wolfhounds snapped Rori’s attention back to the present. If Brennon had returned, then the hounds wouldn’t be barking. They knew their master well. Rori wasn’t sure of the time, but it must be well after sunset. Who would be coming to call at this hour? No one ever came to Ardun.

  The baying turned into whining, and the heavy, sure steps of a large man sounded up the walkway. Rori knew those steps. He leapt up and scurried to the door, carefully keeping his hands out in front of him, so he wouldn’t bump into anything. He pulled the door open just as Brenn reached it.

  “Why did the dogs bark at you?” he queried.

  “Step aside, Rori. There’s been an accident.”

  At the sound of his uncle’s gruff voice, Rori backed away, wondering what had happened.

  “Did you get a deer?” he pressed, as he slunk deeper into the stone house.

  He couldn’t see his uncle’s expression, but he could hear the strain in his voice. “Yes, and no. I need you to help me. A young woman’s been badly hurt.”

  Rori’s eyes grew wide, and he reached out his hand, trying to find Brennon. He drew in a sharp breath when his uncle’s large, strong fingers grasped his.

  “Water. We need hot water. Do you think you can manage to get some from the creek and heat it?”

  Rori nodded numbly. He’d been to the creek and back a thousand or more times and knew the way by heart. And it wasn’t that far from the house, maybe a few hundred yards or so, right along the edge of the woods and at the bottom of the hill.

  Using his fingers to find his way, Rori hurried to the kitchen to fetch a wooden bucket, then headed toward the far wall. He searched out his cloak hanging from the lowest hook, the scratchy, thick wool already warming his small body as he draped it about his shoulders. He felt his way along the wall until he reached the back door, then pushed it open, barely registering the chill air rushing over his skin. He could have tried to conjure up a bit of glamour to warm himself even further, but that would only have been a waste of time. Before losing his sight, he had just begun sensing and experimenting with the magic born to every Faelorehn child. But the same tragedy that had rendered him blind had also done something else, hurting him so deeply, his glamour now refused to work for him. Firming his upper lip in determination, Rori brushed aside such thoughts and focused all his attention on the task at hand.

  A small pack of wolfhounds greeted him in the yard with happy yips and wet tongues, boosting the boy’s spirits. With his shoulders rising a few scant inches above their shoulders, Rori could so easily fall victim to their antics and lose his footing. Fortunately, the dogs knew to be careful around him.

  “You all can accompany me to the creek if you wish,” he called out, pleased to hear their panting breath close behind him as he turned down the trail.

  A great grey owl called out in the distance. From the depths of the woods, Rori’s ears picked up the soft cries of foxes and bobcats hunting for rabbits. The smoke from Roarke Manor’s chimney teased his nose, but beyond its sharp tang, he detected impending frost and decaying vegetation, sure signs of the season. Every sound and smell and feeling came to life, especially around evening’s arrival, for the darkness took over what little light filtered into Rori’s damaged eyes and enhanced everything else. Often, he would try to picture his surroundings based entirely on sound, touch and scent, and then, he could almost see shapes and colors in fro
nt of him. He had not been so young when he lost his sight that he’d forgotten what things looked like, but sometimes he wondered if part of what he pictured in his mind was invented by his imagination and not based on what he’d learned before going blind.

  A sharp yowl stopped him dead in his tracks. The hounds growled softly around him, but when the creature called out again, he realized it was most likely a raccoon.

  Good, he thought with some relief, not a faelah. But that didn’t mean there weren’t any lurking in the woods, beyond the boundary of the standing stones. The foul creatures had slipped past the protection ward before, and although they usually perished within minutes, the stronger ones had been known to last a day or two. Plenty of time to creep up to the house or the barn and wreak havoc. The thought sent chills down Rori’s spine, and he shook his head, hoping the action would cast such ideas far from his mind.

  Eventually, the hurried rush of water lapping at the creek’s edge grew loud enough for Rori to know he was close. Careful not to slip in the slick mud, he climbed down the embankment and dipped the bucket into the water. The strong tug of the current threatened to rip the handle from his hands, but Rori was used to this game of tug-of-war with the tributary, and soon, he was lugging the heavy bucket back up the trail.

  Once inside the house, Brennon ordered him to set the bucket beside the fire.

  “Rori,” his uncle called, “I need you to come over here and keep pressure on this cloth. The bleeding has slowed, but I want to make sure it’s stopped.”

  Rori was nervous, but he did as his uncle asked, moving toward the eastern wall of the room where the great fireplace was situated. With his hands extended, he discovered the coarse canvas stretched across one of the old cots usually stored away for guests. He let his fingers wander over the blankets until they came into contact with something warm and soft.

  He tried to imagine the girl lying beneath the blankets, but all he could muster was a featureless face and two arms resting against a long, slender figure covered by blankets. But as he let his useless eyes settle on the place he knew the young woman to be, Rori noticed something astonishing. In the center of the slight shape was a pinprick of brilliant golden light, small and fading like a star on the horizon at dawn. Was this his imagination again? Or was there a brightness about this stranger which managed to work its way past his ruined eyes? Either way, Rori noticed it, but he also felt something was wrong. The light reminded him of a candlewick about to expire, shrinking away before turning to smoke. He reached out to touch it, but his fingers met something cold and smooth instead. He gasped and yanked his hand back.

  Brenn’s firm grasp and sharp tone shocked him even further.

  “No! Don’t poke at her. Here, press your hand against this.”

  He moved the boy’s fingers and placed them on something rough and warm, a piece of terrycloth, Rori guessed.

  “Hold it tightly to stop the bleeding.”

  Rori listened as his uncle stood up and moved across the room, to transfer the water into the tea kettle for boiling, he presumed.

  “Wh-Who is she?” Rori asked, twisting his head around, so he faced his uncle. The flames in the hearth, nothing more than a faint glow suffusing the ever present darkness, winked out momentarily as Brennon stepped between him and the fireplace.

  “I don’t know,” he said quietly, almost too quietly.

  “Did you find her in the forest? Was someone trying to hurt her?”

  Brenn sighed, and Rori could tell he was troubled by the entire situation.

  “I hurt her,” he said eventually, his voice so low and filled with remorse that Rori felt its weight pressing into the room. “I tracked down a doe and shot her, but my aim was off. I hit her in the shoulder, and she bolted. When I found her again, there was no longer a deer, but this girl.”

  Rori felt his eyebrows shoot up. Had the deer transformed into this young woman? It seemed the sort of thing from his old fae-tales book, but if his uncle had shot a deer and found her instead, with the arrow in the same spot as the wound, what other explanation was there? Rori wanted to question Brennon more about it, but something about the distance in his voice encouraged him to put his curiosity away for now.

  The kettle above the fire began to hiss and Rori listened to the scrape of his uncle’s boots against the stone floor as he rose to take care of it. Brenn returned to the cot a minute later. The click of a ceramic bowl meeting the tiles below, followed by the light wisp of air brushing past his face as a towel was unfurled, gave Rori a mental image of his uncle preparing a work station of sorts.

  “I’m going to have to remove the arrow,” he said, in a tight voice.

  Rori swallowed and nodded, then moved well out of the way. The young woman might be unconscious, but there was a good chance the pain of freeing the arrow would bring her around.

  The delicate sounds of dripping water and rustling fabric, followed by a profound silence, had Rori on edge. The boy imagined Brenn was bracing himself for what was to come, and he, too, got ready for it. Trying not to feel anxious, Rori sat down cross-legged a good distance away and started gnawing at his thumbnail. He would be glad when the whole ordeal was over.

  ***

  Brennon dipped a strip of cloth into the hot water, wringing out a good deal of moisture before turning back toward the young woman. Carefully, he pulled back the blankets, so the skin around the arrow was exposed. Clotted blood and some dirt surrounded the entry point, but at least the blood flow had subsided.

  Not for long, he thought grimly, as he gently ran the wet fabric around the injured area, removing the grime and gore. It didn’t take much time to clean the wound, and now, Brenn found himself reluctant to go on.

  The longer you wait, the greater the chance for infection, he reminded himself sternly. Taking a deep breath, Brennon gripped the shaft of the arrow close to the skin. He thanked the gods and goddesses that the arrows he used didn’t have barbed points. He clenched his teeth and with one, swift yank, pulled the arrow free from the young woman’s shoulder.

  Immediately, the room filled with a burst of glamour so bright, it left Brenn temporarily blinded. A force like a strong wind slammed into him, and the dogs outside howled in dismay, drowning out the girl’s screech of anguish.

  As soon as his senses returned, Brenn pressed a hand to his head and croaked, “Rori! Rori are you alright?”

  He’d been thrown against the opposite wall, his head and shoulder smarting where they’d collided with the stone and wood.

  “Fine,” his nephew squeaked from beneath the table where he’d retreated only minutes earlier. “What happened?”

  “The girl has some very potent glamour.”

  Brennon coughed and dragged himself to his feet, not realizing how hard his heart was pounding until he remembered to breathe again. The arrow was still clutched in his hand, and when he looked down at it he was reminded of where it had been. Disgusted with himself, he strode over to the fire on somewhat shaky legs and threw the bolt in, glad to be rid of it, then turned back to his patient.

  Once again, she lay still on the bed, fresh, scarlet blood welling up from the hole in her shoulder.

  “Rori, we need the healing herbs and some ointment. Do you know where they are?”

  His nephew nodded and scurried off down the hallway in search of the storage pantry. As soon as Rori was gone, Brennon turned back toward the young woman, now resting motionless beneath the blankets. That had been quite a burst of glamour, stronger than any he had ever felt in his handful of years living in Eile. When he had gotten over the initial shock of it and gave it some serious thought, he wasn’t actually all that surprised. The girl had transformed from a doe before his very eyes, after all. Yet, he was still puzzled. Only the Morrigan and some of her top advisors had given off stronger magic. A shockwave of icy dread coursed through Brenn at the very thought of the war goddess, and he quickly dashed those thoughts from his mind. It was futile, he knew, for there was no denying her existenc
e in this world, especially around this time of year. But, he would fight for whatever peace he could find for as long as possible. And right now, he was able to do just that. This strange young woman, with her powerful glamour and beautiful dark chestnut colored hair, would serve as a good distraction.

  Brenn’s brows lowered over his eyes, and he reached out a tentative hand. He wasn’t the type of person to indulge in making physical contact with others. It was too dangerous for him to do so, both for himself and the one on the receiving end. Such a gesture of affection and gentleness had been turned into something ugly and painful during those years spent in the Morrigan’s army. What might have been a kind hand to the shoulder, offering support, almost always turned into a painful blow or a shove toward something terrifying. He had been well conditioned to shy away from any sort of physical contact with others, only allowing Rori to take such liberties with him. The boy used touch as his way of seeing, and Brenn would fight for control over his demons, so his nephew might know some comfort in this cruel world. Yet, he had draped his old cloak over the young woman and carried her back to Ardun without so much as registering a single tremor along his raw nerves. And now, he was tempted to touch her again, if only to gauge whether or not he had been too driven by panic to notice the dark shadows clouding his heart.

  Carefully, he reached out and smoothed back that lovely hair of hers. It felt different from what he knew of Faelorehn hair; softer, lighter even. And his hand didn’t tremble, and his stomach didn’t turn with anxiety when his fingers brushed against her warm, copper-hued skin. Could it be that that powerful glamour of hers made it bearable to touch her?

  “What are you?” he murmured, with astounded curiosity.