Spirit of the Mist

by O'Kerry Janeen

  After a time she glanced up to look out over the water. Thoughts of winter seemed to have affected the way the world looked to her today. The sky was a solid gray, and it seemed that the land and the sea and even the grass had taken on that same shade of gray. The waves now seemed dull and monstrous, and the wind had lost the warmth it should have had with summer.

  Muriel sat up straight and stopped her sewing. The bone needle hovered above the linen fabric as she stared down at it.

  She raised up one hand and studied it, looking to see if it still held the warmth and color it had always held, or whether it too was becoming faded and worn and gray the way the world seemed to look on this day—the way her mother had become, the way her sisters were now— Muriel clenched her hand into a fist and hid it within her sleeve. She had been so determined to keep from marrying a man who was not a king—but was it enough simply to avoid a marriage? If she had begun to fall in love with the wrong man, one who might well be a prince but was still not a king, would that alone be enough to drain her magic and leave her with a cold and empty world?

  Muriel bowed her head, then raised it again so that the wind from the sea struck her full in the face. Brendan was gone, and she had no doubt he had forgotten her the moment she was out of his sight. There was no danger of his taking her love and, with it, her power and her magic. There was no reason for her to think of him ever again.

  On the morning of the twentieth day, Muriel opened her door and stepped out of her house—and there, on the flat stepping-stone set into the damp earth in front of the door, was a little bunch of flowers.

  For a long time she could only stand and look at them. They seemed to be violets, carefully tied together with a strip of fine blue linen, their tiny purple and white petals fluttering in the sea breeze. Then, slowly, she reached down and picked them up, holding them close and studying them as though she had never seen violets before.

  Then Muriel closed her eyes. She feared to look up, fearing she would see him walking across the grass and smiling at her with the dawn light gilding his hair, see his fair face smiling down at her, see his one blue eye and one brown eye shining as he held out his hand to her—

  Abruptly she raised her head. She saw only a few of the servants moving about the dun, carrying wooden buckets for hauling water or armloads of feed for the animals.

  Brendan was not here.

  Of course he wasn’t. How could he be? He had ridden away and forgotten her long ago. Someone was playing a little trick on her by leaving a bunch of violets on her doorstep. Perhaps it was Alvy, in a rather misguided attempt to cheer her up.

  She took the violets back inside the house, placed them on the sealskin furs strewn on her bed, and walked outside again. Just as she tried to close the door, a shadow fell across her and blocked out the light.

  “Good morning to you, Lady Muriel.”

  Blinking, she looked up at a tall, strong figure backlit by the early-morning sun. Golden brown hair ruffled across his face, and the deep blue cloak across his shoulders flapped in the breeze.

  “Brendan,” she whispered.

  He stepped forward, and now she could get a better look at him. His tunic was a soft plaid of gray and green and was made from the finest wools, as was his long blue cloak, which was so wide that it had to be folded several times across his shoulder. A heavy round brooch, gleaming with gold, fastened the cloak through the folds.

  Black leather pants and folded boots, no doubt the same ones he had received here at Dun Farraige, completed the outfit. She saw gold rings on the small fingers of his hands and a wide gold band around the muscles of his bare upper arms—and a heavy gold torque at his neck, a torque with the heads of sea dragons at each curving end. Only a king—or a tanist—would wear something like that.

  But, most of all, those strange and otherworldly eyes shone down on her once again, irises the colors of the water and of the earth, the strangest and most beautiful eyes she had ever seen.

  Muriel smiled back at him, which set him to beaming. “I did not expect to see you again,” she admitted.

  “Why, I cannot believe you would say such a thing! Did I not promise that I would return?”

  “You did. But I know how rare it is for men to keep promises made to women they have only just met.”

  “Yet I have told you, I am not an ordinary man. I am—”

  “Oh, a king, a king—as you have told me many times. And I will admit to you, on this day you do indeed look like one.” She smiled up at him again, for one moment allowing him to see a little of her happiness at finding that he had indeed returned. “Yet, as I have told you just as many times, a prince is not a king.”

  He sighed, though his eyes still sparkled as he gazed back at her. “Lady Muriel—please tell me what I can do, once and for all, to convince you that I am worthy of you.”

  She turned away, carefully arranging the folds of her deep blue gown, smoothing the lightweight wool and inspecting it for any flaws. “Why, Prince Brendan, I was about to ask the same question of you. I was about to ask what you can do to convince me that you truly are— or will be—a king.”

  She peered up at him again, pleased at the somewhat disconcerted look on his face. “Even my old serving woman tells me that I should take no chance. She says that I should not consider your offer of marriage—if indeed you still intend to make one—until after your king making, whenever that might be.”

  He cocked his head. “Are you certain that I will wait that long for you? There are others who would have a prince, and gladly.”

  Muriel nodded.

  “I see. Well, that is all that I need to know. Good luck to you, Brendan, in choosing but one of the great crowd of young women who simply cannot wait to be your wife. Good morning to you.”

  She turned to go back inside the house, but a gentle hand on her arm made her pause. “Please…do not go,” he said. “I have only just arrived. And you are right. Though I could no doubt find another to marry, there is only one whom I truly want at my side. That is why I have come back to you this day…and that is why I have brought this.”

  Muriel turned to see what he wished to show her. From his black belt he untied a leather case, opened it, and held it out.

  She saw a collection of beautifully worked objects in gold and copper and bronze—brooches and rings, armbands and beads, all of them gleaming and new. “Never have I seen finer work,” she whispered.

  Brendan smiled. “These I intend to offer to King Murrough to secure your contract. I have come back to ask you to return to Dun Bochna with me, there to become my bride.”

  Chapter Seven

  Bride. The word echoed in Muriel’s mind. She turned to meet Brendan’s eyes and knew that he meant what he had said.

  She had a decision to make.

  “Brendan…you already know my story. You have seen my sisters. You know why I fear to marry any man but a king.”

  “I know all these things. But do I know whether you love me?”

  He stepped close to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, bending his head down so that he could look directly into her eyes. He was so close that she could sense the warmth of his body in the cool morning air, feel the heat of his hands through the fabric of her gown, see the gleam in his eyes and the warm color spreading through the fair, smooth skin of his face and throat—

  “Brendan of Dun Bochna!”

  Then was a flash of movement, then strong hands grabbed him from both sides, pulling him away from Muriel. He clenched his fists and started to fight back, but then kept still.

  “What is this about?” he demanded, looking from one captor to the other. He twisted about to look at the little group of warriors who stood behind the two who held him, but kept still when he saw that they all had their swords drawn.

  “You are a prisoner here.”

  “Prisoner? I am no prisoner! I am the tanist of Dun Bochna, and the guest of your King Murrough!”

  Brendan’s two companions, Darragh and Ki
llian, came running to his side, but the men only took firmer hold of their captive. “What is wrong here?” cried Darragh. “What has he done?”

  “He is a hostage with an unpaid ransom,” continued the first warrior. He nodded to the men who held Brendan. “Take him to the hall, place him in one of the rooms, and bolt the door.” With a shove, they started him walking in the direction of the King’s Hall.

  “What do you mean, an unpaid ransom?” said Muriel, hurrying after them. “These two companions of his brought the gold when they came here for him. I saw it myself, as did you! What are you talking about?”

  “The gold was only part of the ransom. Cattle were due as well—fifteen milk cows, to complete the honor price under the law for a tanist.”

  Darragh and Killian looked at each other.

  “Cattle?” Muriel stepped in front of the first warrior and held up her hands in front of him, forcing him to stop. Brendan’s captors halted too but only tightened their grip on their prisoner. “Surely his men can return to Dun Bochna and fetch a few head of cattle, if that is all that is needed!”

  “Lady Muriel,” said Brendan, his voice formal and calm, “I thank you for your concern. But these men are right. The remainder of the ransom was never paid. I thought only of returning here to you, and nothing else entered my mind.”

  “Listen to me,” said Muriel, catching the warrior by the arm. “In the leather case at Brendan’s belt is gold and bronze and copper enough to ransom any prince. Ask the king if he will accept that instead of cows. Ask him!”

  “Muriel—I will have your king do nothing of the kind,” said Brendan. “That is your bride price, and it will be used to secure your marriage or I will throw it into the sea. I thank you for your offer,” he said, smiling at her, “but I must apologize to your king, and have him tell me what I must do to make the situation right again.”

  “That is right,” said the warrior. “It is the king who will decide. Now, Lady Muriel, please make way. The king awaits us.”

  They took him to the King’s Hall and walked him inside. The doors closed tight and Muriel could only wait outside, alone.

  The day wore on. Muriel shut herself up in her house with the largest basket of clean combed wool that she could find, spinning the wisps of wool into fine, smooth thread wrapped around long wooden spindles.

  The simple work occupied her hands, but it could not keep her from thinking the same tormenting thoughts over and over again. She tried to push those thoughts away, tried to tell herself that she was calm and unconcerned, but knew that she was fooling no one—certainly not Alvy.

  “Please, dear one, don’t worry for him,” the old woman said, combing out more wool for Muriel to spin. “They wouldn’t think of harming him. He’s just being held for the ransom he’s worth. They’ll put him in a fine room and feed him enough for three strong men and make sure he’s well and happy. He wouldn’t fetch much of a ransom otherwise! He’ll be back with you before you even have a chance to miss him.”

  Muriel kept her eyes fixed on her work. “I know he is safe. It’s just that…that…I am so unsure of what he is.”

  “Isn’t he the tanist of Dun Bochna? Their next king? That’s why King Murrough is being so careful of him. A tanist will bring a very nice price. Murrough would be a bad king to his people if he did not get what this Brendan is worth!”

  “Brendan says he is the tanist. He says many things, but—”

  “Ah! You are unsure of his words.” Alvy laughed, pulling her comb through the masses of wool she, too, was spinning. “Then I suppose I am happy, dear one, for you have learned a thing or two! No young woman with a mind to call her own would believe every little thing a handsome man says.”

  Muriel smiled a little. “I have listened to you for a very long time.” Then her face grew somber again. “No matter how many times Brendan tells me that he is a prince and will one day be a king, no matter what fine clothes he wears or how much gold gleams at his shoulder and on his arms and his fingers…the only way I see him is as a prisoner.”

  “A prisoner? What do you mean?”

  Muriel looked away, gazing into the softly burning hearth fire as her thoughts drifted back to when she had first found Brendan. “I discovered him as a half-drowned outcast, an exile thrown to the storm to die…then he was a mysterious visitor dressed in gray, not a guest but not allowed to leave, who might or might not have been what he said he was…and now he is again an outsider, a prisoner dragged into the King’s Hall and locked into a room.”

  “I see,” Alvy said, nodding her head. “But everyone else seems to confirm the story he tells. Why do you doubt him? I am sure you wouldn’t unless you had good reason.”

  “The mirror,” Muriel said quietly. “You are right. Everyone does confirm his story. Only the water mirror seems to say otherwise.”

  Alvy set down her wool and leaned in close. “What does the mirror say?”

  “Perhaps I am not understanding it…but it seems to show Brendan as the child of slaves.”

  “Slaves,” Alvy whispered, then leaned back again. “I’ve never known the mirror to be wrong. But how could the tanist of Dun Bochna be the child of slaves?”

  Muriel shook her head. “I want to believe him. I know that he himself believes what he told me; I know that he does not lie. But though my heart wants to take him at his word, I cannot help but think that there are still many questions left unanswered about who—or what—this Brendan really is.”

  The afternoon wore on. After what seemed like forever, Muriel heard the sound of galloping horses—horses heading across the grounds of the dun toward the gates. She sat bolt upright for a moment, then dropped her wool and her wooden spindle into the rushes as she dashed outside, flinging the door wide open and not bothering to close it.

  “Brendan!” she shouted as she saw three riders approaching the gate. “Brendan!’

  She thought he could not possibly hear her—but then his gray horse slid to a halt, and he turned around on it to face her. His two companions halted as well. Muriel ran over to them.

  “I’m sorry,” Brendan said, smiling down at her as his horse moved restlessly beneath him. “I did not mean to leave without a word for you, but I did not want you to worry.”

  She reached out and touched his horse’s neck, and the animal quieted. “You are leaving?” she asked. “I thought the king ordered you to stay until the rest of the ransom was paid!”

  “He did. But I convinced him that the best one to bring back the cattle was none but myself.”

  “You? The king has allowed you to ride all the way to Dun Bochna, and then all the way back again, to bring back your own ransom?”

  He grinned again. “Not so far as Dun Bochna—only to the hills above Dun Camas, where King Odhran’s cattle graze. I have promised to bring back not just the number of cattle owed for my ransom, but twice that number. Not only will I pay the lawful ransom, but I will convince you that I am worthy of being your husband—the husband of a lady who will have none but a king.”

  “And why would King Murrough agree to such a thing?”

  Brendan sat back, and his horse began stepping about in impatience once again. “Because he knew that there was no one else who could accomplish such a feat!”

  Muriel stared up at him. “Or he knows you will be killed!”

  Brendan only laughed. “No one but a king can defeat another king! That’s why he’s sending me to face King Odhran! Take care, Lady Muriel, and I will be back in three nights. Watch what I will do to win my lady!”

  He reined his gray horse back toward the gate then, and, with his two companions, galloped away toward King Odhran’s lands.

  For two nights and three days, Muriel went about her normal life and tried not to think about Brendan and the unbelievably risky attempt he was making. But it was impossible to avoid hearing about it, for it seemed that the people of Dun Farraige talked of nothing else.

  Working at a loom beside the other women in the King’s Ha
ll, Muriel kept her eyes on the fabric she wove but could think of nothing but the conversations floating through the air all around her.

  “Dun Bochna’s tanist means to steal thirty head of cattle from a vicious outlaw king?”

  “How can he even think he will get close to those herds?”

  “They will be guarded by half of Odhran’s warriors. And the tanist himself rode out with only his own two men!”

  “King Murrough will have to send out a party to find him.”

  “Ha! Our king has no reason to send out anyone to search for this Brendan and his men. He is little better than a fugitive, so far as our laws are concerned.”

  “That’s right. No matter how you look at it, none of them are any part of Dun Farraige.”

  “But this Brendan might just succeed. He might return with his ransom.”

  “If he returns empty-handed, he’ll simply be a prisoner again, safely held here in a room in this very hall. Perhaps I will favor him with a visit and take him some honey wine.”

  All of the weaving women laughed. “Or maybe he won’t come back at all. Maybe he’ll just flee back to his own kingdom, happy to be alive and nothing more!”

  Muriel closed her eyes as the others’ laughter started up again. Brendan would never turn away from the task he had been given, for that would only make him the butt of jokes for years to come. She knew very well the amount of pride he took in being the tanist of Dun Bochna—to say nothing of his own personal pride in himself.

  She wished, now, that King Murrough had indeed kept him a prisoner, just as she had seen…for if he were a prisoner, he would be safe, and he would be alive. Muriel knew that Brendan would never flee back to his home without keeping his promise to bring back the ransom he owed. Only death or capture could stop him. He would come back victorious with King Odhran’s cattle or he would never come back at all.

  The sun set yet again, and the waning moon rose, but still there was no sign of Brendan or his men.