Into the Shadows (Islands in the Mist Book 4)

by J. M. Hofer

  “Where are the men who did this to her?”

  Again, Cerridwen stirred the water. Again, Bran watched. He saw a man chained in a room, hair and beard grown long with neglect.

  “Where is he?” Every drop of blood in his body screamed the question. The cauldron offered a vision of a fortress in a land Bran did not recognize, and his frustration surged.

  Then, unbidden, an infant’s face emerged from the water, one whose features were so like his daughter’s, the resemblance could not be denied. “Who is this child?” Bran demanded. Questions tumbled down upon him like a rockslide, but the water did not respond. He looked up, but the figure standing before him was no longer Cerridwen. It was Arawn.

  As Lord of the Underworld, you would know the answers to all your questions, and have the power to do as you wish with that knowledge. But you must choose.

  ***

  Lucia felt Bran kiss her cheek and leave their bed, struggling to get to his feet. She assumed he had gone outside to relieve himself, but after a half hour had passed and he had not returned, she grew concerned. She sat up, squinting at the window, but there was no hint of morning in it. She shivered as the cold air hit her bare skin and pulled the furs up around her shoulders. He took his walking stick. Where’s he gone? She went outside and scanned the village, but there was no sign of him. Knowing he would be angry if she went looking for him, she went back to bed and waited. Yet, when the sun at last blushed the sky, he had still not returned. She went about her morning chores, until, at last, he appeared, leaning on his walking stick and descending the path from Mynyth Aur. She sighed with relief. She had assumed that must have been where he went—he faithfully made that climb every morning, except when the herbs had made it impossible for him—but he had never made it in the middle of the night before. He must not have been able to sleep.

  He spent the better part of the morning with Branok, and then came to her. “Lucia, I must speak with you. Will you walk with me?”

  She looked at him sideways. “Now? I have so much work to do…”

  “Please.”

  Her face grew ashen. “What’s happened?”

  “Come and walk with me.”

  She left her laundry and took his hand. They walked out of the village and up to the top of Mynyth Aur. All the trees had turned from green to brown, gold and russet hues. A few of the trees still flamed with crimson, but they, too, would soon succumb to winter’s call.

  Though his footsteps did not falter, she knew Bran was in pain. She could see it in the white-knuckle grip around his walking staff.

  “How much medicine do you have left?”

  “None, Lucia.”

  “None?” Shock sent her heart leaping like a deer into the forest. She had kept a close eye on the pouch hanging from his belt. At last glance, it had seemed at least half full. She had noticed him worsening since returning, but had ignored it, telling herself it was simply weariness from the journey and he would get better. “Since when?”

  “Since we returned from Rheged. There is nothing more than willow bark in the pouch, now.” He squeezed her close. “Listen to me. I’m done with this, cariad—I’m done with all of this.”

  “What do you mean, done with this?” She felt as if she were on a rushing river, headed for the falls, and no matter how frantically she paddled, she could not escape its pull.

  Bran took her by the hand, leading her to the spot he had climbed to nearly every morning since she could remember. They reached the summit, and he sat down upon a boulder, pulling her to sit between his legs. He sighed and wrapped his arms around her. “The week you were lost was the longest week of my life. Urien and his men searched for you day and night, but I could not keep up. I slowed them down so much, I became a burden to them all—no matter how much medicine I chewed. I had to stay behind, Lucia—like a woman—and wait for them to come back with news.” He shook his head. “I can’t live like this anymore. I’m weak. This body no longer serves me. I’ve become a burden. My death should have been at the hands of my father. All the time we’ve had together since that day has been a gift from Arawn—one I cannot keep taking.”

  Panic seized Lucia’s heart. “Don’t you dare tell me you’re going to give up.”

  He let out a heavy sigh. “You don’t understand, cariad. I don’t want to live like this any longer. I become less of myself every day. Soon, I’ll be like I was before when the herbs ran out—no better than a mewling babe. I can feel it happening already.”

  “No.” She choked on her sobs, burying her face in his chest. “Not yet, Bran—we must wait for Creirwy to return…Wait for Creirwy, at least, wait for her—please, for me.”

  He took a deep breath. “I’ve made a pact with Arawn.”

  The realization that he had made such a decision without speaking to her stopped her tears cold. “What do you mean, you’ve made a pact?” She glared at him in disbelief, leapt to her feet and struck him across the face with all her might. “How could you? Without even talking to me?” He made no attempt to protect himself, which angered her even more. She hit him again, and again, feeling as if she were drowning in her anger. “You coward! How could you be so selfish?”

  Bran grabbed her arms and gripped her so tightly she could not escape his embrace. “Lucia! Stop this!”

  She writhed and pushed, cursing at him, but it was no use. At last, she stopped resisting and he released her. She crumpled to the ground and sat back on her heels. He doesn’t love me. He’s giving up. He’s going to leave me. Defeated, she pulled her knees up to her chin and wept.

  Bran put a hand on her shoulder, but she pulled away. He sat down beside her instead. “My time has come, Lucia. I can no longer serve you or the clan as I am. Every day I’m growing weaker, despite the herbs. Please, let me go, before I become as I was before. Let your last memories of me be good ones. I can’t go on living like this. You must understand that. Let me die with honor.”

  Lucia’s heart bucked against the truth like a wild stallion, unwilling to submit to it. “I’m not ready, Bran.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “But more than that, heartbroken. I don’t see how you could make this decision without speaking to me.”

  “It was the only way I could have.”

  When she felt his arms around her again, she did not throw them off. She felt as if it were the only thing tethering her to the earth; that if she were to let go, she would spin out into the wind like dry leaves.

  ***

  Bran stayed on the mountain for some time after Lucia left. He spent most of the morning carrying wood up from the stores for the Great Hall. There was much already gathered for the winter. It took him several hours to do a job that once would have taken him but a few minutes, being able to lug but a few pieces at a time. He knew he was wasting time he might otherwise be spending with his family, but he could not suffer anyone else to be burdened with the building of his pyre. While he stacked the wood, he thought back on the hours he had spent contemplating how he would ask Lucia to come and be his queen, and her initial refusals of his offer. Perhaps she would have been better off on the Isle, after all. His heart winced. She would have none of the heartache I’ve wrought on her, but she would still have had the twins—either way, we would have had our night together at Beltane. She would have sent me Gareth, once he came of age, and Arhianna might now be a powerful priestess, instead of…where she is. He felt sick and pulled up the edge of his tunic to wipe the sweat from his brow.

  When the frame of the pyre was built, he set off to gather kindling. He grew dizzy as he stooped and stood, over and over, pulling up dry grass. He carried it to the pyre and stuffed it into the frame with filthy, shaking hands. He could no longer help groaning from the pain in his heart, but at least, up there, no one could hear him.

  Once he had finished, he gathered offerings for the gods. He had offered up many over the years from that same spot; offerings to Blodeuwedd, when the first green shoots appeared after a hard winter, and to Epona for every healthy
spring foal. Many offerings from over the years yet remained there—Gareth’s first perfect blade still stood upright in a rock niche but a few feet from him. He and Gareth had made the climb, after he had finished it, to offer it up to Gofannon as thanks for his blessings and patronage. At least my son is happy, with a good wife and heir of his own already. Once I’m gone, he’ll rise to his place as chieftain. I’ve been a better father to him than I’ve been to his sister.

  What he had contemplated most upon that mount were not the great questions, however. They were the countless day-to-day concerns—wondering how many of the bees in the hives and the sheep in the fields would survive the winter, deciding when it was safe to sow the grain, praying for a good hunt—hundreds of such moments swirled about him like a fog of dreams, driving him back and forth between joy and sorrow.

  The last memory he indulged as he descended the mountain trail that afternoon was of Arhianna’s gleeful squeals. She had always been there to greet him at the bottom. He would chase her home, letting her outrun him until she almost reached the door of their hut, then sweep her up in his arms and turn her about until she grew so dizzy she would beg him to put her down. Now, the world around him ached with the absence of her laughter.

  It was Maur who first met him at the gate. “So you’ve had enough of us, eh?” He did his best to smile. “Buddug wouldn’t let your wife alone until she told her what was ailin’ ‘er so much.” He came and offered a shoulder for Bran to lean on. “I understand,” he said after a moment, as they hobbled together toward Bran’s hut. “I understand, but I’ll miss the bloody hell outta ye, my friend. We all will.”

  Bran put a hand on his shoulder. “Would you do me a favor?”

  “Anything.”

  “Ask Buddug to gather the rest of the women and prepare a feast in the Great Hall tonight. I want my last night on this earth to be one the clan shall never forget.

  Maur put his hands on his shoulders and then embraced him. “Already done.”

  ***

  As soon as the sun began to set, Bran took up his walking staff and struggled to his feet.

  The entire clan was waiting for them as they moved out into the village, arm in arm. Gareth joined them and took his father’s other arm, so that he would have no need of his walking staff. The three of them made their way toward the mountain path, the clan trailing behind them. They led them into the Great Hall, where the women had been working all day. The fires were lit and the smell of roasting meat and fresh bread filled the air, but the mood was somber. Bran went to his place at the far end of the hall, stopped, and turned around to address his clan.

  “Now is not the time for tears,” he cried with a wide smile. “Rejoice for me, for I go to join the gods! I shall be made whole again, free to roam the heavens and behold the mysteries of the Silver Wheel.” He raised his hands. “Tonight, I shall feast and drink with our beloved kinsmen, and tomorrow, I shall hunt boar in the forests of Glyn Cuch with Arawn himself!”

  Maur raised a fist and gave a cry of encouragement, followed by the others. When the cheers died down, Bran cried, “Let’s feast!”

  “Music!” Bran called out when everyone had eaten their fill, settling back into the cushions on the floor and pulling Lucia close. “Play us something that will shake every rock in this mountain.” The clan took up drums and harps and played a string of ballads and poems they knew he loved best.

  Bran wished Taliesin was there. There is no one who sings as you do my friend, and your voice would give me great comfort and courage tonight. I don’t think I’ve ever needed it more. I regret not being able to say a proper farewell to you…yet, somehow, I know we shall meet in the spirit, and talk as we always have.

  Bran turned to Gareth, who sat beside him. He gripped his son’s tremendous shoulder, impressed by how strong he had become, and smiled. He was bigger than Bran had ever been, even at his strongest. He felt many things at once as he regarded his son—old and weak, to be certain, but pride outweighed them all. “I’m so proud of you. More than any father who has ever lived. I know all we’ve built will be safe in your hands.”

  Gareth’s green eyes filled with unshed tears. “Thank you, Father. You can count on me.”

  “I know I can.”

  “On us,” Inga corrected. “All of us.” She was sitting beside Gareth holding Branok in her lap. Bran reached over and took him in his arms. He marveled at his tiny perfect features one last time and kissed his forehead. “He’s got the fierce blood of both Saxon and Brython. Whichever side wins this war in the end, he’ll be a victor. Who knows? He may unite us all.”

  Hours passed with more songs, tributes and stories offered by those who knew Bran best. Maur, Idris, Buddug, Brokkr, Neirin and then Lucia herself all offered up what they loved most about him, or a memory that had stuck with them over the years.

  “I’ll never forget the day we first tracked the cauldron-born to the caves,” Neirin said with a shudder. “That foul place still haunts my dreams.”

  “Remember the battle in the grove, the day we defeated the cauldron-born?” Idris offered. “How our great Oak pulled their corpses under her skirts with her roots? I’d never seen a tree move of its own will. But it didn’t even seem to faze you, Pennaeth.”

  Maur held up his drinking horn. “Remember that first taste of the apple wine from the Isle? Thought I’d never get the pleasure of it on my tongue, but the gods were good.” He chuckled. “They’ve been good many times since. Who would have thought old Tegid would end up being such a loyal friend of the Oaks?”

  Buddug put an arm around Maur. “All well and good, men. But the most precious memory to me, and our dear Pennaeth as well, has got to be the night his dear twins were born. None of your battle or drinking stories will ever top that.”

  At this, Bran looked up and met her gaze. “You’re so right, Lady Buddug.” He looked over at Lucia and Gareth in turn, feeling again the loss of his daughter’s presence. “So right.”

  ***

  The night wore on, and Bran grew restless. Lucia summoned all the love and courage she had within her soul to look him in the eyes in a way that would let him know she could go on without him.

  He smiled, squeezed her hand, and then took out his dagger. With what yet appeared to be a strong, virile hand, he cut off his long braid. “Keep this to remember me. The rest will become ash and ride the winds to watch over you. Soon, I’ll become the man you loved again.”

  She shook her head. “That’s what you don’t understand—you never stopped being the man I love.”

  He sighed, pulling her close. “Then I’ll be the man I want to be again. There are things I’ve been shown that you don’t know of yet, but one day, you will—and then you’ll understand why it had to be this way. I’ll be a part of everything, now. You need to trust me. Please, Lucia.”

  Lucia felt a surge of panic, but did not give in to it. I will not make this harder for him. Great Mother, grant me courage. She held him close. “I trust you.”

  He looked down at her and smiled, then bent and kissed her for what she knew would be the last time. As if he had read her mind, he said, “This isn’t the end. Just the end of things as we know them. I’ll be watching over you. When your time comes, I’ll be the first person you see, and we’ll enter the Summerlands together. I swear I’ll not go without you.” He stood up, cocking his head as if he were hearing something she could not. “It’s time. I’ll go up alone. Sing me one more ballad, drink another horn of mead, and then come and send my body to the gods.”

  Lucia stood up and embraced him tightly. She could no longer hold back her tears. “Until we meet again, my love.”

  Bran smiled down at her, kissed her on the forehead, and took up his walking stick. The clan played the drums as he left, chanting an invocation to Arawn.

  Lucia watched him go, fighting the impulse to run and throw her arms around him. She shook, feeling as unstable as a sheet of new snow on an icy slope—one wayward breeze or twitch in the heavens,
and she felt as if she would thunder downward in a torrent of chaotic destruction, laid to waste by the avalanche of her emotions. She jumped as she felt someone put an arm around her shoulders.

  “I’m right here, Mother,” Gareth said, his arm warm and comforting.

  She drew strength from his presence. When the last note of the next song trailed off into the air around them in the Great Hall, she raised her hands and addressed the clan, “Let us go send our noble chieftain to Arawn.”

  The clan cheered as she took up a torch and led the way out of the hall. Gareth stayed near, but let her walk ahead of him, the first on the path to the summit.

  The night felt cold around her. Her heart pounded in anticipation of the scene she would find atop the mountain, yet she did not hesitate or falter as she led the procession to the top of Mynyth Aur, torch held high in her hand. One foot went in front of the other, in time with the drums that resounded behind her. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Each step well-placed and deliberate, as if she were dancing. I am coming, my love. Coming to send you on your way. Coming to honor you. Right…left…right…left…until she reached the summit.

  There stood Bran’s pyre, with Bran laid out upon it as if he were merely sleeping. But she knew he was not. Her breath echoed inside of her chest, barely audible over the sound of her pounding heart. Great Mother, speak your words through me. Send comfort and courage to us all.

  Lucia went and stood at Bran’s head. “Great Arawn, come and claim my husband. You have won him at last. Show him the way to the Summerlands, and let him know I do not wish for him to wait for me. Tell him I shall join him there, when my time comes.”