Faeborne: A Novel of the Otherworld

by Johnson, Jenna Elizabeth

  Ack! No, Seren. Nothing but heartache lies waiting along that path.

  Instead, she curled the fingers of one hand into a fist and clenched her teeth.

  When Rori and his uncle finally stepped up to the final boundary marker, the one standing at the crux of the path and the main road, Seren almost breathed a sigh of relief. A quick glance at the unshakable trio of Cumorrig who had lingered to witness this final incantation discouraged her from making any sudden sounds or movements. Would they leave after the last mark was set? Would they wait to attack as soon as the morning sun breached the horizon? A small flock of faelah also loitered, like crows gathering around a wolf pack’s fresh kill, pacing just beyond the boundary, waiting to lurch forward and tear away a scrap of flesh. The thought made her shiver.

  Seren turned away just in time to witness Rori complete his blood rune and to hear Brenn say in a reserved voice, “It is done. We are safe for another year.”

  Seren was certain he had been speaking to Rori, but his attention was on her. Despite the darkness of his hood, Brenn’s silver eyes shone bright, like two stars dominating a moonless night. She didn’t look away from him this time, but set her jaw and tilted her head a little. Yes, it was done, and most of her anger and disappointment had worn off. But, she could not view Brennon Roarke the same way as before. She would accept his kindness and hospitality because, the gods help her, she needed it. In return, she would offer what help she could to him and his nephew, because they deserved it. However, she would be careful to keep her heart on a shorter leash, because the anger and horror she had felt towards this enigmatic and troubled man had vanished. And that fact alone, above everything else, concerned her the most.

  Chapter Twelve

  Respite

  The following morning, Brennon woke earlier than the rest of the house. Truth be told, he couldn’t remember sleeping at all. Or, if he had, it hadn’t been long enough to allow the nightmares to take hold. That was a small blessing, at least. Tossing aside the quilt on his bed, he rose from the mattress and crossed the worn wooden floor to peer out the window. The eastern horizon was no longer the inky blue of early morning, but he didn’t think the sun had risen quite yet. He allowed himself to linger for a while, studying the rime-frosted landscape spreading out below him, not wanting to venture downstairs or wake Seren or Rori. Both of them had had a hard night. Rori, for obvious reasons, and Seren ... Well, he could only imagine what she thought of them, of him, now.

  There’s nothing for it, Brenn, he reminded himself. It had to be done.

  Perhaps getting outside and breathing in the numbing, cold air would take his mind off things. And keep the demons at bay. They may have left him in peace the night before, but he knew they crouched in the dark corners of his mind, waiting to pounce the moment he let his guard down. He could not falter, especially not now when he had another innocent soul under his care.

  Instantly, Seren’s lovely face came to mind. The young woman who might have grown to trust him if not for playing witness to the awful ritual last night. Brenn’s fist and jaw tightened involuntarily as the memories flooded back to him: Rori’s skin going white as he awaited the blade that would cut his skin, Seren’s large brown eyes filling with horror as she realized what he was doing, the stench of the Cumorrig permeating the air as they walked the perimeter under the silver moonlight, the heavy, dizzying press of faeduhn magic upon his mind.

  Digging his fingernails into the wood of the window sill overlooking the road, Brenn breathed deeply through his nose and let it out slowly. Just thinking about the awful night made his stomach churn and brought a sour taste to the back of his throat. Turning from the window, he quickly sought out his clothes and got dressed.

  Once downstairs, Brenn grabbed his thick, warm cloak from the hook in the corner and sat on the edge of the hearth. While pulling on his boots, his thoughts wandered back to Seren. What had he been thinking, bringing the young woman along with them? She could have stayed behind in the house, gone to bed early and not known about the ritual at all. Yet, something inside of him, some unknown force he had no power over, had insisted she come along and witness what he was forced to do to his nephew every year. He had thought once the night was over, the cold, uncomfortable feeling would leave him, the way guilt melted away after the confession of one’s transgressions. But the feeling had not gone away. In fact, it had grown worse.

  Brennon finished with his boots and sat up, his hands pressed against his thighs. Was he trying to drive the girl away? Was that what this was all about? Did some little part of him know she would have to leave eventually, and therefore, his subconscious was trying to save him the heartache? Had he hoped her witnessing this one terrible truth about him would be enough to convince her to leave? So she might not become yet another casualty of the Morrigan’s curse simply for knowing him?

  Pressing his lips together, Brenn donned his cloak and stepped out the back door, pulling it gently shut behind him after the pack of wolfhounds escaped to go about their daily routine. Outside it was freezing, his breath misting the air in white puffs. Brenn pulled the woolen cloak more tightly about himself as he picked his way down the hillside. The barn was warm and smelled of animal sweat and sweet hay. Turning left, he headed to the area where the horses bedded down. Dermot, the big bay Shire horse, poked a sleepy head over the fencing and whickered softly at Brenn.

  “Good morning, boy,” Brenn said in a soft voice, running his hand over the white blaze on Dermot’s forehead. “Want to make a trip into Dundoire Hollow with me?”

  The horse lipped at the edge of Brenn’s cloak and stamped one massive hoof, but made no protest. Working slowly, Brennon saddled the horse and fitted him with a bit and bridle.

  As the first golden beams of sunlight filtered through the spindly branches of Dorcha Forest, Brenn led the horse from the barn and toward the main road. As they passed between the two standing stones, he flicked his eyes to the runes he’d painted there the night before. The glamour from his and Rori’s blood, and the oath that bound them together, was fading away as the sun rose; the magic soaking into the stone to strengthen the boundary ward.

  “One more year,” he murmured, kicking Dermot into a slow canter as he turned him toward the northeast. “Rori is safe for one more year.”

  The road leading to town was abandoned, just as Brennon expected. The rolling fields and moor lands stretching on forever to his right were dusted with the same frost he’d seen from his bedroom window. The forest, its edge creeping up against the northern bank of the wide creek, looked grey and grizzled like the beard of an aging Lorehnin man. The icy air stung Brenn’s face, but he welcomed the cold. If it couldn’t numb his emotions, at least it could numb his skin.

  Once he reached Dundoire Hollow, Brennon made for the Black Boar. There was a high likelihood he would run into Baird there, but he didn’t care at this point. After the night he’d had, he was sporting for a good fight. An outlet to expunge most of his pent up aggression. Brenn didn’t drink often, but once a year, on Samhain morning, he left Rori at home and went into town to enjoy a pint or two.

  Like the road, Dundoire Hollow was practically empty at this early hour, not too surprising considering most of the people had probably been up late celebrating the feast day of the goddess of war and strife the night before. Brenn dismounted Dermot and left him in the inn’s small stable, then headed back around to the front of the building. The day was chilly, and a wind had picked up just before sunrise. It set the wooden sign of the Black Boar creaking on its hinges and tore the remaining brown, shriveled leaves from the thin branches of the nearby trees. The sound set the hairs on the back of Brennon’s neck on end, and he tried not to imagine what sort of unnatural monsters might be roaming the countryside later in the evening. He’d had a marvelous preview while walking the perimeter with Rori and Seren.

  Brennon shook the dismal thoughts from his head, stepping around the roots of the ancient oak that sprawled its massive branches over the nor
th-facing wall of the inn. He liked that the Black Boar was just far enough away from the main center of town to cater mostly to those visiting or passing through. Of course, considering its tavern brewed the best ale in this part of Eile, it meant the establishment sometimes attracted those Brenn would rather avoid. If he was lucky, which he didn’t consider himself in the least, Baird would be home sleeping off a hangover. A month had passed since his last encounter with the unpleasant man, and he had not seen nor heard from him since. Brenn liked to think his threat would keep Baird Corcorain at bay for good, but he knew it was only a matter of time before the worthless rat invented up new ways to make his life miserable.

  Running his fingers through his dark hair, Brennon inhaled deeply. He took note of the wood smoke and distant snow spicing the air before pulling open the door of the inn. The warmth of a fire and the welcome aroma of frying eggs and crisping bacon assaulted his senses. To his delight, the dozen or so tables inside were completely empty, and the tavern was deserted. Perhaps he would have some peace, after all. For a few glorious seconds, Brenn merely stood on the threshold, eyes closed, as his skin thawed and his stomach rumbled. Not for the first time did he regret his inability to bring Rori into town, if only for the sole purpose of sampling the Black Boar’s food.

  “I was wondering when I’d be seeing you again, Brennon Roarke. Though I must admit, I didn’t expect to see you so early in the day.”

  Brenn smiled and opened his eyes to find a tall, thickly built woman regarding him from across the room. Despite the natural darkness of the tavern and what little light the fire was casting from its hearth, he had no trouble making out the features of the flame-haired innkeeper who had greeted him with such familiarity.

  Creidne O’Seanain, and her husband, Artur, owned the Black Boar Inn and were both excellent cooks in their own right. With her natural strength and height, Creidne would have made a fine warrior, if she’d ever been interested in picking up a sword or bow. But the inn was her life, and she would much rather make peace with people than war with them.

  “I hardly slept at all last night, Creidne,” Brenn admitted, removing his damp cloak and hanging it on one of the hooks by the door. “I left as soon as I thought you might be willing to receive guests.”

  The large woman snorted and rolled her eyes. “You know we’ll let anyone in at any time of the day,” she retorted, swiping a stained rag from a nearby chair and using it to wipe down the table closest to the fireplace. “Would you like breakfast this fine Samhain morning as well as your usual ale?”

  Brennon smiled again, his changeable grey eyes flashing closer to silver and then pale blue. Creidne and Artur had been the Roarkes’ closest friends before Brenn was taken, and although time and sorrow and so many other circumstances had made both of them a little more brittle, Creidne still treated him as she always had: like one of her own children. Although twice his age, the woman didn’t look much older than Brenn himself and she probably never would.

  Once Brennon was seated, Creidne headed back into the kitchen only to emerge a few minutes later with a basket of freshly baked rolls and a clay bowl filled with yellow lumps of butter. Despite their familiarity with one another, she was careful not to touch Brenn. No one was ever comfortable touching him, even to offer a handshake or to rest a hand on his shoulder in simple greeting. He couldn’t blame them. They all knew about his curse and what he had been through, and they knew that three years free of the Morrigan’s tyranny still wasn’t enough time to have healed completely. If such a thing were even possible. Instead, they kept their distance, smiling and treating him like a stranger just passing through their parts.

  “Ah! There he is!” a roaring voice proclaimed from the kitchen door.

  Artur, twice as big as his wife and a good five inches taller and eighty pounds heavier than Brenn himself, was a huge bear of a man with wild black hair and a beard to match. The only thing that didn’t seem fierce about him was his eyes. Pale hazel brown and as gentle as a doe’s. The sudden thought of a deer reminded him of Seren, her own large golden-brown eyes and pretty face taking up any spare space in his mind. Brennon curled his fingers into a fist and clenched his teeth. He couldn’t afford to think of her in that way, but his wayward emotions continued to struggle free of his tenuous grasp on them.

  Fortunately, Brenn was soon distracted by Artur’s overwhelming presence. The big man was surprisingly light on his feet, considering his size. He wore the typical homespun trousers found on the Faelorehn men of Dundoire Hollow, complete with a white linen shirt beneath a leather vest. An apron, big enough to cover Rori’s bed back at Ardun, covered most of his chest and legs. The apron was surprisingly clean, except for a few stains where Artur had wiped his hands. He pulled out the chair opposite Brenn and sat down, the wood creaking beneath his weight.

  “I’ve been curious to learn what happened to you after that encounter with Baird the last time you were here.” Artur clucked his tongue and shook his head, the dark curls of his beard and hair bouncing with the movement. “I feared that little weasel might try to start something, but I think whatever you said to him changed his mind.”

  Brenn tensed at the mention of his encounter with Baird, but he wasn’t surprised Artur brought it up. The residents of Dundoire Hollow, having nothing much else to do by way of entertainment, thrived on gossip and any bit of conflict that brewed up between its residents.

  Before Brenn could come up with a response to Artur’s statement, Creidne returned, setting a tankard of ale onto the table with a loud thlunk. In her other hand she held a teapot, which joined the ale on the opposite side of the table.

  “I’ll just fetch us some mugs. Don’t say a word until I return.”

  Artur gave Brennon a knowing glance, one bushy black eyebrow arching dramatically. It was hard to tell if the big man was smiling beneath all that hair, but the brightness of his eyes told Brenn he probably was. Creidne was back moments later not only toting the promised tea mugs, but a jug of milk and a pot of honey as well.

  “Now,” she chirped, pulling up an extra chair, “tell us what it was you said to that little pile of horse dung the last time you were in town.”

  Brenn leaned over his tankard of ale, studying the dark liquid as if waiting for it to begin churning and spouting the answers to all his troubles. The last thing he wanted to do was speak of Baird Corcorain. He also knew that since Baird’s family owned half the town, Creidne and Artur were forced to cater to the vile man, no matter how much they loathed his presence. Brennon was certain they harbored some guilt about this on his part, and the only way they could feel better about it was to prove to him how much they loathed the man by finding joy in his suffering. Brennon wanted to tell them it didn’t matter. They needn’t continue to display their dislike of Baird simply for his sake.

  Creidne and Artur waited patiently, the steam from their teacups rising into the air and obscuring their faces slightly. Knowing it was best just to get it over with, Brennon shrugged and took a long drink of his ale, savoring the taste on his tongue and anticipating the way the alcohol would eventually numb his mind long enough for him to get through the day. He tilted his head back and pretended to study the dark beams running along the ceiling and upper walls of the inn. Eventually, Brenn returned his attention to his two hosts.

  “I informed Baird I had grown weary of his bullying, and that I would no longer stand for it.”

  Creidne stared at him, her pale green eyes flashing to gold. Her husband lifted his mug, taking a sip as he considered what Brenn had said.

  “Do you think he’ll listen this time?”

  Brennon shrugged and glanced at Creidne. “I doubt it. But at least he knows I’m not intimidated by him.”

  Brenn almost laughed. He had never been afraid of Baird, not really. Perhaps when they were both younger, when the other boy’s cruelty had begun to show itself. But he wasn’t such a soft-hearted youth any longer, and he knew there were far more terrifying and deadly things to fear th
an the local town bully. Some of those things, he reminded himself, existed in one’s very own mind.

  Shuddering at that thought and hoping not to give the demons any more leeway, Brenn lifted his cup once again, only to realize it was nearly empty.

  “Let me refill that for you,” Creidne offered, standing up and holding out a hand.

  Brenn handed the tankard over without hesitation, his consideration still lingering on the accounts of the night before. His right hand twitched to rub at the aching cut running down his left arm. He resisted the urge, wrapping his fingers around the edge of the table instead so as not to draw Artur’s and Creidne’s attention to the bandage barely hidden beneath his sleeve.

  “I’m pleased to say,” Artur commented, “that we’ve not seen hide nor hair of Baird since you threatened him with his own knife. There are other ale houses in town, on the far end. Maybe he has finally changed his patronage and now pesters them with his depraved presence.”

  The big man spoke with an air of hope, and Brennon wondered if he could be right. Although the ale served at the Moor’s End Tavern resembled horse urine and the drivel served at Aghna’s was even worse, Brenn guessed Baird Corcorain would rather imbibe himself with inferior liquor than risk running into his nemesis again. As appealing as that sounded, he couldn’t be sure it was the case. But for now, he would enjoy the absence of the other Faelorehn man as he attempted to appease the dark evil infecting him.

  Before Creidne could return with Brennon’s second flagon of ale, the door to the tavern swung open, letting in a gust of cold, damp air and two men draped in cloaks. Artur turned in his chair to regard them and then swung one arm wide.

  “Welcome, gentlemen! Do you seek lodging or have you dropped in for a warm meal?”

  He stood and headed toward them, the ever-attentive host. It turned out, they simply wished for a cup of tea and some hot bread while they warmed their fingers for a spell. Creidne returned with Brenn’s drink just as a few of the guests from upstairs started making their way down for breakfast. Suddenly, there was no time for the tavern owners to talk with Brenn, which was fine by him. As much as he enjoyed the company of his parents’ old friends, he had grown used to being away from people. Too much conversation often proved tiring, especially when all he wished to do that day was drink his ale and try to forget.