by J. M. Hofer
Then, a swift kick sent his shield flying. Another flipped him reeling into the air. Bran felt the wind knocked out of him as he hit the ground. He swallowed hard and clutched at the grass he could feel between his fingers, unable to stop the world from spinning. He felt as if he were underwater in a river, being tumbled about by the current. He summoned all his will to fight it, but it was not enough. He had no choice but to surrender. He heard Gareth’s voice yelling and then felt his body being dragged somewhere. Then, everything went black.
***
Bran awoke in a sea of pain somewhere on a hillside, laid out on a bloody blanket. He was not the only one there, but he was, perhaps, one of the only ones there who still drew breath.
A monk tended his wounds. He smiled down at him. “Ah, you’ve awoken.”
Bran swallowed and croaked, “What happened?”
Through the monk he learned the battle had waged on through the night. By dawn, the Brythons had managed to capture Octa and a few of his chieftains, most notably his brother, Eosa, who had also enjoyed Emrys’ magnanimity. “We recognized Eosa as the man who posed as one of our own brethren and poisoned Emrys. As you can imagine, the High Commander is pleased beyond belief to have his brother’s murderer in custody. Once the Saxons realized their leaders had been captured, they fled.”
The monk finished changing the dressing on his head. “There, now, try to sit up and drink something.”
Bran gingerly pushed himself up and took the flask the monk offered. He drank with grateful chugs, feeling the burning in his throat recede. “ My thanks to you, Monk. Now, I must find my clan.” He forced himself to his feet and left the monk to attend to others who were worse off than he was.
“Father!”
He turned to see Gareth running toward him.
“Just when I leave, you wake! Have you recovered?”
“I’ll be fine. Take me to our men.” He wanted to ask Gareth what had happened on the field but felt too embarrassed to do so. I shouldn’t be fighting. I’m a danger to my own men—to my own son, even! That realization wounded him far more deeply than any of the injuries he had sustained in battle.
Gareth put an arm around him and together they walked in silence back to where the Oaks were camped. They spent the day rounding up prisoners and burning their dead.
That night, Uthyr spoke to them all. “We march tomorrow for Alt Clud. There, we’ll rest and care for our wounded and ensure every warrior drinks his fill.”
A chorus of eager cries filled the air.
Uthyr smiled. “Until then, brothers, sleep well. You’ve earned it.”
Gareth turned to his father. “We did it.”
Bran put an arm around Gareth’s shoulders and drew him close. “We have.” It had been a huge victory; that, Bran admitted, yet he could not muster up much enthusiasm.
“What’s wrong, Father? Justice will be served. We can go home now.”
Bran shook his head. “This victory would have meant nothing to me if you had been part of the payment for it.”
“But I wasn’t.” Gareth glanced over at Aelhaearn, who was seated upon a boulder, cleaning his sword.
Bran groaned.
“I know you hate him, Father, but I’d be a dead man if it hadn’t been for him.”
Bran studied his arch-rival for some time, as if staring might provide him with some proof of Aelhaearn’s nature one way or the other—but such things could not be seen upon the skin. They were either taken on faith or not at all. He let out a sigh of defeat and gave Gareth a conciliatory nod. “I’m well aware of that. Go and have your bandages changed.”
He watched Gareth walk away and found a place to sit alone awhile. When he felt ready, he swallowed hard, stood up, and approached his former kinsman. “Aelhaearn?”
Aelhaearn looked up from his work.
Bran extended his hand. “Thank you.”
Aelhaearn gripped his hand, gave him a nod, and went back to sharpening his sword.
Nothing more was ever said.
***
As promised, Uthyr led his men to Alt Clud, kingdom of his ally, Ceredig, who had sent many of his men to fight alongside Uthyr’s. There, they were welcomed as heroes and spent the next week drinking and recovering from their wounds.
Uthyr did not join in the revelry. Instead, he sat alone, pondering the situation he now faced. Ceredig’s men had been crucial to his victory over the Saxons, and he knew it. His troops had been so worn by the time they had reached the north that, without Ceredig’s men, it was quite possible they would not have prevailed. Very possible, in truth. I can’t march my men here for every damned Saxon uprising—I must rely on allies to control these lands.
He spent a few days considering all courses of action. When he felt confident of his decision, he summoned the clan chieftains to Ceredig’s hall. The sight of them filling the hall encouraged him, inspiring a deep sense of duty. These are good men. Strong, courageous men. I cannot let them down. Once the last of them arrived, he held up his hands to speak. The hall fell silent.
Uthyr thought of his brother and how many times he had watched him in situations like the one he now found himself in. He knew Emrys would have prepared a rousing speech full of inspiration and poetry, but he preferred authentic brevity. He knew he was not the eloquent statesman his brother was and did not try to be. Instead, he looked each of the chieftains in the eye, thanked them for their service, drank to their health and prosperity, and moved on to the matters at hand.
“This is a march we cannot afford to make again—one I will not continue to ask of you and your men. Instead, we must strengthen our position here by destroying every possible threat to our people and kingdoms, be they Saxon or otherwise, and show no mercy in the doing of it. I’ve decided to garrison here through the winter, but I’ll need a good number of men. With the help of Ceredig, in addition to our allies in the kingdoms of Bryneich and Rheged, I’m confident we can destroy the Saxon threats to our borders. I swear to all of you, I will not return south until this is done.”
The men of the council discussed what such work entailed late into the night, until all were bleary of eye and mind. Uthyr finally took pity on them. “That’s enough for one night. You can give me your answers tomorrow.”
***
Bran thought deeply on Uthyr’s request but knew he could not stay in the north—not with Arhianna and Taliesin’s fates unknown to him and a wife, clan, and village requiring his attention. And what kind of help am I, anyway? Look at me. Yet, he knew he could not ask his men to make a sacrifice if he was not willing to make one as well. In the past, he would have left the responsibilities of the clan in the hands of Maur or Gareth and stayed on to fight, but the last month had proven he was no longer the warrior he once was. As if to confirm it, he became acutely aware of the constant pain in his heart, now joined by his shoulders and back—pain that had become worse over the past few years. Admit it, old man. The years are winning.
He looked over at Gareth, sleeping next to him—young, unmarried, and, in spite of his near fatal encounter in this last battle, a worthy opponent on the battlefield. He was better suited to fulfill the obligation to Uthyr on behalf of their family.
He went to sleep in a bittersweet fog, feeling both old and proud.
***
The next morning, Bran informed his men of his decision. “I must return home to Mynyth Aur. I know many of you must return as well, but there are some of you who can stay.” He looked his men in the eye. “Uthyr needs the support of good men if he is to secure the north from the Saxons. I understand a man’s family must be looked after, so I don’t expect all the men here from every family to stay—but I urge you to choose at least one of you to stay behind. You have tonight to decide who will honor yours.”
After he had spoken, he took Gareth aside. “Gareth, Uthyr needs good men here.”
“I’m going to stay,” Gareth interrupted, nodding his head. “I want to stay. You must go home. I only ask you send me word
once you know about Arhianna and Taliesin.”
Bran clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m so proud of you.” He marveled again at how tall and muscular Gareth had become. In fact, though Bran was not quite ready to admit it to himself, Gareth had grown slightly taller than him. His beard was no longer the patchy soft beard of an adolescent, but coarse and full, and his hair now hung nearly to his waist. He was formidable. “Good. I’ll go tell Uthyr.”
Gareth nodded. “I’ll be at the forge.”
Bran walked off to give Uthyr the news, but he was not the only one there seeking an audience with the Pendragon. Every chieftain had come to pledge what support they were willing to offer. He sat down and waited until his turn came.
“Bran of the Oaks—what say you? Do you have men to spare for my cause?”
Bran stood and approached, until he and Uthyr stood eye to eye. “I do. I regret I will not be one of them. I cannot stay. My son, Gareth, however, will stay behind in my place with a good number of our men.”
Uthyr nodded and smiled. “He’ll be an asset to me. The boy’s a beast, now. Taller than you, I think!” He laughed a moment and then grew serious. “If Arhianna and Taliesin have not yet recovered, send word to me immediately. I will lend all my power and connections to the cause. I wish I knew of someone other than Myrthin whom I could send with you, but I fear a life of skepticism and disinterest in matters of the spirit has done me a disservice. I know of no druids or healers aside from him.”
Bran shook his head. “They’re in good hands, but thank you.”
Uthyr gripped Bran’s shoulder. “Once I’ve achieved my aims here in the north, I’ll return and make Caer Lundein my own. There, we’ll celebrate the defeat of the Saxons.” He shook his head and raised his brows, leaning in. “I’m weary of war, my friend. I need a moon’s worth of women, ale and music. Or another trip to Vanaheim.” He winked and extended his hand.
Bran smiled and gripped it. “The Oaks will be there. Taliesin and Arhianna, as well.”
Uthyr nodded toward the door. “Go, then, brother. I hope your worries are for nothing, and that when you arrive home, you’ll find Taliesin and your daughter smiling at your village gates.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Knockma
“I’ve a game to show you.” The mighty Finbheara spread out a patchwork of alternating dark and white squares on the boulder between them. He then held out his fists to Taliesin. “Choose.”
Taliesin touched Finbheara’s left hand. The king turned his fist over and opened it, revealing a figure carved from white stone. He then set sixteen figures carved from the same milky white stone on two rows of the patchwork in front of Taliesin. Then, he set sixteen figures carved from dark stone on two rows of the patchwork in front of himself. When he was finished, he flourished his hands over the display he had made. “This, Taliesin, is a game of kings and queens. One you must learn to play, and play well, if you are to prevail in the world of men. He leaned in closer and looked deep into Taliesin’s eyes. “One Myrthin knows how to play very well, as do I.” He sat back and stared at him like a wolf studies its prey, and then waived his hand impatiently. “Well? Go on, then! Make your move. White’s always first. Everyone knows that.”
Taliesin did not bother to protest. He knew well-enough that reasoning with the faefolk, least of all one of their kings, would be a waste of time. He had not the faintest idea of how to play Finbheara’s game, but chose a piece and moved it to a new square of patchwork anyway.
Finbheara narrowed his eyes on him. “Played before, eh?” He kept his eyes glued on Taliesin as he made his next move. “Tell me, Bard, when will you make the derry Rowan your wife?” Finbheara insisted on calling Arhianna ‘the derry Rowan,’ insisting it suited her far better. “Granted, you’re starting late, but if you marry her now, she still has time to bear you twenty children or so. Oonagh and I have a hundred and thirty-two, I think—I’m never quite sure. That’s not counting the grandchildren, of course.”
“A hundred and thirty-two?” Taliesin’s eyes widened.
Finbheara cocked his head and looked up at the sky a moment, counting to himself. “Well, granted, we did steal some of them, but I’d say at least a hundred are our own. It’s really not that impressive among our kind. Queen Clíodhna of Munster’s borne double that—though, who knows who’s fathered them all.”
Taliesin did not know what to say. He could not tell from Finbheara’s tone whether he considered Queen Clíodhna an ally or an enemy, so he kept his comment neutral. “Impressive, in any case, to have so many progenies.”
Finbheara waved him off. “You forget, we’re immortal. But you—“ He pointed a finger directly at Taliesin’s heart. “You are not, so I can’t for the life of me fathom what you’re waiting for. In love, or this game, for that matter. It’s a damn good thing I am immortal, at the rate you’re playing.”
Taliesin moved a piece forward, trying to grasp what it would be like to have such a massive number of progeny. “Well, modest or not, my sincere congratulations to you and your queen.”
Finbheara moved a different-shaped piece into play. “You still haven’t answered my question, Bard.”
Taliesin played a new piece, and Finbheara clucked his tongue. “You should know better than that!” He put the piece back. “Try again.”
Taliesin chose a different piece, mimicking how Finbheara had moved one of the same shape. “Well, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t marry her. She’s already married.”
“What?” Finbheara looked up from the board. His face twisted into a gruesome shape. The sky above them clouded over and the wind began to shake the branches of the trees around them. “Wretched, lying, scheming druid!” He looked up into the roiling clouds and yelled, “Curse you, Myrthin!”
Taliesin’s heart beat faster, wondering what Myrthin had promised Finbheara and clearly not delivered.
Finbheara fixed his grey eyes on him like eagle talons. “What good are the two of you to us now?” Finbheara stared at him, shaking his head. “No, no, no. This won’t do. This won’t do at all.”
Taliesin’s stomach twisted into a nest of knots. For nearly a moon, he had labored to entertain Finbheara and his queen, determined to gain either the favor or knowledge he needed to secure an escape. Night after night he had learned more about his captor’s passions and weaknesses and adjusted himself accordingly. He had been thinking his plan was working, until now.
“Well, I suppose I’ll just have to kill him.” Finbheara shrugged and made his next move, swiping one of Taliesin’s pieces off the patchwork. He paused a moment and then shook his head in distress. “Ugh. Damn that bloody druid! We’d not have made the deal if we’d known. But don’t worry—he’ll pay for his deceit.”
“Kill who? Myrthin?”
Finbheara laughed. “Myrthin? Oh, dear. No, no, no! The derry Rowan’s husband, you fool! How else will you be free to marry her? If we’re lucky, he’s already dead. No matter, either way. We’ll see to it. Then, you can raise your children here, in Knockma. They’ll learn our ways, and, when they’re grown, we’ll send them into the world of men to reclaim our lost kingdom.”
Taliesin felt stunned.
Finbheara squinted at him. “He didn’t tell you, did he?” He shook his head with raised brows. “Ah, Myrthin. Powerful, indeed, but not very honorable, I’m afraid.”
Taliesin’s mind raced, searching for something to say, but nothing came to mind.
“Well, I must say, you don’t look very happy about it. You’ve been chosen to live among the Daoine Sídhe of Knockma, where your children will become kings and queens—do you realize what an honor that is, Bard? One many mortals would give all they had for!”
Taliesin forced himself to smile. “I’m honored, your grace.”
Finbheara’s face softened. “You’re not the smartest bard, are you? It’s clear enough to me you’re in love with the derry Rowan. I’d think you’d be grateful to me for offering to kill her husband! Besides that, what of
the great Daoine Sídhe? Would you let us perish? You must understand, if we don’t do something soon, even the vast Knockma will cease to exist. It grows ever harder for us to move back and forth between the barrows and the world of men. Your children, however, will have a foot in both worlds, able to move freely between them both—they will save us from that fate.”
Before Taliesin could protest, Finbheara filled his mind with blissful visions that came to him like dreams. He found himself standing in front of Arhianna, holding her hands, in a grove surrounded by the people of Knockma. She, like Queen Oonagh, wore a living crown, formed of blue butterflies and a gown made of nothing but white rose petals. Her skin was luminous again, glowing like the moon, and a soft breeze blew strands of her hair across her face. The smell of rain and lilacs filled the air as she reached up, cupped his face in her hands, and kissed him.
In that moment, no other desire existed in his heart but a life with Arhianna in the court of Knockma.
“It’s your move, Bard,” Finbheara whispered, wrenching him from his vision.
***
Life among the Daoine Sídhe was certainly not unpleasant. They lived the kind of lifestyle Taliesin naturally preferred. Mornings were spent foraging for nuts and berries, afternoons swimming or bathing in lakes and rivers, and nights playing games or music and singing songs. All the while, there was a constant communion with birds and animals, which gave him deep joy and satisfaction. He felt quite at home. When he had asked if there was any way he and Arhianna could win their freedom back, Queen Oonagh had wrinkled her brow and made a face. “Freedom to do what, exactly?”
“Return home.”
She frowned. “Don’t try our patience. You’ve managed to earn yourselves some respect here, and that doesn’t come easily, I assure you. Besides, why would you want to go back to that wretched place? It’s full of cruelty, hunger, war—and your people never seem to learn anything. Your sons and daughters make the same mistakes their mothers and fathers did, and then their children make them again. You’re a bunch of fools, committing the same follies and atrocities generation after generation. It’s a wonder the gods put up with you at all.”
