Into the Shadows (Islands in the Mist Book 4)
Page 6
Bran nodded his head and smiled, looking at him in a way that said no further explanation was necessary.
Taliesin’s heart gladdened in spite of the pain Arhianna’s departure had wrought upon it.
The news of his arrival spread quickly, in spite of Lucia’s attempt to keep it a secret. Gareth, Inga, Laust, Buddug, Maur and a great many other Oaks paraded in and out of the hut, smothering him with questions and embraces. He learned Gareth and Inga were expecting a child at the end of the summer. This, at first, brought him joy, but it quickly turned into self-pity—for somewhere, Arhianna carried his child and did not even know it. She would surely think it was Jørren’s. “I’m happy for you both,” he managed to say, for indeed he was.
Lucia came to him at one point and whispered, “I know you didn’t want everyone here, but it couldn’t be helped—I’ll visit you in the grove soon. You can tell me everything then.”
***
Taliesin felt a growing sense of serenity as he approached the grove, the unique smell of the forest flooding him with nostalgia. He stopped at the various patches of ground Islwyn had cultivated over the years. It comforted him to know the roots and seeds of his master’s herbs and plants slept beneath the earth, like Islwyn himself, except that, unlike him, they would awake again come spring. He suppressed a tear. I miss you, old friend.
He reached the grove aided by nothing but moonlight, touch and memory, for night had fallen by the time he left the village. He could have taken a lantern or torch, but he never liked disturbing the creatures of the forest. He preferred to move as one of them, relying on his subtler senses. They served him well, for he reached the grove without much trouble. The Oak welcomed him home, as she always did, her sheltering limbs reaching out to him in a wide, beckoning canopy. I’m still here, my love, her leaves whispered to him through the dark breeze. He leaned into her trunk, like a child against his mother’s hip, and pressed his palms against her bark. Home, at last.
After awhile, he felt drawn to the yew, where Islwyn lay buried. He built a small fire between its twisted, exposed roots and fashioned himself a crude bed for the night. I’ve come to pass the evening with you, dear Master, just as we used to, not so very long ago. He prepared the tea Islwyn was most fond of and sat down cross-legged next to the fire. He sprinkled a few drops on Islwyn’s grave and then sipped the rest, thinking of his beloved mentor. He gazed up at the stars through the rough tangle of branches overhead and felt a rushing wave of confirmation. Nimue, you were right about one thing—this world is not for us. We were meant to dwell between the worlds, to watch over the divine thresholds and guide those ready to cross them.
The grove and the creatures it sheltered worked a deep, slow magic upon him, the way the roots of its denizens worked their way into the earth. He spent the rest of the night playing the songs Islwyn had taught him as a boy. They came forth without effort—as if he were listening to someone else play them. He had breathed life into them so many times over the years that each one was woven tightly into the very fabric of his heart.
***
Morning came. Taliesin was so deep in thought he did not hear footsteps enter the grove.
“Taliesin?”
“Oh!” He turned to see Lucia standing but a few feet away and jumped.
“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
He bid his heart calm down. “No, I’m fine.”
She put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come. Bran’s been unwell. He’s using a new mix of herbs from Myrthin, and we’ve not yet determined how much is too much.”
Myrthin. The name chilled Taliesin’s blood. “You get Bran’s medicine from Myrthin?”
“Yes. Without it, I fear Bran would go mad from the pain.”
Any peace remaining in Taliesin’s heart fled at the idea of Myrthin traveling on a regular basis to Mynyth Aur. He stood up and looked her in the eye. “Myrthin cannot be trusted.” He glanced up into the trees and around the grove with suspicion, as if the old druid might emerge at any moment. “Please, bring Bran’s medicine to me. I’m sure I can figure out what’s in it, and make it for him myself.”
Lucia gave him a half-smile. “You can try, but I don’t expect you’ll have any luck. I say that only because Aveta has tried. There are things in Myrthin’s mixture not even she can identify. She insists, whatever they are, they don’t grow in our lands. Only Myrthin knows where to get them.”
Taliesin contemplated this as he went to the doorway of Islwyn’s old hut and threw back the skins that covered it. “Come inside.”
Lucia entered and settled herself on a blanket beside the fire. He said a few spells at the door to protect the space inside from any spirits who might be listening, then joined her. “I’ve not eaten since you fed me,” he confessed, stirring some bone marrow broth in a small cauldron hanging over his cooking fire. “Would you like some?”
Lucia shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m eager to hear your story, but before you begin, I want to ask you about someone. Do you know a woman named Viviaine?”
Taliesin froze, recalling Uthyr’s words: Your Nimue of Affalon came to me with a request. Well, rather, Myrthin brought her to me. She called herself Viviaine, however. I suppose that’s the name her mother gave her.” He could barely swallow.
Lucia reached into her pocket and handed him a letter. “She came to deliver this to Arhianna. It’s merely an invitation from Queen Igerna to visit her at Caer Leon, so I find it strange she would send such a delicate woman, alone, no less, to deliver it. Such a task could have easily been given to any number of men riding north for trade or other business.”
The hairs on the back of Taliesin’s neck stood up. “What did she look like?”
“Quite beautiful—skin as pale as a silver birch and hair as white as the moon. I’m certain if you’d ever met her, you’d remember.”
Taliesin’s heart quickened. There could be no question. It was her. She was here.
Lucia narrowed her eyes on him. “You know her, don’t you?”
Taliesin’s stomach tightened. “I do.”
“Who is she?”
He took a deep breath. “Her true name is Nimue. I met her on Ynys Wydryn, in the summerlands of Affalon.”
“The Isle of Glass.” Lucia smiled, seeming unsurprised by his answer. “Affalon truly exists, then. Not just a place from the songs?”
“It’s where I’ve been all these moons. I first saw her world in the Brisingamen, when Arhianna and I were still in Jutland. Once I’d seen it, I could think of nothing else. It called to me day and night.” He told her how he had gotten to Affalon and met Nimue. He paused, remembering when he had first seen Nimue’s face hovering over him under the Willow. The memory softened his heart. “You should know, were it not for her, our spirits might still be trapped in Knockma, and you would yet be singing to your daughter’s sleeping body every night.”
Lucia furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”
Taliesin explained how Myrthin had traded them to Oonagh and Finbheara in exchange for the stones of Eire, and how, by the grace of Nimue’s gifted silver apple, Arhianna’s spirit had escaped.
Lucia squinted at him. “What do you mean Myrthin traded your lives for the stones? That’s not possible. You can’t barter with another’s life—only your own.”
Taliesin shook his head. “Unfortunately, it is possible. You and I know very little of dark magic. Something I intend to change.”
Lucia shook her head, looking as if she had just smelled something foul. “I swear, the next time I see that accursed druid, I shall strangle him to death!” She spit into the fire. “Snake! Pretending to care for us, sending medicine for Bran, all the while knowing he had bartered away my daughter’s life?”
Taliesin had a disturbing thought. “Does he know Arhianna has awoken from her sleep?”
Lucia’s angry scowl faded. “Yes, I imagine he does. It was happy news. We saw no reason to hide it from anyone.”
“I don’t know—we took her to Caer Lundein for Uthyr’s victory games, but I don’t remember if Myrthin was there or not. Then we came home, but she and Jørren left within the moon. They’ve been gone some time now.”
Taliesin’s heart sank. “Long enough for news of her recovery to reach Myrthin, whether he was there or not, and for him to devise a plot to lure her down to Caer Leon.” He gripped the letter and held it up. “He might have written this and asked Nimue—or Viviaine—to deliver it for him.”
Lucia shook her head. “No, he writes in a much different hand. I have a letter from him.”
“May I see it?”
“I don’t have it with me, but their script is nothing alike.”
Taliesin shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. He’s going to try to return her to Knockma, if he hasn’t already.” With your unborn grandchild in her belly, he thought to himself. “Me, as well, once he learns of my escape.”
Lucia clutched her stomach, and the blood drained from her face. “I fear he might have already—I’ve not heard from her since she left. She swore she’d send word once she and Jørren were settled.” She grabbed Taliesin’s hands. “I heard her scream in a dream of mine—screaming as if she were being…cut open.” She stopped to collect herself, looked at the ground and swallowed. Her hands were trembling. “What are we going to do?” Her grip tightened and then went limp.
The hut fell silent, except for the crackling of the fire, as each of them pondered the situation. Lucia broke the silence first. “You said you were on Ynys Wydryn with Viviaine. Earlier, the same night I heard Arhianna’s scream, I saw you and Viviaine in a place so beautiful I can only imagine that is where it must have been. You both looked so happy—it was clear from what I saw that she loves you. Deeply.”
“She is Nimue to me. And yes, she loves me.” He thought of how she had summoned Arianrhod to carry her away from Knockma after discovering Arhianna was with child. Oonagh had been certain to spare no detail of her distress at hearing the news. “Too much, I fear.”
Lucia smiled, relief washing across her face. “Then she must have come here for you—the message from the queen was simply an excuse to come to Mynyth Aur and look for you.”
“No.” Taliesin shook his head. “I wish that were true, but Nimue left before I found my body and escaped. So she couldn’t have been pursuing me.”
Lucia grimaced. “What do you mean, found your body?”
Taliesin felt overwhelmed by how much there was to try and explain. “Nimue freed my spirit from Knockma, but my body still slept in Gwythno, as Arhianna’s slept here, with you, before she was freed. Somehow, she arranged for my body to be taken to Ynys Wydryn.”
“But how? Your father would never have agreed to it.”
“No. But somehow, she did.”
“Yes, but how?” Lucia repeated. “She’s smaller than I am!”
Taliesin knew Nimue’s powers waned the further she got from Affalon. She had told him so on more than one occasion. Getting his body from Gwythno to Affalon would have been, as Lucia had pointed out, impossible for her to accomplish alone. So how did she do it? Who helped her? The shores of Gwythno are guarded day and night. No ship, however small, sails in or out of the harbor without someone seeing it. And no one enters or leaves the castle without the guards knowing. Certainly not with a body in tow, let alone Lord Elffin’s only son. He considered Nimue’s possible accomplices. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that she must have made a deal with either Myrthin or Finbheara. No one else could have made such a thing happen.
He let out a long sigh. “You’re right. She must have had help. I’m certain it was from either Myrthin or Finbheara. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about them both, it’s that they don’t do anything without demanding something in return.”
Lucia furrowed her brow. “Like what?”
He ignored her question. “How long has it been since Viviaine was here?”
“Nearly a moon.”
Taliesin cringed, fearing he had arrived too late. “I must find Arhianna before she does. I’ll call upon Urien and Ceredig for help. They consider the Oaks friends and allies, and have pledged their allegiance to Uthyr.”
“I’m going with you,” Lucia announced, fire flashing in her eyes.
Taliesin raised his hands in protest. “No—I must go alone. Please don’t do anything until I return. We can’t let anyone know we suspect anything. I’m certain Mynyth Aur is being watched. Tell no one in the village that I’ve left except Gareth and Bran. You’re the only ones who know the way to the grove. The others won’t know for moons that I’m no longer here.”
“So, I’m to stay here and brood?” Lucia’s expression looked so much like Arhianna’s when she was denied something, he could not help but smile. She cocked her head toward him. “What on earth can you possibly be smiling about?”
“You and your daughter wear the same face when you’re frustrated.”
Her frown softened. “Taliesin, you must find her.”
“I know. I swear I will, or die trying.”
Lucia’s eyes widened and she made a gesture to ward off evil. “Great Mother, don’t say such things. I couldn’t bear to lose either one of you. Truly, I couldn’t. You must both come home. Promise me.”
“Don’t worry.” He looked up at the stars through the smokehole of the hut, wishing Arhianna were at Mynyth Aur and all was well, so that he might stay in the grove and forget the endless disappointments of the world. “Gods. It seems the moment I choose a path for myself, the Great Mother makes other plans for me,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Lucia looked at him and nodded. “Oh, I know what that’s like.” She reached over and squeezed his shoulder. I’ll do as you ask, but not for long. If you’re not back within a moon, I’m going north myself.”
“Two moons. Give me two. Please—I know you’ll be followed.”
Lucia sighed. “One and a half. It’ll be Mabon by then. Many clans will be traveling the roads to trade their crops, including us. No one will suspect anything.”
“Fine. Yes.”
Lucia put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it in farewell, leaving him to ponder how in the world he might defeat an enemy the likes of Myrthin or Finbheara.
Nothing at all came to mind.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Caer Ligualid
Taliesin planned to spend a few days in the court of King Urien, absorbing all the news he could about the surrounding countryside and the clans that roamed it. He felt hopeful he would glean some clues as to where to begin searching for Arhianna. He knew Urien would welcome his visit. No chieftain had ever been more persistent in attempting to secure him as Pen Bairth. After hearing him play for the troops before the battle of Mt. Damen, Urien had asked him many times to stay at court. Though Taliesin had felt flattered, he refused, choosing instead to serve Uthyr. And look where that got me. Where might we all be now, if I’d taken Urien up on his offer?
His worries loosened their grip as the hours passed, unable to compete with the rugged beauty of Rheged. Noble-browed mountain peaks stood vigil over serene lakes surrounded by thousands of trees whispering to one another in the breeze. Only the natural world is honest and innocent, he observed. It knows nothing of cruelty and lies.
He thought of the young girl who had come to him on Affalon and addressed him as father. Child, I beg you, if you still have the power to reach me, help me find your mother.
***
His dreams that night answered his plea. The girl returned. She stood over his sleeping body, gazing down at him with a face like the moon, round and luminous.
She took his hand and pulled his spirit from his body. Together, they rose above the trees, hovering high above the land below. Then, as if swept up by a flooded river, they barreled northeast over mountains, valleys and forests to a large Saxon village and descended through the thatched roof of
a barn into foul-smelling darkness. All around, he heard the sound of women weeping.
Help us, Father. The girl squeezed his hand so forcefully, he woke with a cry.
***
Taliesin nearly wore his horse out the next day, haunted by his disturbing dream. Late that afternoon, he reached the stone walls of Caer Ligualid, seat of Urien’s hall and fortress. He rode through the gates on a muddy, sweat-flecked Chrysgod, attracting no more than a distracted nod from the guards. The city had grown since his last visit, nearly rivaling Caer Leon and Viroconium in size. The main street leading to the fortress percolated with noisy merchants attempting to unload the rest of their wares before nightfall. Smoke rose from a long street that held nothing but forges. The sounds of hammering punctuated the crisp air, promising a constant supply of horseshoes, tools, nails and weapons. Urien’s been busy. As busy as Uthyr, from the looks of it.
The taverns were already full of raucous patrons, ripe for entertaining, and Taliesin gave in to the urge to stop and fill his pockets. He sang in praise of their king, and the crowd cheered and moved in tighter and tighter, packing the tavern to hear him play. Though he had been careful not to give his name to anyone, one of Urien’s men happened to be in the tavern and recognized him. “I’d like to speak with Urien, if it could be arranged,” Taliesin said to him in confidence.
The man gladly agreed to escort him to the fortress. “He’ll be thrilled you’re here. The man loves music more than anyone I know.”
Taliesin soon found himself standing before Urien in his hall. Weavings and carvings of deft craftsmanship graced the walls and floors. Urien himself, however, arrived unadorned, wearing the simplest of clothes over his large, muscular frame. His face was windburned, and his hands, rough and calloused. One could easily have mistaken him for a common warrior. It was only when he moved and spoke that one realized one was in the presence of a great chieftain. “You’ve finally made good on your promise, I see!” he boomed with a smile.