Jorandil: God of Beltane (Sons of Herne, #4)

by J. Rose Allister

  And yet, there was Cadence.

  Now in hindsight, he could see it had perhaps been folly to let the Fates choose his partner. More than ever, it seemed clear that this was no coincidence, nor even just the energies of passion unleashed by the Yule god, causing the brothers to fall. There was a deliberate, methodical air to it all, and after he had pulled back from the other realm, from his lover, he had been forced to entertain the thought that the same dragon of lust which had swallowed his brothers had been coming for him next.

  It had the Fates’ signature scrawled all over it.

  He stared out over the thin atmosphere, through wisps of cloud and gusts of chill air, his hands on his hips and feathers ruffling in the wind. Yes, there had been a definite connection between him and Cadence, and even now, thinking of the way she responded, the arch of her back and the hot gleam of anticipation in an otherwise innocent gaze, his cock stiffened. But he would not be the latest pawn in whatever game they were playing.

  “Who stands at our door?” he heard the voices joined in unison, calling out over the wind. “Lingering near the threshold, loitering on private lands.”

  He spun around to the doorway, a tall, narrow door painted black to match the obsidian mountain. A silver knob glistened with a supernatural glow, making him wonder what would happen to someone who tried to open it without the Fates’ consent.

  “Is he unwilling to enter, or uncertain he should bother?” said a gentle voice.

  “He has come a long way for nothing,” said a harsher, deeper tone than the rest of the chorus.

  “I have come to tell you I will not be used by you,” he called out. Wind blew his hair into his face. “Release me from whatever magic you have wrought.”

  “He comes with demands and accusation,” the chorus said, each s drawn out in a hiss.

  The door slammed open, hard enough for Jorandil to jerk in alarm.

  “Then come in. Make your claims face to face.”

  Jorandil hesitated. Through the door there was nothing but darkness, so that he could not see what waited within. He had no weapon, though one would likely do him no good here.

  “Well?” the rough voice asked.

  “The Fates have many tasks before them,” they echoed. “A poor time for a visit, yet here you stand, dallying at the threshold.”

  His nostrils flared. “Then make time.”

  He strode into the dark doorway, jumping around when the door slammed shut, closing him in with inky blackness.

  “Why do you hide yourselves?” he said.

  “Hide? This is our home. Must we lead you by the scruff like a naughty child?”

  He stood blinking, but even with his supernatural sight, he could not adjust enough to see in the blackness. Then tiny lights sprang up around him, fading in one at a time, filling the room with stars. This did not illuminate the space, for now it was simply black night with pinpoints of brilliant white, but it was enough for him to see his palm when he held up a hand close enough to one of the white dots. The stars stretched out for a vast distance in what must be a very large room—or perhaps a void in another dimension. He could easily unfurl his wings and fly through the space, and he considered doing so.

  “I tire of your games,” he said, and his voice echoed here much as theirs did. “Show yourselves.”

  “So impudent, he who came uninvited and unannounced.”

  The stars swelled, their luminescence sharpening painfully. The void lit up with an explosion of white light, bright enough that he raised his palm to shield his eyes. When he could open them, he found he was staring at himself. Many Jorandils surrounded him, and as he spun, he saw the room was nothing but mirrors. The floor and ceiling were the black obsidian of the mountain, perhaps carved directly into it, but all the walls were covered with mirror. There was no doorway, no way out.

  His eyes were wide as he took in his reflection, and he ruffled his wings in annoyance. He told them not to play games, yet they plunged him into another one.

  A shape materialized behind him, reflected in the mirror, and he whipped around. The Fates were there, all three of them, bobbing up and down as they floated off the floor. He had seen images of them before, heard descriptions, and they were both the same as legend and yet different. Their skirts and hair were made of the mists of time, it was told, but they were not the usual black, amethyst, or emerald colors often spoken of. At least, not today. Their matching hair and garments consisted of wispy vapors of reddish-gold that drifted around each of them. A shade that was so similar—too similar—to that of Cadence. Again, they toyed with him, as though gods were nothing but playthings.

  He scowled at the beings.

  There was Morta, tall and slender, with the longest ripples of golden-red hair floating on an invisible wind. The winds of change, he thought. The tides by which the Fates moved and flowed and worked their will. Decuna, short and squat, scratched at her cheek with a gnarled finger. The third, in the center, with her hands folded and a wanton, yet maternal expression, was Nona. All had large, round black eyes, which blinked occasionally as though he were a shock to behold. Apparently, the rumors that the Fates had but one eye to share between them had been false.

  “So, son of Herne,” said the woman in their midst, “why have you disturbed the acts of fate upon which so much of humanity relies?”

  “I told you. I want you to release me from the curse that has infected my brothers.”

  “Curse?” the gravel-toned Decuna hissed. “Is the god of a fertility sabbat so harsh and jaded in matters of love?”

  “My brothers are not truly in love, are they? It is merely a spell you have woven, clouding their judgment.”

  The trio floated apart from one another now, circling him. “Why such assumption?” asked Morta. “Is it so hard to believe your brothers deserve happiness?”

  He twisted himself around to keep her in his sights. “Not when it is a false hope, conjured by your meddling.”

  Except for Eradimus, he added to himself. He had loved the same woman for countless generations. He had merely risen up against his father to make the arrangement permanent.

  They turned in unison and drifted off, each taking position to the side of a mirror, observing his reflection.

  “Faithless,” hissed Decuna.

  “Frightened,” said Nona.

  “Desperate,” added Morta.

  He turned to each. “I am none of these except for desperate. What must I do to keep true to my calling? I cannot be taken over by the absurd passions you have stirred in the other sabbat gods and still remain keeper of Beltane. The nature of my ritual precludes it.”

  “Duplicitous,” said Decuna, pointing at his reflection in accusation. “You have come for other reasons.”

  “No. I am clear on what I want.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  They turned back to him, their dark eyes seeking, floating in a circle around him that was slowly closing in.

  “These are not the looking glasses he has come to see,” Nona said.

  “Proof,” said Morta, and she gave a dramatic wave of a long-fingered hand.

  The room plunged into night again, but before Jorandil could blink, they were back in sight—in another place. This room had carvings in the walls of obsidian, with gold and silver brushed into the recesses to make them stand out against the unforgiving black. Shapes and figures, runes and nonsensical imagery, twisted and moved, working their way around the center of the walls in a strip about four hands tall. Still, there was something more compelling, a focal point—and the only object in the room. A crystal bowl sat on a pedestal in the middle of the space, lit from beneath. The bowl was half filed with an unnatural, glowing liquid. Fog drifted up from the surface, which rippled mildly the way still water might if a toe was dipped in.

  He stood a small distance away, and the Fates floated on the opposite side, facing him.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “You do not recognize it?” asked No
na, pushing the mists of hair that had drifted in front of her eyes. “For it is why you have come.”

  “No more games,” he said, although his stomach twisted as he glanced at the bowl.

  “You can see many things in this looking glass,” Morta said. “For example.”

  She floated closer, beckoning him to do the same, and with a hoarse whisper and wave over the surface, the liquid became agitated, rippling and bubbling. The fog thickened, obscuring the rest, and then it vanished.

  The twisting in Jorandil’s stomach gave way to a brief flutter when he peered over the edge and saw not his own reflection, but that of someone else.

  “Cadence,” he said.

  She sat at a table, her brows furrowed in concentration while she wrote on a paper. She paused, glancing up in his direction, and wrote some more. Her hair fell in soft waves around her, one side pushed back by a pencil she had tucked behind an ear. A second pencil sat on the table beside her while she used yet a third. Every time she looked upward, she almost met his gaze. Even though he knew she could not see him, his breath caught. Her blue eyes, so determined, sparkled from some unseen light source, and her pouty red lips pursed into a bow that prompted a memory of pressing his mouth there. Soft, moist, delicate, yet demanding. Then she broke into a sudden, private smile and wrote something more on her paper. He pictured her smiling into his eyes, aware of him, eager for his touch.

  His stomach began a slow burn.

  “I did not come here in order to see her again,” he said, though the fine edge of a rasp scraped along the words.

  Morta gave a rather indelicate snort.

  “Not even when your actions have placed your lover in grave danger?” Nona asked.

  He snapped his head up. “What do you mean?”

  “See for yourself.”

  Another wave of the hand drew a new cloud of fog over the mirror, and when it vanished, the scene had changed.

  “What you saw before was the present,” Nona said, floating closer to the bowl. “Now observe the future.”

  He swallowed and followed her eyes to the mirror, which again showed Cadence seated, but in a different location. The room was darker, less sterile, with books lining the walls and comfortable furnishings. Across from her sat a woman who had taken her hands to speak in quiet tones.

  The woman looked up in alarm, and Cadence whirled around. As the scene widened out, a man came into view. Jorandil could not hear what was said, but he was clearly enraged—and waving a gun. The image froze, and then melted away into the fog until he could see no more.

  “What was that?” he asked. “What will happen to her? And how is it my doing?”

  “She seeks answers,” Morta said. “She is compelled to know more about the angel who took her purity and vanished, leaving her breathless and aching for his arms.”

  Wait, she’d said to him as the veil pulled him back. Don’t go.

  His chest tightened. “As I left the choice of my partner to fate, I would say that is your doing, not my own.”

  “The choice came from the wish of your heart, not of our lips,” Nona said. “We merely showed you what your heart’s desire looked like. Your response—and hers—were your own.”

  “I do not believe you.”

  “Ours was not a curse nor a spell to twist your will,” Decuna said. “If we did anything at all, it was to set forth the energy required to grant you and your brothers a chance to explore your true feelings.”

  “I did not have feelings for her. I didn’t ask for this.”

  “No?” Nona asked. “You do not spend your days before a sabbat nursing a quiet heart’s wish to experience true passion between male and female?”

  His jaw tightened. “I did not seek Cadence out. Quite the opposite.”

  A ripple like that on the looking glass surface passed over Morta. “But you found her, and that there are feelings is clear enough. The question is, what will you do about them?”

  “You have not answered my other question. How is her danger tied to me?”

  “She has not put aside your night together so willingly,” Nona said. “She intends to attempt contact with you.”

  “Cadence will try to find me?”

  Three nods came in unison, as did the reply. “Her search will bring her to that place and time when her life will be in danger.”

  “Then change it,” he said. “Manipulate her fate.”

  “We cannot interfere with what is already in motion,” Nona said, and there seemed to be a genuine regret in the admission.

  His heart beat in his chest. “That can’t possibly be true. Interfering is in your nature.”

  “Not this time,” Morta said.

  “Surely you can do something.”

  “We have done something,” Decuna said, snarling her lip. “We have shown you what may come to pass if you do not act.”

  “Then I must go to her before the worst can happen.”

  “Not so easily done for one whose sabbat has just sealed the veil,” Decuna said. “One who does not even own a veil pendant.”

  “The pendants are rare artifacts, and I have never required one,” he said, though more to himself than to the others. “My wings anchored me to the veil, and I did not travel over the lands of Earth. I merely press through the veil to complete my duty.”

  “And what is that duty, god of the sabbat?” Nona asked. “Is it not to protect life in the season when the old ways celebrate the union of male and female?”

  “A duty which is not yet complete,” Morta added. “But it could be, if you find a way back to her in time.”

  “How much time?” he asked. “How far into the future is this vision of her fate?”

  The three answered in tandem. “Not far, son of Herne.”

  “The question remains, will you do what your heart demands?” Decuna asked. “Or will your stubborn assumptions drive you to reject what you fear is part of our grand design?”

  “We cannot conjure feelings,” Nona said. “Whatever is between you, it is real, no matter how your meeting came about.”

  “I will help Cadence,” he said. “It is not fair that she suffers for having been chosen as my sabbat partner. But the veil is temporarily sealed. You must aid me in crossing to the other realm, especially if you had any part to play in what has befallen me and my sabbat brothers.”

  They fell silent, bobbing up and down in tandem. Then they froze. One of them caught their breath, and they exchanged quick, nervous glances.

  The door crashed open before a word could be said, and Herne boiled into the room.

  “I have come for an explanation,” he said, his voice echoing with warning. He stopped when he saw Jorandil. “Son?”

  “Father.”

  Herne was his usual blustering figure, though he was not garbed in the attire he wore on the hunt. Tan leggings stretched tight over powerful thighs, a matching tunic and vest in disarray, as was the already wild brown hair that had no doubt been tossed by the winds outside. How Herne had gotten up here Jorandil could not say, but he knew this was not the first time the god of the forest had made the journey. And judging by his bewildered expression, he had not done so expecting to find that one of his sons had preceded him.

  It was plain to see that his father awaited the requested explanation, but not from the Fates. He wanted his son to justify his presence there. Jorandil wondered how much the god knew.

  “Herne the hunter,” the Fates chorused. “Your presence has not been summoned.”

  “But yours is.” He glanced at his son again, then turned to the trio of golden apparitions. “And I am certain you know exactly why I have come.”

  “Omniscient now, are we?” said Decuna, and the thick sarcasm hung in the air like the thick waves of reddish mist around her head. “Behold, sisters, the Fates are now four!”

  The hags laughed a hoarse, cackling laugh.

  “I am here about my sons,” he said. “One of whom is apparently intelligent enough to have come to the
same conclusion I have.”

  “And how many more of them will descend upon our homestead without warning nor invitation?” Morta asked. “A dangerous prospect, as you are well aware.”

  “As many as it takes to get to the bottom of your scheme,” Herne replied. “Which I intend to do here and now.”

  “I presume you refer to what has been happening during the sabbats,” Jorandil said.

  His father turned a wary eye on him. “Indeed. And rumor says you yourself had an unusual experience during the Beltane ritual.” He folded his arms. “You cannot have him,” he added to the Fates. “His sabbat duty of sealing the veil is among the most vital, and his position one of the most difficult to replace.”

  “Is that your true objection to your son following the desires of his heart?” Nona asked, floating a little closer to them.

  “His heart is steadfast and unwavering to the cause. Jorandil has ever been, of all my sons, the most dedicated to his calling.”

  Jorandil lifted his chin.

  “So certain are the words from your lips,” The others said. “Yet your eyes tell a different tale.”

  “Then they should not,” Jorandil said. “My father is right. I am fully committed to my duties as sabbat god. What else should be seen in his eyes?”

  “Fear,” the Fates echoed.

  “Herne is afraid to lose his sons to love,” Nona added, fluffing her misty gown, “and not because he might be left with an inconvenient job opening.”

  Herne scratched at the thick stubble on his tense jaw. Either he had been too preoccupied to keep himself shaven or he was in the process of growing the small beard that adorned his features on occasion.

  “My reasons for objection are not up for discussion,” he said. “In any course, the results of your interference have been widespread and calamitous.”