Misfortune of Song: Druid's Brooch Series: #5

by Christy Nicholas

  Orlagh touched the small, grubby leather pouch and was jolted. For a moment, she was convinced something further had happened to her baby, but the jolt tingled her arm, not her belly. Hesitant, she touched it again, and a smaller charge pulsed through her hand.

  Gingerly, she picked up the pouch. It hummed and thrummed through her bones. She opened the thong drawstring to reveal white silk inside.

  “Orlagh! Don’t touch that!”

  Guiltily, she dropped the pouch and turned to find her grandfather glaring at her from the tent door. “That’s not yours, Orlagh. I’ll thank you to keep your hands off my personal belongings.”

  “Then don’t leave them in the tent where you’ve imprisoned me!”

  He sighed. “Orlagh, come out and have some food, aye? You barely touched your porridge, and I don’t want your babe to suffer for your stubbornness. Hate me all you want, but do care for your child.”

  She hated to admit he had a point, but she followed him out to the firepit. Eógan scooted over on the log so she wouldn’t have to sit next to her grandfather, and she flashed him a grateful smile. He handed her a bowl of rabbit stew. It smelled delicious, and her stomach growled.

  “You made this, Eógan?”

  He nodded, grinning. “Cooking’s what Utromma says I do best. Well, one of the things.”

  Orlagh rolled her eyes. “Even so, I don’t know what she sees in you. I do admit, you’ve been with her longer than anyone else in the past. Can you have fallen for one woman at long last?”

  Eógan glanced at her grandfather, but he was paying more attention to his stew. He gave Orlagh a conspiratorial wink and whispered. “It seems so. We were handfasted at Lughnasa.”

  “What? You? You actually committed to someone?”

  “Shush! Not so loud. Your grandfather would never let me hear the end of it. But yes, Utromma and I are bound, at least for a cycle of seasons and a day.” His smile showed he wasn’t in the least upset by this bond. Orlagh had to grin back.

  “That’s wonderful news, Eógan!”

  Just then, Utromma returned with the village healer, who took Orlagh into her grandfather’s tent for an intense examination. Unpacking several odd-shaped instruments and wicked looking tools, she asked questions about the fall, her health in general, and her pregnancy.

  “First time with child, then?”

  Orlagh nodded, rubbing her belly. She hoped she was done with the poking and prodding for a while. The healer had been more intrusive even than Utromma. She’d put her fingers inside Orlagh, pushing down on her belly with one of the tools at the same time. It was odd and incredibly uncomfortable.

  The healer glanced at Orlagh’s small pile of medicinal supplies and frowned. “Willowbark? Are you drinking a lot of willowbark tea?”

  Orlagh nodded. It was the most common painkiller.

  “No more of that, now. It can make you bleed more than you need, especially this close to birth. I’ll leave some valerian root for you. Much safer.”

  A sudden fear gripped Orlagh. Bleeding was a serious concern for any pregnancy. However, in the end, the healer pronounced her healthy enough.

  “For a first-timer, you’re doing fine. You should be ready to give birth in less than a moon. Send for me when you’re ready, and I’ll be happy to help you through.”

  Orlagh put a hand on the healer’s arm before she left. “Will you help me?”

  “Help you? I said I would when your babe is ready.”

  “No, not with that. I am being held here against my will. My grandfather’s taken me from my husband and refuses to let me return.”

  She pursed her lips and turned to the tent door. “It’s not my place to interfere, my dear girl. Still, if your grandfather has taken you, I’m certain he has good reason.”

  She packed up her tools and exited, leaving Orlagh to reorganize her léine. Orlagh sighed. She’d get no help from that woman.

  Her hip still ached, but the bruises showed why. Her mind was at least at ease about any damage to her child. When she walked out to the main cavern, her grandfather was alone.

  She ignored him as she set up the pot. She wanted some willow bark tea for her hip, and would just have to tolerate him while the water boiled. They sat in pointed silence until the water bubbled. She poured the mixture into her mug and let the herbs steep for several minutes.

  Just as she took a cautious sip, her grandfather spoke. “I’m sorry, Orlagh. I really am. I hadn’t meant to hurt you.”

  “I’m fine. Just a few bruises.”

  “I didn’t mean your physical injuries. I meant taking you from that man.”

  She glared at him. “You mean, my lawfully wedded husband?”

  He nodded his gaze on the fire. “Yes, him.”

  “Fine. You’re sorry. How will you make it right?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t take you back to him, Orlagh. However, I can make certain your babe is born healthy, and keep good care of you. Eógan and Utromma have vowed to help. Utromma said she’d even teach you to track, and Eógan will teach you to set snares.”

  With gritted teeth, she threw the mug at his head, scalding tea spilling onto his chest. He cried out and jumped to his feet, brushing at his wet léine. “Orlagh!”

  “It’s no more than you deserve! What use are lessons and classes if you won’t give me freedom?”

  “Orlagh, I’m just trying to keep you safe!”

  “Sure, and that worked so well with grandmother, did it?”

  Her grandfather stared at her with wide eyes, and Orlagh instantly regretted her words. She never got the full story of what had happened when her grandmother had died, but her grandfather blamed himself for it. She shouldn’t have thrown that in his face, no matter the provocation. Yet apologizing for it would make her just as hypocritical as he was. She stared down at her hands.

  He left abruptly, grabbing his spear on the way out. She was alone in the cave.

  The trickling waterfall reminded her she needed to pee again. Cursing her body’s betrayal, she waddled to the waste alcove and relieved herself. Utromma returned by the time she was done, with a basket of garlic and mushrooms.

  “Orlagh, help me clean these? We’ll put them in tonight’s stew with the rest of the rabbit.”

  What else could she do but comply? There was no way she’d make it back to Temuirr and his camp alone. She didn’t even know what direction the nearest village was in. In her condition, she could easily slip and fall on the rocky landscape. She was at her grandfather’s mercy, at least until the child was born. Perhaps then she could make her escape.

  In the meantime, she must act the domestic and be on good behavior. She plucked the cloves from the garlic while Utromma washed the mushrooms.

  Chapter 13

  Utromma and Eógan left before the storm hit. They’d grown dangerously low on supplies for all four of them to survive the dead of winter.

  Eógan surveyed their remaining food. “We shouldn’t be more than a fortnight. We’ll be certain to bring back at least one sheep for mutton, and perhaps a side of beef if we can manage. The remainder of the food should keep the two of you well for now.”

  Orlagh said, “Be sure to bring some medicines, will you? I’m out of willow bark, and I’ve needed the pain relief more and more lately.”

  Utromma nodded and fastened her fur cape and hood. She used a huge brass penannular brooch Orlagh had admired several fortnights before. The design reminded her of something, but she forgot what. Perhaps something her grandmother had owned? No, the brooch Temuirr wore. Tears welled up unbidden, but she choked them down and shoved the memory far beneath her daily concerns.

  They’d spent a moon in the cave so far. In that time, Orlagh had at least straightened the area and made sleeping arrangements more comfortable. She’d set up her own sleeping area with furs, a wash basin, and a rock high enough for her to sit on without strain. She’d organized the cooking area, and would work on Eógan’s area next. Utromma’s space had already been i
mmaculate, and she wouldn’t touch her grandfather’s space.

  Orlagh heartily wished her child would come soon. She tired of being some enormous cow, waddling around the cavern, knocking everything over as she passed.

  She peered out the cave mouth as her two companions disappeared in the increasing snow. She’d miss Utromma. Having another woman around, one she might talk to, took some of the sting out of her isolation and imprisonment. Utromma was an older woman and well-experienced with both the world of men and weapons, which made her even more fascinating. Besides, any woman who’d actually convinced Eógan to make a vow was a force of nature. Perhaps, like Eolande, Utromma actually possessed Fae blood or descended from the war goddess, the Morrigan.

  Orlagh missed Eolande terribly. She’d never been without her friend for so long. Despite her flighty, silly ways, Eolande had been an integral part of Orlagh, the part which still found wonder in the clouds and delight in butterflies; the part which told secrets to the moon and whispered in the wild wind. Without her, Orlagh descended into a pit of sarcasm and self-pity. She even missed Tawnith.

  Her grandfather certainly made no fit company.

  Despite his avowed apology that first day, he barely spoke to her in the subsequent days. He must blame her for their entire untenable situation and relationship. She welcomed the silence. He could keep to himself, and she needn’t force herself to interact with him. She could be just as stubborn as he, if not more so.

  Now that Eógan and Utromma had left, however, she craved conversation. She had no instruments to play the days away, and besides, music would have reminded her too much of her beloved Temuirr. She didn’t have the heart to sing. Telling stories would be a wasted exercise. She did whittle, though her carvings were a far cry from the artistry Finnegan possessed. She even wished for her embroidery. At least she had something to occupy her hands, if not her mind, as the storm raged outside.

  As the snow piled higher, sounds grew muted. She worried about suffocation, as ridiculous as that sounded. She periodically poked a stick out of the small cave mouth to ensure the passage of air into the enormous cavern. Surely air came in from other places, along with the tunnels or even wherever the waterfall originated. Still, she breathed better after making a hole every few hours. The activity kept her heart from beating too quickly. Surely that wouldn’t have been healthy for the child.

  She put her hand on her belly as her baby kicked. He was particularly active today. She remembered Temuirr patting the babe and closed her eyes, wishing he came here to do so again.

  Her grandfather’s voice betrayed a slight edge of panic when he spoke. “Orlagh? Are you well? Has the time come?”

  She shook her head without turning around. Even if the time had come, they could never go in search of the midwife in this. She whispered to her child. “Stay still for a while yet, wee one. No hurry just yet.”

  The night must have fallen by now, but still, the storm raged outside. She banked the fire and poured the remains of the night’s stew in her grandfather’s bowl. He hadn’t eaten much this night. Perhaps he was worried about her baby. Still, he would need his strength.

  Orlagh slept fitfully. She woke several times, convinced she couldn’t breathe, but a poke of the stick into the snow relieved her panic easily. The third time she waddled back to her tent, she didn’t bother to try to sleep any more.

  She couldn’t tell if the morning had dawned yet or not. No light filtered in from the cave mouth snow. Her stick no longer reached the top of the bank, and Orlagh told herself not to worry. They had plenty of air in this cave. They’d not even explored half of the caverns, and the tunnels went on for leagues. They must have plenty of air for two people, even if they were stuck here for moons.

  Moons—her baby should be born in less than a fortnight. They were stuck here, and if she went into labor, no one could help her. Her grandfather had no midwifery skills.

  She breathed in shallow gasps, clutching the slick wall for support.

  “Orlagh? Orlagh, what’s wrong?”

  She shook her head and waved him off, but her grandfather still came to put his arm around her shoulders, guiding her to a log. “Sit, child, sit. Breathe deep, now. The babe? Is the babe coming?”

  “No, Grandfa, the bloody babe is not coming! Will you quit asking me? No, it’s just…” she breathed several more times before she continued. “I can’t seem to breathe. I’m worried we’ll be trapped here.”

  “Not to worry, Orlagh. I can get us out. Here, I’ll start digging a tunnel through the snow today. I should break through soon, or at least the next day or so. The snow can’t go on forever, aye?”

  Orlagh suddenly felt foolish for her fears. He donned his brat, some furs and wrapped his hands before grabbing a large bowl. He scooped about twenty times, making a pile to one side before he stood and put a hand behind his back. “This is not an old man’s task.”

  “This is certainly not a pregnant woman’s task!”

  He sighed. “I wasn’t suggesting you take over, Orlagh, only bemoaning my aging, aching body.”

  She scowled and busied herself with cleaning up the dishes. She opened their food storage box, one Orlagh had woven from reeds, to put in the half loaf of bread when she screamed.

  Twenty rats skittered off in all directions, and she stomped at several trying to kill the nasty beasts. With dubious care, she lifted the hamper lid again, but the disaster was as bad as she’d feared. The rats had eaten most of their stored food.

  “The crows’ curse upon them!”

  Her grandfather had stopped his labors at her scream and put a hand on her back as they surveyed the damage. “Well, that’s some rough luck, to say the least.”

  She turned to him, hands on her hips. “Rough luck? Rough luck? That’s all you have to say? That’s all the food we had!”

  Her grandfather cocked his head and looked at her. “Will bemoaning our fate fill our bellies, Orlagh? Will cursing the rats replenish our supplies? No, indeed it will not. So why waste the energy on such wailing?”

  She threw up her hands. “Because! Because cursing something feels good. Cursing releases the anger, the frustration, the pain! Do you never feel pain, Grandfa? Is your honor so strong you have no human feelings left beneath your hundred layers of dignity? Do you gather your duty around you like a fur-lined brat, proof against all the emotions normal humans have?”

  He frowned. “I certainly experience pain, Orlagh. In fact, it hurts me you think I feel nothing. I simply don’t put my pain out on display for others to witness. Dignity is a blessing at my age, child.”

  His voice had softened, and tears pricked at her eyes. She wanted to cry and throw herself into his arms as she did when she was young, but she refused to give into the urge. That was the act of a child, not a woman grown, about to give birth. Still, her throat closed and she fell silent.

  He hugged her close. She struggled at first, but finally gave up and sobbed into his shoulder. The snow still frosted him from his labors, and the cold ice stung her skin. Her tears flowed until she saw nothing but his fur brat, now soaked with more tears than snow. He held her tight and hummed a sweet lullaby, one he used to sing to her as a babe.

  Orlagh cried for more than just their current situation. She cried for her husband, her youth, her freedom, and her life. She’d come to this miserable place, and everything was in limbo, waiting for her child to arrive. Now they had no food, and no way to get more. She cried and cried until she had no more tears left. Her throat rasped rough and raw.

  He patted her back and helped her sit on the log. “Now, then, sometimes a good cry helps, aye?”

  She sniffed. “I’ve never seen you cry, Grandfa. How would you know?”

  “Oh, I’ve cried, Orlagh. I’ve cried. When Liadan died, I cried for days. However, I didn’t let anyone witness my tears. Crying is not a luxury a man has, much less a warchief.”

  She sniffled. “Dignity doesn’t allow?”

  “Exactly. Young pregnant women,
however, are expected to cry at regular intervals. I’d say you were overdue for several good, long wails.”

  She managed a weak smile. “I always did like saving up for a rainy day.”

  “Or a snowy one.”

  She looked at the pile of snow, slowly melting into the cavern floor in slushy rivulets.

  * * *

  Maelan looked at his granddaughter, tear stains still streaking her cheeks. “I can dig us out tomorrow. But I remembered something I meant to give you. I would have done before, but you were intent on ignoring me. Wait here.”

  Orlagh blinked several times, but Maelan just smiled and went to his tent. He pulled out the small leather pouch and held it to his heart for several moments. The time had come. Perhaps this would be the thing to convince her she had worth. She remained far too precious to waste herself on the bard. She had a true heritage, a legacy which was passed down for many generations. What did the bard have but a sweet voice, a trained memory, and a penchant for chasing women?

  When his body had warmed with the brooch’s magic, he took a deep breath and walked out of the tent. Orlagh still sat where he left her, idly stirring the coals in the firepit. At least they’d stockpiled plenty of wood. The snow and the waterfall meant they’d never run short of water.

  In the meantime, he had a gift to bequest, and the time had come. He should have done this winters ago, but he kept waiting for Orlagh to mature. Well, she was about to give birth. How much longer should he wait?

  Now was the time.

  He sat down next to her, a pouch in hand, doing his best to ignore the headache brought on by the magic. He played with the pouch for a couple moments, tracing the path of the thong with his fingers. Orlagh glanced at the object curiously, raising her eyebrows. “Wasn’t that the pouch you warned me never to touch?”

  Maelan nodded. “I wasn’t ready to pass this on yet. However, the time has come. Are you ready?”

  She furrowed her brow. “Ready? How on God’s green earth am I supposed to know if I’m ready if you don’t tell me what this is?”