by J. M. Hofer
Taliesin looked over at Arhianna, trying to give her a reassuring look, but things did not look promising.
Oonagh, perhaps seeing the look upon his face, softened her tone. “That was a bit harsh, perhaps, but you’re not like them, Taliesin. Neither is our derry Rowan, here. The two of you were born for a better life. You must realize that. It’s your destiny to live here among the Sídhe—your privilege.”
He felt Arhianna touch his arm. “Perhaps she’s right. They’ve surely given us up for dead at home. And where else will you find musicians as talented as yourself to play with? Come and play for me. I want to dance.”
Taliesin looked over at her, suspicious of her change in tone. She appeared to have just awoken from a long nap. Her eyes rested in the curves of her face like two placid blue lakes. Such a look was normal for some women, but not for her. No. Arhianna’s eyes had always danced with fire. He put his arm around her. “May we, your grace?”
“Of course.” Oonagh smiled in a way that sent chills down his spine. He led Arhianna away, alarm surging in his gut. Once they were away from Oonagh’s sharp eyes, he reached into his crane bag and pulled out the silver apple Nimue had given him. He held it out to Arhianna.
“I have a gift for you.”
Arhianna reached out slowly, her eyes widening. “Oh, it’s so beautiful!” She took it the apple, turning it over and over in her hands, marveling at the way the light played upon its skin. “Gods, it smells so good!” She held it up to her nose, breathing in deeply. Her face melted into ecstasy as she let out a long, delirious sigh. “Oh, Taliesin! Where did you get it? I’ve never smelled anything like it…” Just as she was about to take a bite, Taliesin cried out. “Wait!”
His throat seized up as the thought of losing her gripped him with panic. What if I never see her again? What am I doing?
She looked up, surprised. “What?”
He looked into her wide blue eyes as they stared up at him, put his fingers deep into her wild thick curls and kissed her—not as a childhood companion, not as a brother, not as a friend—but as a lover. He felt her heart quicken, as if a thunderstorm were gathering within her chest. She pressed her body into his, wrapping her arms around him and grasping at his arms and shoulders. Her skin became so hot, he wondered if she might burn him.
“Come,” Arhianna whispered, breathless. She took his hand and led him into the trees where he had slept every night since they had arrived in Knockma. She sat down on the ground and pulled him down to join her. “Lay down.” She undressed him and traced the lines of his body with her hot fingers, kissing the places she touched or exploring them with her burning tongue. He felt as if there were a river flowing through him, growing swollen with rain. When it overran its banks, he freed her from her dress and pulled her into its current.
***
Oonagh watched as Taliesin made love to Arhianna, until their passion made her hungry for her husband’s touch. Smiling with satisfaction, she went to find him.
At last, it’s done.
***
Arhianna woke to the sound of birdsong and the faint light of dawn on her eyelids. She opened her eyes. Taliesin lay in the grass next to her, resting on his elbow, watching her. A few leaves and twigs hung in his tangled hair. She imagined her own curls must be full of them. She blinked the last bits of sleep from her eyes. “How long have you been awake?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t sleep.” He reached over and caressed her face, his eyes locked on hers.
She propped herself up on her elbows. “You’re not smiling. What’s wrong?”
“You need to leave. Now. Before they learn what’s happened.”
A wave of chills rushed over her, and her throat tightened. “What do you mean, I need to leave? What about you? Besides, we’ve tried to leave! You play chess with Finbheara every night trying to win our freedom, and it never works.”
He shook his head. “And it never will.” He sat up and held out the silver apple. “This is how. But it will only work for one of us. Sit up, and listen to me.”
Arhianna obeyed. He put the apple in her hands. “When I tell you to, you must eat this. When you do, you’ll find yourself in the grove of Affalon. Seek out a woman named Nimue, and tell her I sent you. You must tell her where I am and ask her to help me escape. She’s our only hope.”
The wind picked up, causing the leaves to rustle, and the birds took to the sky. He leaned in and kissed her. “Now, Arhianna. Eat it now. Don’t forget what I’ve told you.”
“But, I—“
He glared at her, his eyes flashing. “Now!”
She took a bite and chewed it. The juice from the apple rushed into her mouth, seeming to flood into her veins. The divine smell she had experienced before rose up all around her, filling her with a rush of ecstasy. Then, like shards of sharp stone, screams of rage pierced the thick fog of pleasure that enveloped her. “I love you,” was the last thing she heard before everything spun away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Forging of Gareth
Uthyr put a hand on Gareth’s shoulder, gesturing toward the forge. “The Saxons will not be subdued with words or fists. We need good steel, and you’re the best blacksmith we have. Make me as many swords, spearheads and arrowheads as you can. I’m putting you in charge of all the ironworks for my army.”
Gareth’s chest swelled with excitement and pride, as if everything he had done in life had been to prepare him for that moment. “You’ll have it, Pendragon. Send me all the blacksmiths you have. We’ll start today.”
Gareth went to the forge. He hung his statue of Gofannon over the door and fired up the hearth. Within a few hours, men began arriving with their tools and anvils. Soon, the forge was full, but smiths kept coming. Over the course of the afternoon, nearly seventy men turned up, ready to work. Gareth felt shocked. He had no idea there would be so many. He put them to work chopping wood and fetching water instead. When night fell, he returned to Uthyr. “We need to expand the forge. Triple its size. Then, I’ll put the men to work in shifts.
Uthyr was quick to agree. “You design it and bring me the plans. I’ll send men to build it.” True to his word, he sent nearly an army of men to help expand the forge to Gareth’s specifications, understanding that, without forges, smiths could not make steel, and, without steel, he could not arm his men. Within a few weeks, every smith in Uthyr’s garrison was hammering out hundreds of weapons thirsting for Saxon blood.
Though he had Uthyr’s support, many of the smiths were reluctant to take orders from a man half their age. Gareth remained resolute. He was used to that. The only remedy was to prove his skills. He knew from experience nothing else would win him their respect. Day after day, he worked harder and longer than any of them, refusing to quit before anyone else. Like the metal he worked, the hours he spent at the forge honed and strengthened his skills, which had already been exceptional.
Among the most noticeable men who came and worked at the forge was Aelhaearn. Gareth knew his father hated him, but he found he could not. Aelhaearn was certainly the most-skilled smith among them, aside from himself. When he was not training with Uthyr’s men, he came to the forge and worked in silence. Sometimes, Gareth watched him work. He had even learned a few tricks from him. He respected him, in spite of his past. Besides, he treated his aunt well. As far as Gareth could tell, she seemed happy.
One day, after a few moons, Uthyr came to him at the forge. “There are hinges in the dungeon where we keep the war prisoners that need mending. Can’t take any chances of that sort.”
“Of course. I’ll see to it.” Gareth’s work regularly led him in and out of the dungeons where Octa’s men were being held. He thought of them as nothing more than sheep in pens, destined for the slaughterhouse, until, one night, one of the sheep spoke to him.
“Gareth of the Oaks?” a voice whispered from one of the sad cells.
Startled, Gareth drew closer to investigate, for the voice had sounded familiar to him. He peered into
the cell, only able to make out the silhouette of the man who had spoken to him.
“It is Jørren, your sister’s husband, who speaks.”
Jørren? Gareth felt a wave of shock rush through his veins. He looked around to see if there were anyone else within earshot, but saw no one. He moved closer and held his torch aloft, peering into the cell.
The figure moved into the light. Gareth scarcely recognized him. He had wasted away to half the man Gareth remembered.
“I will not ask for your help. I know you would be put to death for it. I ask only that you to deliver a message to your sister from me.”
Gareth nodded, swallowing down a lump in his throat. “Yes, of course.”
“Tell her I did not go to Ambrius with Hengist. I refused him. I did this, for her.” Jørren’s face twisted with either anger or sorrow. Gareth did not know him well enough to know which. “—And when I returned home, she was gone.” The blood drained back out of his hollow cheeks. “Were you hiding her from me when I came for her? Please, tell me the truth. I must know before I die.”
Gareth shook his head. “I swear to you. She wasn’t with us when you came for her. She did return home, but it was moons later.”
“Did she ask about me?”
“She did.”
“What did you tell her?”
Gareth felt the tragedy of the situation pressing down on him. “What you told me to tell her. She would have known if I had lied.” He cringed as he recalled Jørren’s message: ’Tell her she’s dead to me.’ “But she knew you didn’t mean it. She always thought you might come back for her.”
Now, it was clearly sorrow Gareth saw in Jørren’s eyes.
“I should have. And now, it is too late.” He let go of the bars he had been gripping. “Tell her I love her. I should have returned for her.”
“I will,” Gareth managed to say.
“I have one last request to ask of you.”
“What is it?”
“Find my mother and do what you can for her. I don’t know where she is. I fear she may be dead. Or worse.”
Gareth nodded. “Yes, of course.” He had no idea how he would manage to find her but vowed to find a way. Jørren and Ragna had treated him like family.
“Thank you.” Jørren shuffled back into the foul darkness.
Gareth left the dungeon feeling as though he might vomit.
***
Gareth could not sleep that night. The dilemma he faced had twisted its talons deep inside of him, haunting him with images of Jørren starving and shivering in the dank hole he had found him in. After a few hours of tossing and turning, he gave up and went to the forge. If I can’t sleep, I may as well work.
He did not want to wake anyone with the sound of hammering so lit a lantern and chopped wood instead.
Arhianna will never forgive me if I let him die in there. He remembered the kindness Jørren and his mother had extended to them when none of the others would. In the name of the gods, he’s still her husband—how can I let him rot? He split another log and stacked the pieces.
He considered his options.
I could simply go to Uthyr and ask him to release Jørren. His first instinct was always to be honest and direct in difficult matters, and, for the most part, this approach had served him well. In this case, however, it did not seem wise. It was not feasible Uthyr would tolerate one of his most-trusted chieftain’s daughters being married to a Saxon, and, even on the slight chance that he personally might be able to overlook it, his position as Pendragon would not allow it. He could not release Saxon prisoners without losing face or trust among his men.
I could do nothing. Perhaps this is Jørren’s destiny. This was the easiest option. If he truly believed in destiny, it might have worked, but he agreed with his father on this count. We make our own destiny, through our thoughts and actions. His father’s advice rose up in his mind: Just do what your gut and heart tell you to do. That’s all you need to know. Neither Gareth’s heart nor his gut were telling him to do nothing.
I could help him escape. He split ten logs considering this option. Uthyr knew some of the hinges in the dungeon were weak. He had told Gareth that himself. Perhaps all I need to do is loosen the hinges on his cell. It would look as if I were fixing them, which is what I’d be doing to all the others. Jørren’s the only prisoner in that cell. One prisoner. Only one. Would anyone even notice?
Perhaps not. But I would know. I would know I had betrayed the Pendragon. How could I live with that?
Father, I wish you were here. You’d know what to do.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The Willow’s Gift
Nimue felt the arrival of a soul in the apple grove and her heart jumped. Taliesin. She dropped the wood she was carrying and ran like a deer through the forest to the other side of the island. She soon found her visitor, but it took only a moment to realize it was not Taliesin. It was a young woman.
How did she get here? Nimue watched her from the trees, silently moving closer. She noticed an apple in the girl’s hand with a bite out of it. From the color of its peel, she knew it had been plucked from the Mother Tree of the grove—and only one person could pluck fruit from that tree—herself. Nimue felt a wave of anger rise in her chest. She stole the apple I gave him. Nimue felt as if she had been poisoned. She went to confront her, preparing to banish her from the island.
The girl heard her approach and whipped around to face her. “Lady Nimue? Are you Lady Nimue?”
Nimue stopped, surprised the girl knew her name.
“Taliesin sent me. He needs your help.”
Nimue’s heart jumped at the mention of her true love’s name. In that instant, all the suspicion and anger she had felt disappeared. “Yes, I’m Nimue. What’s happened?”
“A druid cursed us in Eire—gave us to the Daoine Sídhe of Knockma in exchange for some powerful blue stones. Taliesin is trapped there but he gave me your apple so I could escape and find you.”
Nimue felt irritated. She had given the apple to Taliesin. She had not intended it to be tasted by anyone else. It’s too late, now, though. What’s done is done. “He must care for you very much, then.”
The girl threw out a quick explanation. “We grew up together.”
The way she blushed revealed more than her few words on the subject, but Nimue did not press further. She considered the situation. The Daoine Sídhe of Knockma were nearly as powerful as herself. If she were to succeed in freeing Taliesin, she needed to know their motives. “Tell me more about these stones.”
“They’re very powerful. They hum with color and sound. Taliesin found them. He meant to bring them back to Ambrius to honor Emrys.” The girl shrugged. “I don’t know for certain. At first, I thought they meant to make slaves of us but they treated us as guests.” She paused, thinking. “They did insist on Taliesin entertaining every night. Perhaps that’s what they wanted.”
Nimue felt the girl was hiding something. There was indeed something different about her. Something special. She would find out what it was in time. “It doesn’t matter. They wanted him and they wanted you, for whatever reason, and the Daoine Sídhe don’t take kindly to losing what’s theirs.”
Sparks flew within the girl’s blue eyes, disturbing their cool placid color. “But we’re not livestock! Myrthin had no right to give us to them as if we were horses or cattle!”
Myrthin! It became very clear to Nimue there was far more to this situation than she had first thought. She did her best to hide her surprise. “Well, until I know exactly why the Daoine Sídhe were willing to trade the most powerful stones in Eire for the two of you, I cannot hope to help Taliesin escape. The only way to free him will be to offer them something of equal value.” Nimue locked eyes with the girl. “Are you absolutely certain you have no idea what they wanted with the two of you?” She watched the girl’s expression change and knew she was considering whether or not to reveal something.
“Well, I’m not certain they know this about me, but,
if they do, it might be a reason.” She held her hands apart as if she were holding something round between them and flames leapt from her palms into the empty space. They spun like an eddy in a brook, round and round, coiling ever tighter until they shone like a small star.
Nimue smiled, genuinely delighted by the display. “Beautiful! Did this Myrthin know about your gift, Firebrand?”
The girl sighed and let her hands drop. The flames disappeared. “I don’t know. I suppose he could have.” She went over to a flat boulder and sat down. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what we can offer them. Gods, I hate that druid! If I ever see him again, I’ll—“
“Careful,” Nimue cautioned, glancing about. “The gods listen to oaths, here. Take care you don’t utter one you don’t intend to carry out.”
“Honestly, I think I could, but I’ll take your advice.”
Nimue plucked an apple off the bough over her head and gave it to her. “Here. Eat this. You’ll feel better.”
Arhianna took the fruit and bit into it. The color returned to her cheeks.
“There, now.” Nimue sat down across from her on a fallen log. “What’s your name, child?”
“Arhianna of Mynyth Aur. Bran of the Oaks is my father.”
Nimue felt pleased. She had heard good things about Bran of the Oaks from Taliesin. “I’ve heard of your father.”
