Into the Shadows (Islands in the Mist Book 4)

by J. M. Hofer

  The closer he got to Caer Leon, the less he labored over what to do, how to think, or what he had done wrong—as if he had at last awoken from a night fraught with terrible dreams. All that was left now was breathing and riding—breathing and riding at dawn, breathing and riding through the day, breathing and riding until nightfall—until the road met the Usk river and ran along its green and silver curves toward the sea.

  Once he reached the place where its sweet water mixed with the sea, he sat down to wait for his mother and daughter to arrive.

  ***

  Ula had now fought the ocean’s dangers and currents for days and nights on end. The weight and awkwardness of the child inside her skin had greatly hindered her ability to swim as fast as she might have; that, and the shark had taken a bit of her fin before the porpoises had come along. We’ve survived, but for how long? She pressed her good fin against her little body often, feeling for her heartbeat, which had steadily grown fainter with each passing day. I am weak, and so is she.

  When she at last reached the waters of Môr Hafren, the sea between Caer Leon and Dumnonia, she nearly wept for joy. Its waters were calmer, warmer, and kinder, but most importantly, she knew she would make it.

  Hours passed. She swam on, eager to close the gap between her promise and its fulfillment. Each time she tasted fresh water mixing with salt her heart leapt, knowing she had reached a river—but there were many rivers flowing between her and her promise.

  Another river. She surfaced and surveyed its banks. There, waiting for her as he had sworn, sat her sea-child. She recalled the beautiful baby boy the sea had given her, so many years ago, and marveled that now he had a child of his own. Again, she pressed her fin to the babe. Her heartbeat felt stronger, as if she knew they had arrived as well.

  Taliesin noticed her and stood up to wave. She swam toward him with a burst of adrenaline, eager to complete her task. She felt so exhausted, she could barely manage to scoot herself upon the shore and wriggle out of her skin. She pulled her good hand free first, then, her other, which now had only one finger and a thumb.

  Taliesin noticed her hand, and his face twisted like driftwood. “Mother, what happened?”

  “The big fish take everything most of the time. I was lucky he only took my hand.”

  He kneeled down beside her and helped her wriggle the rest of the way out of her skin. “Do not pull her out—” Ula commanded. “She is safe in my skin—as if she were still in her mother’s body. Bring her out only when the time is right—not until then.” So many words. She had not spoken in so long. She felt as if all her breath had flown from her. She put her good hand to her chest and gasped. Taliesin took off his cloak and wrapped it around her.

  She bundled up his soon-to-be twice-born daughter tightly in her skin and handed her to him. Ula felt the sea leak from her eyes. Exhaustion, fear, worry—they had all pursued her like the shark had. But now, all is well. “She is warm and safe, but time is running out. You must get her to her new mother. Go as fast as you can.” In that moment, as if her body knew its work was done, she felt her damaged organs beginning to fail. She herself had been living on borrowed time as well. She had not been afraid to die—she had been afraid to fail her son and granddaughter. Now, that fear was gone. All that remained was the promise of rest. “I am sorry I left you and your father.”

  Taliesin shook his head but said nothing.

  “Your brother is old enough now to choose his own life. Tell your father about him. Tell your father I am sorry for that as well.” She embraced him, kissing him farewell on the cheek.

  Taliesin pulled away and looked at her. He, too, had the sea leaking from his eyes. “Don’t be sorry, Mother. Don’t be sorry for anything.”

  She smiled. “Whether I was with you or not, I loved you more than you will ever know. I will be watching you from the waves.”

  She did not wait for him to protest, but took the last of her strength and dove back down into the water. She did not surface to look back. Now, great blue mother, take me in your arms.

  She felt the sea pull her limp body deep into its embrace, rocking her with its waves as the currents carried her out into its vast blue peace one last time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Mothered by Three

  Taliesin watched the surface of the water for what felt like an eternity, until he could no longer deny the truth of what had just happened. He sat down on the bank of the river, his daughter in his lap, and sang a eulogy for his mother. All around him the world seemed to lean in and listen in reverence, softening and bending toward his voice, until he sang his last note.

  He sat on the bank in silence a moment, then rose up, mounted his horse, and settled the sealskin bundle that contained his daughter in front of him on the saddle. He held it close to his body by wrapping his cloak around it and tucking its edges into this belt. He rode with his delicate cargo along the river road to Caer Leon as fast as he dared. In a daze, he gave his name to the guard, who, fortunately, recognized him. “The bard, right?” one said, eyeing his harp, which he had slung across his back.

  “Yes.”

  “Welcome back,” the guard said. “I owe you one. Saw you in the hall last year. My wife and I’d just had a right terrible fight, and after hearin’ you sing that night, she forgot ‘all about it an’ cuddled up to me like we were twennie years young again!”

  Taliesin forced a smile on his face. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  The guard gave him a nod. “Good to have ye back. I’ll send a messenger to let the Pendragon know you’ve returned.”

  “Tell me,” Taliesin said, dismounting as carefully as he could, “has the queen’s time come yet?”

  The guard grinned. “Any day, now. Whole village is holdin’ its breath. I know it’ll be a son. The Pendragon’ll have nothin’ but sons, I’m sure of it. My wife, of course, says it’ll be a daughter. I think she says it just to spite me, but I know it’ll be a son.”

  Taliesin handed his reins over to the stable hand, who had come to fetch his horse. “Well, hopefully, we’ll all know soon enough.”

  “Best not too soon. Seems the lad’s impatient, like his father—wants to come early. The queen’s been on bed rest for two weeks now.”

  Taliesin felt glad to hear this. His entire plan depended on timing. “Well, if the boy is anything like his father, he’ll be a strong fighter. He’ll be throwing a spear before we know it.” He bid the guard farewell, insisting he needed no escort, and headed for Uthyr’s hall.

  Uthyr was not there, but Igerna’s mother was. Taliesin had met her but once, and thrashed his mind to remember her name. Oh, yes. The Lady Gwen. “Oh, Taliesin!” she cried, a smile spreading across her face. “I’m so glad you’re here. My daughter is low in spirits, would you consider coming with me to her chambers and playing for her? I know it would cheer her up. She worries too much.”

  Taliesin felt as if Cerridwen had just stirred the contents of her cauldron with her staff, spinning her brew in his direction. “I would be honored, Lady Gwen.”

  She led him to a door and bid him wait while she went in and spoke to Igerna. He could hear muffled voices within the room for some time before Lady Gwen emerged and beckoned to him. “She is so happy you’re here—please, come in.”

  Taliesin ventured in, stepping as lightly as he could, feeling as if he were entering a temple. The queen lay on a large bed piled high with furs. A fire blazed in the hearth, tended by a young maiden, perhaps twelve years old.

  Igerna propped herself up on her elbows. As if the furs were not enough, she, too, was dressed in a fur-trimmed robe. Her bright, blue eyes shone out at him from above flushed cheeks. “Taliesin, sweet bard, come closer.”

  “My queen, I hear good news is close at hand.”

  “God willing, yes. Tell me of Arhianna. I sent a messenger north with a letter for her, but it was never returned.” She beckoned him closer. “Please, come and sit at the end of the bed. I cannot speak very loudly.”

 
Taliesin did as she bid.

  “I’ve had terrible nightmares about her,” she confided to him. “Terrible. Do you know where she is?”

  Taliesin hesitated a moment. He had grown so accustomed to lying he had developed a habit of pausing to evaluate what consequences the truth might carry before answering any inquiry. He hated it. Then he remembered Igerna was the only other person alive he had chosen to tell the truth to. Because my mother is dead, now. Dead, so that my daughter might live.

  “She is training to become a warrior.”

  Igerna’s eyes shot open. “What? Why in the world would she do that?”

  “I don’t know, my queen. But she has secured herself a highly-coveted teacher. Perhaps when she completes her training you can bring her to court and put her in charge of the vanguard.”

  Igerna grinned. “Unbelievable! I would never have guessed.”

  Taliesin shook his head. “Nor I.” He burned to get to the business at hand—to tell her everything. He glanced over at her mother and the maiden sitting by the fire, wondering how he might fashion a way to be alone with Igerna, but could think of nothing that would not arouse suspicion.

  Then, as if the Great Mother herself had heard his desires, Lady Gwen rose from her chair. “Now that we have a bard at court, I’m going to the kitchen to tell them to prepare something special for tonight. I’ll be back soon.” She walked over to the servant girl and touched her on the shoulder, then made some signals with her hands. The girl nodded in understanding.

  Gods, the maiden is deaf. Thank you, Great Mother. His heart pounded in anticipation. After he heard Lady Gwen’s footsteps fade away, he pulled forth the sealskin bundle from beneath his cloak, and scooted a foot closer to Igerna. “I have much to tell you,” he said in a low tone. “Arhianna and I have had a daughter—who sleeps within this sealskin, right now.”

  Igerna’s eyes grew round but she said nothing. He proceeded to explain the entire story, starting with Myrthin and the stones, and ending with Ula’s sacrifice to get his daughter safely to Caer Leon.

  Igerna listened to every word with rapt attention, never interrupting, until he finished. Then she reached out and took the sealskin in her arms. “You’re telling me there’s a babe, in this skin, who has only drawn but a few hours of breath?

  “Yes. And she’ll be taken by the Sidhe of Knockma if you don’t help us.”

  “But, how?”

  Taliesin took a deep breath. He feared he would not have much more time before Lady Gwen returned. “Keep the sealskin in your bed, and, when your time comes, insist the room stay dark, like it is now. After the birth of your own child, the midwives shall be occupied caring for it. Then, you must rip open the sealskin and slip her out. Smear her with the blood of your childbirth, and from that moment on, she shall be yours. And yours she shall always be, for she shall have no knowledge of her first two mothers. Her first cry will be for you. And her first taste of milk shall flow from your breasts.”

  Igerna felt overwhelmed. Again, she felt the sealskin bundle. So many have done so much to bring you to me, it must be the Great Mother’s will that we be together. How peculiar, for a child to have three mothers…yet how thrilled Uthyr shall be, to have two babes—a son and daughter. Twins are a blessing. The people shall rejoice. Yet I shall weep. I shall weep for my dear friend Arhianna, who shall not know the sweet pleasure of holding or suckling her. “But what of poor Arhianna? How can we deny her such joy?”

  Taliesin shook his head. “Right now, she believes the selkie are raising her child. This was what Scáthach demanded if she wished to train with her. Arhianna knows nothing of what I have done, nor do I think she remembers anything of our time in Knockma—at least, for now.” He thought of the feather he had sent with Gawyr, and wondered if he had yet delivered it into Arhianna’s hands. If he had, perhaps her memories of Knockma had returned. And with them, what confusion would fall upon her. Oh, Arhianna, there is so much I need to explain to you. If only I could have spoken to you. Once our daughter is safe, I’ll return. “If she would have kept her daughter, she would not have known her for long—the Sidhe have been watching her since we escaped Knockma. They would have stolen her away.”

  Igerna sighed. “Well, when the time is right, Arhianna shall come and live with us at court. She shall know her daughter well. As shall you, for I swear, I shall ensure Myrthin is no longer welcome at court. He shall pay for his treachery. You must stay and take your rightful place as Uthyr’s Pen Bairth. As such, you may watch your daughter grow and teach her the Old Ways, as my mother taught me. I shall have to play the part of a dutiful Christian, for Uthyr’s sake, but you will not.” She smiled. “But there is one thing I must insist on.”

  Taliesin would have granted her the moon if he could have. “What is it, my queen?”

  “I cannot call my daughter Morrigan—she is far too violent and bloody a goddess—and yet, I cannot ignore her mother’s choice completely. I wish to change her name but slightly, to Morgen—born of the sea. For that surely suits her well, does it not?”

  Taliesin agreed with her. He had not wanted his daughter to carry the name of a violent war goddess, but dared not change the only thing her mother had given her. Still, this much the queen had a right to ask for. “It surely does, my queen.” He smiled. “It surely does.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The Sun and Moon

  Taliesin breathed in a deep draught of cold winter air as he watched the sun sink behind the western hills. The shortest day of the year was nearly over. A great feast had been prepared in the hall, and a bonfire nearly as tall as the village walls stood ready. They would light it at sundown and it would burn through the night, heralding the rebirth of the sun and the return of the life-giving Oak King.

  With the village in such a flurry of excitement, he took no particular notice when the drummers began to play and voices began rising up around him—not until Lady Gwen herself came and gripped him by the shoulders. “Taliesin! Please, come with me—Uthyr has sent for you.” She beamed. “She’s had twins! My daughter has given the Pendragon twins! And they’re both so beautiful—so perfect.” She whispered a prayer of thanks. “Uthyr’s had food and wine delivered to the queen’s chambers, and has asked for you to come and play for them. He wants to celebrate the solstice with his wife tonight.” Lady Gwen pushed her way through the crowd, leading him toward the castle. “Think of it…born on winter solstice…the omens couldn’t be better!”

  ***

  Uthyr stood at his wife’s bedside beaming brighter than the sun at high noon on midsummer. “Twins, Taliesin. A boy and a girl. Can you believe it?”

  “Congratulations, Pennaeth. And to you, my queen.”

  Igerna gave him a knowing smile. “Thank you, Taliesin.”

  “Well? What are you waiting for?” Uthyr beckoned to him. “Come closer! You can’t see them from there!”

  Taliesin ventured over to the bed. The two babes slept in their mother’s arms, one golden-haired with a reddish complexion and the other as pale as a moonlit pearl with hair of midnight. His heart thumped, wondering which was his daughter.

  Uthyr put an arm around his shoulders. “I’ve named my son Arthur, and my wife insists our daughter shall be called Morgen.” He took his wife’s hand and kissed it. “How remarkable they both are, don’t you think?” Uthyr grinned as he picked up the golden-haired babe and held him up like a priest with a sacred offering. “My first-born son,” he said, voice burgeoning with pride. He admired him a moment and then tucked him in the crook of his arm without the trepidation so common to new fathers.

  Fighting back tears, Taliesin looked back down at the dark-haired babe. There you are at last, my sweet girl—oh, how I wish I could hold you. Igerna offered him a comforting look.

  Uthyr noticed him staring. “And what a beauty my daughter shall be, don’t you think?” He reached down and stroked Morgen’s head with his free hand. “Her hair seems almost violet in the right light. And I’ve never seen such eye
s. Like the sea when the sky is clear and the sun is bright.”

  Such days were few in Caer Leon, but Taliesin knew exactly what he meant. “She will indeed be a beauty, Pendragon.” He nearly choked on a stifled sorrow, but cleared his throat and coughed.

  Uthyr laid Arthur back down in the furs by his mother’s side. “Don’t tell me you’ve a sore throat—I must have music for my babes and my beautiful wife this day.” He leaned down and kissed Igerna again, this time on the forehead.

  Food and wine began arriving, Lady Gwen overseeing all of the servants and directing them where to set the tables and cushions.

  Uthyr let out a sigh and said, almost to himself, “Never has a man been so blessed.”

  Taliesin nodded, doing his best to hide his grief. “Indeed, you have much to be grateful for, Pendragon.”

  ***

  Igerna stood at the window of her chamber, twisting her golden hair around her fingers as she always did when anxious, staring at the mist drifting across the barren fields below. Mist like the night Arthur’s father first came to me. She felt sick. There was no one she could confide in at court—no one she could trust completely, except Taliesin. Oh, Myrthin, does your treachery know no end? First Uthyr, now, this? Like a fool in Tintagel, I trusted you. But no more. I shall keep my children safe from the likes of you.

  She called for her nursemaid.

  “Are they still hungry, my lady?”

  “No, no—they both have round bellies. I fear they’ve actually drunk a bit too much. Could you please ask Master Taliesin to come and sing to them?”

  “Of course, my lady. We all love hearing him play. We all sleep better.”

  Soon after, Taliesin appeared in the doorway with his harp. “You asked for me?”

  “Yes, Taliesin. Please, come and play for the babes.” She walked up to him and added, in a whisper, “I must speak with you, but no one else can hear us…can you play softly and mask my voice?” She motioned to the young girl by the hearth, who was embroidering something. “There’s no need to worry about my handmaiden—she’s deaf—but there are others who listen.”