Rise of the Pendragon (Islands in the Mist Book 3)

by J. M. Hofer

  Taliesin looked intrigued. “I’d like to meet him. Or her.”

  “Him.” Uthyr frowned. “You can meet him, if you like. I must warn you, though, I don’t trust him. He makes me uneasy.”

  Taliesin smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Uthyr nodded and changed the subject. “So, what did you see from up there?”

  Taliesin gazed off into the distance. “We’re on a large island. There’s a village perhaps ten miles north, at the base of a hill. Atop the hill is what must be a temple or a great hall for nobility of some kind. It’s enormous.”

  Uthyr gave a decisive nod. “Then that’s where we must go.”

  Bran noticed a large hill rising up out of the horizon and felt a rush. “That’s it?”

  Taliesin nodded. “It is.”

  The three of them set off. In contrast to the dark and somber places they had been for a week, the world around them looked lush with life. Bees and butterflies alighted on the blossoms of the meadow surrounding them, while soft breezes coaxed the clouds across the sky. Taliesin stopped to pick flowers and grasses along the way. Bloom by bloom, his bouquet grew more and more resplendent as they made their way through the meadow. As they neared the village, Bran spotted a company of men making their way toward them, spears in hand. “You see that?”

  Uthyr nodded. “They don’t look friendly.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  Before either of them had a chance to do anything, Taliesin strode toward the strangers and hailed them in what had to be their own language, for their expressions lost some of their malice.

  “I hope he knows what he’s doing,” Uthyr muttered.

  “He does,” Bran assured him but gripped his spear, just in case.

  A burly man came forth to speak on behalf of the others. Soon, he and Taliesin were deep in conversation.

  Uthyr smiled. “That young man must come to court to advise Emrys. You must see to it.”

  Bran chuckled. “See to it?” He shook his head. “Taliesin is not my subject to command. Besides, what of this Myrthin you spoke of? I thought he was counselor to Emrys.”

  Uthyr gave Bran a look that made it clear he was not a man accustomed to asking for anything. “Like I said—I don’t trust Myrthin.”

  Bran nodded. “Well, then—speak to him. He’s already offered Emrys his services. I’m certain he would be honored to serve the high commander.”

  Just then, Taliesin turned around, a victorious smile on his lips, and then returned to them. “I chose correctly—we’re in Vanaheim, homeland to Freya.” He motioned to the man he had just spoken with. “That’s Bjorn. He says we’re welcome to wait in the village. He’s agreed to go up to Freya’s temple and ask her for an audience on our behalf.”

  “Freya, the Saxon goddess?” Bran asked. “The one my daughter prays to?”

  “Yes. More importantly, the one to whom this belongs.” He held up the Brisingamen.

  Bran looked confused. “What do you mean? That’s my mother’s pendant. It’s been in our family for three generations. Why do you have it?”

  “Arhianna gave it to me. It helps one navigate between worlds.”

  “But why?” Bran found it impossible to imagine Arhianna ever willingly parting with her pendant. He had noticed she was not wearing it when she returned, but assumed it had been taken from her. He had said nothing about it, not wanting to upset her.

  “The pendant didn’t work for her, but it did for me. She insisted I take it. We’re both certain your mother used it to escape through the Ash grove outside Hraban’s village to the grove of our Lady Oak. It explains how she was able to escape and return home, as well as how it came to be in her possession.”

  Bran stared at him, stunned. “How do you know this?”

  “I don’t, for certain—but I’ve used it to travel between the groves myself, more than once.”

  Bran felt overwhelmed by what Taliesin had told him. Yet, the more he thought about it, the more he felt it was as plausible an explanation for his mother’s mysterious homecoming as any other. As fierce and brave as she may have been, she had been but a few years older than Arhianna when she was kidnapped. How did a young, pregnant, foreign slave girl manage to escape the likes of Hraban in his prime, cross the sea and find her way home? It was a question he and his sister had made up a thousand stories for, because their mother refused to ever talk about it. “Do you think we can use it to get home, then?”

  “We could, but I no longer need it to pass between realms. My plan is to make Freya our ally by returning it. As servant of Arawn, you should give it to her.” Taliesin put it in Bran’s palm. “If we are to win the war ahead and accomplish Arawn’s wish, we must make as many Saxon allies as we can. Preferably the divine sort.”

  Bran eyed the villagers. “What did you say to them?”

  “I told them the truth, and then showed them the Brisingamen to prove it. Now, we wait.”

  Uthyr put a hand on each of their shoulders. “Shall we see if this village has a tavern, then? I’m about to grab that goat over there and sink my teeth into his haunch. How many days has it been since we’ve had a proper meal?”

  “At least three,” Bran said, “and I wouldn’t mind finding out what type of ale they brew in this land.”

  Uthyr needed no further encouragement. “Let’s go.” He set off toward the cluster of buildings in the distance, leaving Bran and Taliesin to follow in his wake. He found a tavern without too much trouble, and though everyone in it eyed them curiously, they were treated hospitably enough. Bran found that gold was as acceptable in the land of the gods as it was in the mortal world. Soon, they were feasting on generous bowls of stew and large tankards of ale.

  “The gods are good,” Uthyr said with a thankful sigh as he finished off his ale and signaled for another. “All of them, it appears.” He would not have the chance to drink it, however, for, at that moment, Bjorn came through the door of the tavern.

  “Master Bjorn!” Taliesin rose to speak with him and, after a moment, motioned to the others to join them. “He says she’ll receive us. He’ll take us.”

  “Now?” Uthyr looked down at his half-eaten stew with disappointment. He glanced over at Bran, who looked equally reluctant.

  Bran tilted his head and shrugged. “At least we had enough time to drain a pint.”

  They both wolfed down a few more bites of stew, grabbed a few hunks of bread, pushed back their chairs, and followed their host outside.

  ***

  Bjorn led them up the hill, lumbering along a road that undulated easily back and forth across the mount until they reached the summit. From there, one could see rivers flowing through the land to the surrounding ocean, twinkling like melted silver through the green rolling hills and misty fields below. Bjorn glanced back at them, pointed to the great hall, and said, “Sessrúmnir.”

  Out of respect, Bran did his best to sound out the word but knew he had failed miserably in the attempt. To him, it would have to remain “Freya’s Hall.” Or temple, rather—it was much larger than it looked from the village, and far more beautiful. Its columns were formed from the trunks of massive trees, still living. Two enormous cats, with fur the golden color of a lion and large green eyes, walked out of the temple. They stood on either side of the entrance, its massive doors open to the sunshine and fresh breeze.

  “Skogkatten,” Bjorn added, pointing to the cats. The cats rose up as if knowing they had just been introduced. They walked over to Taliesin, encircled him and then rubbed the sides of their faces against his shoulders, for that was how tall the cats stood. Taliesin stroked them fearlessly. “Soft as rabbits,” he said with a smile.

  “With teeth as sharp as a badger, I’d wager,” Bran remarked to Uthyr.

  Taliesin seemed unconcerned. He led the way in, where they encountered a strange but delightful scene. Several women were dancing to music played by yet more women, but when the men entered, everything stopped and all eyes turned in their direction.
/>   “I would gladly die now, if this is where I would spend eternity,” Uthyr murmured under his breath.

  “Here you are, at last!” the woman in the center said, placing her hands on her sensual hips in a winsome display of mock impatience. “Come closer.”

  The men were happy to comply. Their hostess was shockingly beautiful, with thick blonde hair that hung wild and unbound, eyes like her cats, and a wide, full-lipped mouth. “Such handsome men you are,” she remarked. “What luck I’m having today.” She stared with wide eyes at the bouquet Taliesin was holding. “Are those for me?”

  “Yes, Lady Freya.” Taliesin went forward, kneeled down in respect, and offered her the flowers he had gathered for her.

  Freya took the bouquet in her hands and acted as if he had just presented her with a handful of precious jewels. “Ah, Folkvangr flowers. In all the nine worlds, I’m proud to say, none are more beautiful. Thank you.” She breathed in the scent of her flowers in unfeigned rapture. “Tell me, why have you come all this way? Certainly not simply to upset that dreadful Nidhoggr and the Norns.”

  Taliesin turned around and motioned to Bran. “Lady Freya, this is Lord Bran, the only son of Agarah. He’s brought you something his mother cherished for years. After her, his sister protected it. She, in turn, passed it along to his daughter—but he has recently learned this treasure belongs to you.” Taliesin turned to Bran.

  Bran held the pendant high, letting it swing from his fingers. The sun caught it, sending honey-colored beams of light shooting across the hall.

  Freya gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth. She rushed over, took the pendant, and clasped it against her breast as if it were a newborn baby. “At last.”

  Bran shot Taliesin a tentative glance that did not go unnoticed by Freya. “Your mother never mentioned me?”

  Bran shook his head. “No, my lady. I’m sorry to say she did not.”

  Freya nodded. “I’ll explain, then.”

  Now that she was standing directly in front of him, Bran found he could not tear his eyes away. Looking at her was like gazing at a perfect rose or watching waves or flames dance. Her beauty was exquisitely perfect.

  “Your mother was wise enough to pray to the gods of her captors—me, in particular, in whom she found comfort,” Freya explained. “I heard her prayers. I sensed your mother was strong in Seidhr magic—something I deeply respect—so, one night, I appeared to her. She became one of my most-devoted followers.”

  Bran remained perplexed. Why did Mother never mention Freya? Or where the pendant came from?

  “She prayed to me night after night, imploring me to help her return to her family.” Freya shook her head. “Poor woman, she despised Hraban’s bed.”

  Bran recoiled at the thought.

  “Moved by her plight, I did something none of the Aesir expected. I gave her the Brisingamen so she could return home, in exchange for her pledge to become Valkyrie and serve me after she died. She agreed.”

  Bran did his best to take each new shock in stride, but an emotional storm brewed within him that threatened to wash his feet out from under him. He felt like a lost child as he realized he had not only never known his father—he had never even truly known his mother.

  As if she had read his thoughts, Freya put a gentle hand upon his cheek. Like a cool breeze, her touch blew the storm away. “I’ve watched over all the women who have borne my treasure since then. Over your sister, Seren, whom I helped kindle the power of fire within, and your daughter, Arhianna, for whom I’ve done the same.”

  What? No. This, Bran could not accept. The Firebrand belongs to my people, bestowed by our own gods. The idea that an enemy god or goddess had anything to do with the power the women in his family had been blessed with offended him. “No.” He shook his head in refusal. “This cannot be.”

  Taliesin shot him a warning glance, but Bran could not help himself. “The blessing of the Firebrand comes from our gods—it has for generations.”

  Freya wagged a finger. “I did not say I bestowed the Firebrand. I said I kindled it. The Firebrand is the birthright of all children born in your mother’s line. It originated in the land of your mother’s ancestors. You may know it as Sarmatia. There they worshipped a fire goddess, whom they called Ma. Ma blessed your ancient mother with the brand, and her line has carried it ever since. So you see, it came neither from your gods, nor from me—it came from an ancient goddess, who reigned long, long ago, who is no longer worshipped by your people or mine.”

  Bran found this a bit easier to accept, but then had a thought that he found even more disturbing. “And what of Aelhaearn? Was his gift ‘awakened’ by you as well?”

  Freya’s smile faded. “His power was not kindled by me. Yet, you must ask yourself perhaps a harder question. One I will leave you to ponder alone.” She then turned, eyes round with interest, to Taliesin. “But you! The Brisingamen revealed itself to you. Why, I wonder?” She cradled his face gently in her hands like something precious, seeking the answer in his eyes.

  “I don’t know,” Taliesin answered truthfully, “but I feel honored.”

  “You should,” Freya whispered, before stepping away from him and holding out the pendant. One of her handmaidens quickly came and put it around her neck, fixing the clasp with care. The pendant glowed from within the moment it lay against her chest as if a firefly had come alive within it.

  “Agarah,” Freya then called out. “Come forth and behold your son. He has traveled far.”

  What? Bran’s heart pounded as the Valkyries parted, like tall sheaves of wheat being blown apart, to reveal his mother. The dullness of age and grip of sickness no longer weighed her down—she was free of them. She was the way he remembered her from when he was a young boy, her hair thick and golden again, her skin radiant. She came and embraced him. “I am always watching over you,” she said in his ear, “just as I watch over Seren, and your children.”

  Bran had always known this, somewhere within him, but to hear it spoken as fact brought him deep comfort. “Now, tell Freya the true reason you have come. She will help you if she can.”

  Bran released his mother and turned toward Freya. “There is another reason for my visit, Lady Freya.”

  Freya looked surprised. “Really? What might that be?”

  “The god I serve, Arawn, has sent me to ask what intentions the gods of the Saxons have within our lands.”

  Freya turned her palms up. “That is a question for the Allfather, I’m afraid. It is not my place to assume his will.”

  “I understand.” Bran glanced over at his mother, who gave him an encouraging look. “Lady Freya, do you think it would be possible for me to see the Allfather? Only if it would please you to arrange an audience, of course—I would be most grateful.”

  Freya sauntered over and looked at him fondly. She traced his shoulders and arms with her fingers. “Well, you have returned to me my most beloved treasure.” She looked down at the pendant around her neck. She took it between her fingers and gazed into it, allowing it to captivate her as Bran’s form had a moment before. She smiled and looked back up at him. “And you are the son of Agarah, one of my most beloved handmaidens, and Hraban, a great warrior who now resides in Valhalla.” She gave him a nod of satisfaction. “For these reasons, I will ask the Allfather to grant you an audience.”

  “Thank you,” Bran bowed his head, a surge of relief coursing through his blood.

  “Now, who is this?” Freya then asked, motioning toward Uthyr.

  “Lord Uthyr, my lady—younger brother to Emrys, High Commander of Brython.”

  Uthyr stepped forward and bowed. “Lady Freya, I am humbled by both your beauty and your hospitality. I find my weary heart restored. We began this journey in pursuit of a dragon, but had I known I was to meet a queen as resplendent as yourself, I would have demanded every one of my ships sail to the ends of the world to bring back fitting gifts to lay at your feet.”

  Bran nearly grimaced. Uthyr’s flattery was far too thick for his ta
ste. To his surprise, however, it seemed to be working. Freya looked at Uthyr with the hungry eyes of a lioness.

  “I have but this ring upon my own finger to offer you,” he said, removing it. “It is of amber and gold, like your beloved Brisingamen, and though it is but a poor and crude trinket in comparison, it would honor me if you would take it.” Uthyr knelt down and offered her the ring, which, Bran noted, was by no means a trinket.

  Freya took it slowly from him, her hand lingering upon his for a moment, and slipped it on her middle finger. She held out her hand and gazed at it in the sunlight. A smile spread across her face, igniting her beauty. “My dear Uthyr.” She looked down at him with wide eyes. “It is a thing of beauty. I am honored.”

  “The honor is mine, Goddess. If there is anything I may do for you that would bring you happiness or pleasure, please grant me the privilege of doing it.”

  Bran swallowed at Uthyr’s boldness, but Uthyr had read Freya’s signals clearly. Her stunning smile remained firmly in place. “I shall do so.”

  “As we are on the subject of gifts,” Bran then interjected, “What would please the Allfather that we might procure for him?

  “Besides sacrifices and mead, you mean?” Freya asked with disdain.

  Bran lamented that he did not have a cask of apple wine from the Isle, for he knew it might slake the Allfather’s thirst in a way it had never been slaked before—but he had nothing.

  “Dear Freya,” Bran’s mother ventured after a moment. “Might I make a suggestion?”

  “Of course,” Freya conceded.

  "The Allfather receives so many sacrifices, that, though he would appreciate such an offering, it would be…common. Why not take Taliesin to play and sing for him in Valhalla? I daresay the Allfather loves music and poetry as much as he does a fierce and noble fight—and no greater bard roams the world of men.”

  Bran smiled at his mother’s cleverness, and Taliesin took a step forward. “My lady, you have said Hraban is now honored among the Allfather’s chosen in Valhalla.“