The split second before Brennon released the arrow, he realized it would not meet its mark. He had been hunting the doe all morning, following her tracks with stealth and staying downwind as he moved through the forest like a silent fog. Well, as silent as the occasional twig underfoot and clump of brush tugging on his cloak would allow him. To get to this point and foul up on something as simple as a bowshot from such a short distance was unforgiveable. He and Rori had been without fresh meat for over a week now, and the both of them were craving venison stew and hoping for jerky to carry them past Samhain.
Biting back a curse as the fletching of the misdirected arrow brushed against his arm guard, Brenn could only hope this shot wounded the deer enough, so he could follow her and finish the job. He hated it when the animals didn’t die right away, for the last thing he wanted was to cause more suffering than necessary, but there was no helping it now.
In the end, the arrow didn’t miss his target as terribly as he thought it would. The arrowhead struck the doe high on the shoulder, forcing a scream from her pale throat, but not taking her down completely. Instead, she bolted into the thick undergrowth as fast as her injury would allow her.
Brenn sighed. He had promised Rori he would be home before dark, now, he wasn’t so sure.
You cannot just leave her to die, he grumbled to himself. Might take her all night, long hours of agony, and then, the wolves will take advantage of your ill luck.
Already, the sun was beginning to dip toward the western horizon, the sky taking on the deeper colors of impending twilight. If fortune was on his side, he’d find the deer right away and be home before the predators living in this forest scented the blood. Pulling his cloak tighter, Brennon narrowed his eyes and began his new hunt, trying hard not to think of the Samhain feast day that was fast approaching. How had the time slipped away from him? One moment, their part of Eile was in the throes of summer, and in the next he and his nephew were busy bringing in the harvest: Apples and pears from their small orchard, barley, corn, turnips and other root vegetables from the fields. Hay, oats and feed grains had been growing since early spring and stored in the barn as food and bedding supplies for the animals. Although Brenn and Rori had plenty to eat and enough to see the animals through the cold months, this time of year brought with it a taint of darkness which never failed to taunt Brennon’s demons.
Pushing through the tangled, dark-thorned bramble patches that contributed to the wood’s name, Brenn quickly reined in his thoughts and sent them down a different path. Instead, he turned his attention to his surroundings. Occupying several dozen acres of Eile’s northern lands, Dorcha Forest was second in size only to the Weald far to the southwest. The corner of Brenn’s mouth curved up in amusement, despite the impending dark and the still missing deer. As large as Dorcha was, it didn’t hold a candle to the Weald, and as dangerous as it was to be stuck in this particular forest at night, finding yourself lost in Cernunnos’s grand wilderness was far more terrifying. Or so he’d heard. Regardless, Dorcha boasted a mix of evergreen and deciduous trees and was said to harbor many wild creatures both natural and unnatural.
Brenn shivered as the bitterness of disgust rose in his throat. Being so close to the Morrigan’s realm, he wouldn’t be surprised if an entire legion of faelah lurked under the cover of these trees. And of course, thinking of faelah only brought his mind back to the past he wanted to forget, a past filled with violence, hatred and loss.
The young Faelorehn man pulled his cloak more tightly about himself. Six years was not a very long time in the lifespan of someone native to Eile, but when those years were spent in the employ of the Morrigan, his world’s most brutal and sadistic goddess, every day, every hour, felt like an eternity. A month after turning sixteen, Brennon had been handed over to the war goddess’s scouts by his own neighbors. He had a gift, one they feared and one he considered a curse, and it had earned him too many enemies, even at such a young age. The farm where he and his nephew now lived had belonged to their family since Eile first came into existence, or so it seemed, and their flocks and fields were always plentiful. The truth of the matter was the soil of Ardun, the land surrounding Roarke Manor, was imbued with ancient magic, magic that had made the harvests plentiful and his family wealthy.
Everyone in the village of Dundoire Hollow either envied the Roarkes, desired their friendship or outright hated them. One family in particular embodied all three. The Corcorain clan sought to be associated with the Roarkes and had tried to arrange a marriage between their children and Brennon and his sister. Baird and Arlana Corcorain were as cold and unfeeling as their parents, interested only in the vices that plagued Faelorehn-kind.
A tremor of unease wracked Brenn, making him misstep and nearly twist his ankle on an exposed tree root. Such feelings often visited whenever he found himself thinking about the Corcorain family, especially their daughter. Even though she had been only fourteen at the time, Arlana was as shrewd and calculating as one of the Morrigan’s ravens. With her red-blond hair and sparkling, changeable eyes, she had early assumed the title of town beauty.
Every male old enough to notice the opposite gender was easily led around by the nose, should Arlana wish it. Every male, that is, except for Brenn himself. At age fifteen going on sixteen, he had begun to take notice of the young women in the village as well, but he knew better than to fall for Arlana’s charms. And he was far more interested in hunting and war sports to waste his time on the girls who preferred to keep their hands clean and free of calluses. If he was ever to marry, it would be to someone like his sister, Meara.
Meara, two years older than Brenn and just as wild and stubborn, was unlike the other girls in town. Although not considered as beautiful as Arlana, she was striking nonetheless with her dark hair and gray fae eyes. And her Faelorehn blood promised her the legendary good looks which were endemic to their entire race. Just as Arlana had her cap set on Brennon, her brother Baird had his lustful eye fixed upon Meara. Baird was three years older than Meara, and like his sister, was popular with the families in town.
Despite Arlana’s beauty and Baird’s charms, they did not appeal to the Roarke siblings in the least. Meara refused Baird’s advances, time and time again, and when a young horse trainer moved into Dundoire Hollow in search of a new start, Meara’s disinterest in marriage soon turned. Unlike Baird, Donal was carefree, kind, gentle and his knowledge of horses only made him more appealing to Meara. Within a year, they were married and expecting their first child.
Brennon came to a stop, a three-year-old sorrow stirring in his chest and threatening to take over. He forcibly blinked back the memories and took stock of his surroundings. He had one foot on the leaf-carpeted forest floor, another resting upon the gnarled root of a beech tree. Ice seemed to have formed over his fingertips, despite the gloves, and although his breath didn’t mist the air in front of him, the cold had numbed his face and nose. The evergreen undergrowth rustled with the sounds of animals seeking their nightly refuge, and in the distance, the first mournful cries of an owl signaled the encroaching dusk.
The light of the waning day had not dimmed to the point of pure darkness yet, but it seemed Brennon’s vision had gone in that direction anyway. He had loved his sister more than anyone in the world, except for maybe his parents, and it had been because of him she had died. A Faelorehn woman who should have lived for all eternity. Her bright eyes and mischievous smile would never cheer him up again, and her laughter would never dance among the barley fields on a summer’s eve as they raced home from a day spent fishing along the stream.
The pain in his chest blossomed sharply and burst, but he fought against it. Giving in to the grief right now would not help him or Rori, the one part of his sister he had left. Setting his jaw, Brenn tightened his grip on his bow and focused his eyes forward, scouring the dense brush ahead for signs of the deer’s passage. He would find it and bring it home, so he and Rori could have meat for the next week or so without having to make a trip into town. He would take care of his nephew, see to it that he grew into a strong young man. He would not fail his sister for a second time.
* * *
In the end, it didn’t take Brennon very long to track the doe. She hadn’t gone far, maybe a half a mile or so deeper into the woods, and the evidence of her clumsy passage was more of a tell than the occasional splatter of blood on the dark leaves underfoot.
Must be a young one, Brennon thought with some regret. But it was well into the autumn season, and unfortunately, many of the deer killed during this time of year were the younger, inexperienced ones.
The broken brush gave way to a small, secluded meadow, and Brenn paused in his forward progression. The sky was a wash of slate and cobalt now, so there was still a little light for him to see by, but he knew at least part of the journey home would be made in darkness. That all depended on how close he was to his quarry. Brenn didn’t spot the deer right away, not with the poor light and tangled overgrowth of brambles and holly, but it was clear she had stumbled around in this small haven. Drawing his knife so he’d be prepared to end her misery the moment he caught sight of her, Brennon moved past the last bit of thorn bushes and began casting his eyes around. Movement to his right drew his attention to a small den of sorts, hollowed out from a tangle of ivy and blackberry vines. The perfect place for a deer to hide, if it didn’t have a hunter on its tail.
“I’m sorry about this, girl,” he murmured as he made his way forward, his cloak snagging on thorns and sharp branches.
The doe was curled up in a tight ball, her long, graceful legs tucked beneath her, her head bent around and nestled against her body. The arrow stuck out at an odd angle, a large dark patch of blood oozing from the wound. She did not stir as Brennon approached with his knife. Taking a deep breath, he reached in to end her suffering, but an odd movement stayed his hand. The muscles beneath the doe’s soft, brown hide began to ripple and pulse, as if some foreign parasite undulated under her skin. Horrified, Brennon snatched his arm away and took a few steps backward, watching in fascinated shock at the bizarre scene unfolding before him.
What strange glamour is at work here? he wondered.
The darkness that had settled in this small glen was deeper, richer than the night shades creeping up on the main forest, but even then, he missed nothing. The spindly front legs of the deer shortened and filled out, the hind legs soon following suit. The doe’s abdomen tapered in the middle and then flared out at the hips. Her narrow head swelled and long, dark spirals of hair sprouted from the scalp. The deer’s large ears grew smaller, disappearing beneath the tousle of hair on a now Faelorehn head. Hooves morphed into hands and feet, complete with fingers and toes. The entire transformation took less than thirty seconds, but it had felt like an eternity.
Brenn was certain he made some sound of shocked fascination as he quickly backed even farther away from this unnatural thing. He would have turned and bolted if not for the tangle of roots that tripped up his feet, sending him crashing, unceremoniously, to the ground. Cursing, he rolled over, ready to scramble away as fast as he could, but a soft mewling noise stopped him. Instead of regaining his feet and running back the way he had come, he turned his head to look at the doe. Or, at least, what had been a doe mere seconds ago. Now, it was a woman. A very young woman. He narrowed his eyes, studying her cautiously, half expecting her to change forms again. Her own eyes were clenched in pain, and she reached up one hand to finger the arrow protruding from her flesh.
“Don’t,” Brenn protested automatically, holding a hand out to her.
Too late. Her fingers brushed the shaft of the arrow, and she cried out. Her head rolled to the side, and her hand slipped away, streaking blood across her collar bone. At first, Brenn thought she had died, but then, he saw the gentle rise and fall of her chest. She had only lost consciousness. Thank the gods. Strange magic or not, he did not need another death weighing on his soul.
Now that the deer girl was motionless and asleep, Brenn lifted himself up off the ground and approached her guardedly. He couldn’t tell much about her without any light, but he noted her slim figure and long, dark hair. She didn’t look underfed, but she was not built like most Faelorehn women he knew. For one, if she were to be standing next to him, her head might come level with his shoulders, if that. And her skin tone was darker as well. Not the pale shade found on most of those living in Dundoire Hollow and in the other parts of Eile he had visited when under the Morrigan’s control.
Eventually, Brennon shook his head and clenched his jaw. He could stand out here all night, staring at this strange creature like the letches who hid in the reeds near the riverbank to watch the women in Dundoire Hollow bathe. Or, he could draw on whatever shred of honor he still possessed and make up for the harm he had caused her. As peculiar as she might be, it was his fault, after all, that she was lying naked on the ground with an arrow protruding from her shoulder.
Wondering if he was making a mistake, then dismissing his doubts just as quickly, he shrugged off his cloak and draped it around her body, careful of the arrow wound and cursing at the thorns and branches hindering his progress. The girl didn’t even sigh in protest when he lifted her, but continued to breathe evenly, her eyes closed, her long, thick lashes curling away from her cheeks. Brenn was compelled then to hold her closer to his body, maybe because he felt she needed the reassurance of his quiet promise to help her, or perhaps he did it for purely selfish reasons. Maybe he needed to feel that she was, indeed, alive and that his mistake had not killed her.
“Whatever you are, and whatever curse you brought down upon yourself, I hope I do not curse you further by bringing you into my house,” he murmured, as he carried her light frame through the ever darkening woods, heading southeast and toward home.
Rori sat in front of the hearth and poked at the ashes while he waited for his uncle to return. He couldn’t see the flames dancing before him, but he could feel their heat and their brightness registered as a yellow glow to his sightless eyes. He knew how close he could get without risking any burns, and he had become an expert at starting the fire when Brennon was out hunting or tending to the fields or their animals.
As he waited, Rori recalled the events of his day with as much detail as he could muster. His uncle Brenn had woken early to venture into the forest to get them a deer, and Rori had spent his time alone at the house putting away the jars of fruits and vegetables they had preserved for the winter. This chore took Rori more time than it would have taken his uncle, since he had to use his other senses to carefully stack the glass containers, but it helped him pass much of the morning.
Later, he’d checked the chickens for eggs, the new young rooster accepting his presence with a few clucks of recognition. Rori grinned at the memory. Most children his age feared roosters, but he wasn’t afraid of his Ruan. The bird had been found late last spring, still trapped inside his eggshell. Rori had brought the unhatched chick into the house, despite Brennon’s protests. He’d set the egg beside the fire and listened as the little chick inside slowly came back to life, pushing itself free in the well of the boy’s small hands. Contented cheeping had filled the main room, bringing a bright smile to Rori’s face. And Brennon had grumbled something about the indecency of having poultry in the house.
“What does it look like?” Rori had breathed, his round, blue eyes staring in his uncle’s general direction.
Clearing his throat, Brenn had answered, “Like most chicks when they first hatch, I suppose. Wet, ugly and loud.”
Rori had set his lower lip in determination and turned back to face the new hatchling. “He is wonderful. And he will live a long life.”
Brennon just laughed. “A he is it? We already have a rooster, and I’m sure some of this one’s siblings will be as well. And, hopefully, that means plenty of chicken dinners in the coming months.”
Rori, who knew very well what happened to all the extra roosters, had whipped around. “We will not eat Ruan!”
Brennon had only groaned in exasperation. “Don’t go naming it!”
But Rori had remained adamant, and Ruan had thrived. The young rooster became Rori’s constant companion as he grew up first, living in an old wooden box in the house, and eventually, joining the chickens in the coop outside. He matured into a handsome, red and brown speckled specimen, and when the old rooster fell victim to his advanced age and the others became dinner, Ruan took his place as king of the chicken coop. And he turned out to be a gentle creature, never once attacking or pecking Rori or Brennon.
Rori sighed wistfully once more as the old memories faded, wondering how late it was and if his uncle had started his return trip home yet. Deciding the fire needed more fuel, the boy felt his way to the corner of the room where the firewood was neatly stacked. Running his fingers over the logs, he found one which felt large enough and dragged it back to the fireplace, tossing it in and backing away, so the sparks would not land on him. After the crackling died down a little, he inched his way closer once again.
The flames felt warm against his face, and he lifted his hands carefully to the fire, just close enough to melt away the iciness that had crept into his fingertips. Autumn was in full swing, and Samhain was less than a month away. Rori shivered at the thought of the autumnal festival. It was the Morrigan’s feast day which meant more faelah out and about after dark. Rori hated faelah just as much as anyone else, but living in the northern wastes, so close to the Morrigan’s realm, meant even more of the vile creatures than normal. They would creep beyond her borders, ravenous for easy prey since her realm was so devoid of life. The noises they emitted were enough to make a person’s nerves jump right out of their skin. For once, Rori was grateful he was blind; it meant not having to look upon the monstrosities when they wandered too close to the boundaries of their farm. Then again, his imagination provided plenty of pictures in his head. Fortunately, the standing stones kept most of them away, but during the week surrounding Samhain there was always the handful or so who tested the invisible barrier keeping him and his uncle safe.
The sudden, sharp baying of seven wolfhounds snapped Rori’s attention back to the present. If Brennon had returned, then the hounds wouldn’t be barking. They knew their master well. Rori wasn’t sure of the time, but it must be well after sunset. Who would be coming to call at this hour? No one ever came to Ardun.
The baying turned into whining, and the heavy, sure steps of a large man sounded up the walkway. Rori knew those steps. He leapt up and scurried to the door, carefully keeping his hands out in front of him, so he wouldn’t bump into anything. He pulled the door open just as Brenn reached it.
“Why did the dogs bark at you?” he queried.
“Step aside, Rori. There’s been an accident.”
At the sound of his uncle’s gruff voice, Rori backed away, wondering what had happened.
“Did you get a deer?” he pressed, as he slunk deeper into the stone house.
He couldn’t see his uncle’s expression, but he could hear the strain in his voice. “Yes, and no. I need you to help me. A young woman’s been badly hurt.”
Rori’s eyes grew wide, and he reached out his hand, trying to find Brennon. He drew in a sharp breath when his uncle’s large, strong fingers grasped his.
“Water. We need hot water. Do you think you can manage to get some from the creek and heat it?”
Rori nodded numbly. He’d been to the creek and back a thousand or more times and knew the way by heart. And it wasn’t that far from the house, maybe a few hundred yards or so, right along the edge of the woods and at the bottom of the hill.
Using his fingers to find his way, Rori hurried to the kitchen to fetch a wooden bucket, then headed toward the far wall. He searched out his cloak hanging from the lowest hook, the scratchy, thick wool already warming his small body as he draped it about his shoulders. He felt his way along the wall until he reached the back door, then pushed it open, barely registering the chill air rushing over his skin. He could have tried to conjure up a bit of glamour to warm himself even further, but that would only have been a waste of time. Before losing his sight, he had just begun sensing and experimenting with the magic born to every Faelorehn child. But the same tragedy that had rendered him blind had also done something else, hurting him so deeply, his glamour now refused to work for him. Firming his upper lip in determination, Rori brushed aside such thoughts and focused all his attention on the task at hand.
A small pack of wolfhounds greeted him in the yard with happy yips and wet tongues, boosting the boy’s spirits. With his shoulders rising a few scant inches above their shoulders, Rori could so easily fall victim to their antics and lose his footing. Fortunately, the dogs knew to be careful around him.
“You all can accompany me to the creek if you wish,” he called out, pleased to hear their panting breath close behind him as he turned down the trail.
A great grey owl called out in the distance. From the depths of the woods, Rori’s ears picked up the soft cries of foxes and bobcats hunting for rabbits. The smoke from Roarke Manor’s chimney teased his nose, but beyond its sharp tang, he detected impending frost and decaying vegetation, sure signs of the season. Every sound and smell and feeling came to life, especially around evening’s arrival, for the darkness took over what little light filtered into Rori’s damaged eyes and enhanced everything else. Often, he would try to picture his surroundings based entirely on sound, touch and scent, and then, he could almost see shapes and colors in front of him. He had not been so young when he lost his sight that he’d forgotten what things looked like, but sometimes he wondered if part of what he pictured in his mind was invented by his imagination and not based on what he’d learned before going blind.
A sharp yowl stopped him dead in his tracks. The hounds growled softly around him, but when the creature called out again, he realized it was most likely a raccoon.
Good, he thought with some relief, not a faelah. But that didn’t mean there weren’t any lurking in the woods, beyond the boundary of the standing stones. The foul creatures had slipped past the protection ward before, and although they usually perished within minutes, the stronger ones had been known to last a day or two. Plenty of time to creep up to the house or the barn and wreak havoc. The thought sent chills down Rori’s spine, and he shook his head, hoping the action would cast such ideas far from his mind.
Eventually, the hurried rush of water lapping at the creek’s edge grew loud enough for Rori to know he was close. Careful not to slip in the slick mud, he climbed down the embankment and dipped the bucket into the water. The strong tug of the current threatened to rip the handle from his hands, but Rori was used to this game of tug-of-war with the tributary, and soon, he was lugging the heavy bucket back up the trail.
Once inside the house, Brennon ordered him to set the bucket beside the fire.
“Rori,” his uncle called, “I need you to come over here and keep pressure on this cloth. The bleeding has slowed, but I want to make sure it’s stopped.”
Rori was nervous, but he did as his uncle asked, moving toward the eastern wall of the room where the great fireplace was situated. With his hands extended, he discovered the coarse canvas stretched across one of the old cots usually stored away for guests. He let his fingers wander over the blankets until they came into contact with something warm and soft.
He tried to imagine the girl lying beneath the blankets, but all he could muster was a featureless face and two arms resting against a long, slender figure covered by blankets. But as he let his useless eyes settle on the place he knew the young woman to be, Rori noticed something astonishing. In the center of the slight shape was a pinprick of brilliant golden light, small and fading like a star on the horizon at dawn. Was this his imagination again? Or was there a brightness about this stranger which managed to work its way past his ruined eyes? Either way, Rori noticed it, but he also felt something was wrong. The light reminded him of a candlewick about to expire, shrinking away before turning to smoke. He reached out to touch it, but his fingers met something cold and smooth instead. He gasped and yanked his hand back.
Brenn’s firm grasp and sharp tone shocked him even further.
“No! Don’t poke at her. Here, press your hand against this.”
He moved the boy’s fingers and placed them on something rough and warm, a piece of terrycloth, Rori guessed.
“Hold it tightly to stop the bleeding.”
Rori listened as his uncle stood up and moved across the room, to transfer the water into the tea kettle for boiling, he presumed.
“Wh-Who is she?” Rori asked, twisting his head around, so he faced his uncle. The flames in the hearth, nothing more than a faint glow suffusing the ever present darkness, winked out momentarily as Brennon stepped between him and the fireplace.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly, almost too quietly.
“Did you find her in the forest? Was someone trying to hurt her?”
Brenn sighed, and Rori could tell he was troubled by the entire situation.
“I hurt her,” he said eventually, his voice so low and filled with remorse that Rori felt its weight pressing into the room. “I tracked down a doe and shot her, but my aim was off. I hit her in the shoulder, and she bolted. When I found her again, there was no longer a deer, but this girl.”
Rori felt his eyebrows shoot up. Had the deer transformed into this young woman? It seemed the sort of thing from his old fae-tales book, but if his uncle had shot a deer and found her instead, with the arrow in the same spot as the wound, what other explanation was there? Rori wanted to question Brennon more about it, but something about the distance in his voice encouraged him to put his curiosity away for now.
The kettle above the fire began to hiss and Rori listened to the scrape of his uncle’s boots against the stone floor as he rose to take care of it. Brenn returned to the cot a minute later. The click of a ceramic bowl meeting the tiles below, followed by the light wisp of air brushing past his face as a towel was unfurled, gave Rori a mental image of his uncle preparing a work station of sorts.
“I’m going to have to remove the arrow,” he said, in a tight voice.
Rori swallowed and nodded, then moved well out of the way. The young woman might be unconscious, but there was a good chance the pain of freeing the arrow would bring her around.
The delicate sounds of dripping water and rustling fabric, followed by a profound silence, had Rori on edge. The boy imagined Brenn was bracing himself for what was to come, and he, too, got ready for it. Trying not to feel anxious, Rori sat down cross-legged a good distance away and started gnawing at his thumbnail. He would be glad when the whole ordeal was over.
***
Brennon dipped a strip of cloth into the hot water, wringing out a good deal of moisture before turning back toward the young woman. Carefully, he pulled back the blankets, so the skin around the arrow was exposed. Clotted blood and some dirt surrounded the entry point, but at least the blood flow had subsided.
Not for long, he thought grimly, as he gently ran the wet fabric around the injured area, removing the grime and gore. It didn’t take much time to clean the wound, and now, Brenn found himself reluctant to go on.
The longer you wait, the greater the chance for infection, he reminded himself sternly. Taking a deep breath, Brennon gripped the shaft of the arrow close to the skin. He thanked the gods and goddesses that the arrows he used didn’t have barbed points. He clenched his teeth and with one, swift yank, pulled the arrow free from the young woman’s shoulder.
Immediately, the room filled with a burst of glamour so bright, it left Brenn temporarily blinded. A force like a strong wind slammed into him, and the dogs outside howled in dismay, drowning out the girl’s screech of anguish.
As soon as his senses returned, Brenn pressed a hand to his head and croaked, “Rori! Rori are you alright?”
He’d been thrown against the opposite wall, his head and shoulder smarting where they’d collided with the stone and wood.
“Fine,” his nephew squeaked from beneath the table where he’d retreated only minutes earlier. “What happened?”
“The girl has some very potent glamour.”
Brennon coughed and dragged himself to his feet, not realizing how hard his heart was pounding until he remembered to breathe again. The arrow was still clutched in his hand, and when he looked down at it he was reminded of where it had been. Disgusted with himself, he strode over to the fire on somewhat shaky legs and threw the bolt in, glad to be rid of it, then turned back to his patient.
Once again, she lay still on the bed, fresh, scarlet blood welling up from the hole in her shoulder.
“Rori, we need the healing herbs and some ointment. Do you know where they are?”
His nephew nodded and scurried off down the hallway in search of the storage pantry. As soon as Rori was gone, Brennon turned back toward the young woman, now resting motionless beneath the blankets. That had been quite a burst of glamour, stronger than any he had ever felt in his handful of years living in Eile. When he had gotten over the initial shock of it and gave it some serious thought, he wasn’t actually all that surprised. The girl had transformed from a doe before his very eyes, after all. Yet, he was still puzzled. Only the Morrigan and some of her top advisors had given off stronger magic. A shockwave of icy dread coursed through Brenn at the very thought of the war goddess, and he quickly dashed those thoughts from his mind. It was futile, he knew, for there was no denying her existence in this world, especially around this time of year. But, he would fight for whatever peace he could find for as long as possible. And right now, he was able to do just that. This strange young woman, with her powerful glamour and beautiful dark chestnut colored hair, would serve as a good distraction.
Brenn’s brows lowered over his eyes, and he reached out a tentative hand. He wasn’t the type of person to indulge in making physical contact with others. It was too dangerous for him to do so, both for himself and the one on the receiving end. Such a gesture of affection and gentleness had been turned into something ugly and painful during those years spent in the Morrigan’s army. What might have been a kind hand to the shoulder, offering support, almost always turned into a painful blow or a shove toward something terrifying. He had been well conditioned to shy away from any sort of physical contact with others, only allowing Rori to take such liberties with him. The boy used touch as his way of seeing, and Brenn would fight for control over his demons, so his nephew might know some comfort in this cruel world. Yet, he had draped his old cloak over the young woman and carried her back to Ardun without so much as registering a single tremor along his raw nerves. And now, he was tempted to touch her again, if only to gauge whether or not he had been too driven by panic to notice the dark shadows clouding his heart.
Carefully, he reached out and smoothed back that lovely hair of hers. It felt different from what he knew of Faelorehn hair; softer, lighter even. And his hand didn’t tremble, and his stomach didn’t turn with anxiety when his fingers brushed against her warm, copper-hued skin. Could it be that that powerful glamour of hers made it bearable to touch her?
“What are you?” he murmured, with astounded curiosity.
Brenn wasn’t given much more time to contemplate it further because Rori came bursting around the corner, half out of breath. Several small jars and paper envelopes threatened to spill from his arms.
“I couldn’t see–” he began to say, before stopping himself short.
The boy lowered his head and shuffled forward, forgetting what he had been about to say.
Brennon frowned. Of course he couldn’t see, but sometimes even Rori forgot that fact. His nephew’s blindness was not just tragic, but a constant reminder of what his own cowardice and weakness had brought upon his family. Three years ago, Brenn had returned to Ardun to find his parents, sister and her husband dead and his nephew not long for this world. For almost a week, Rori had hidden in the barn with the dogs and horses, terrified and sightless, not knowing if those who had murdered his parents and grandparents would return to finish him off. The boy did not speak for a month after the event, and Brennon was too heartbroken to demand answers from him.
Squeezing his eyes shut against the haunting memories, Brenn stood up and strode toward his nephew, meeting the boy halfway.
“It’s alright, Rori,” he said quietly. “I can find what I need from what you’ve brought.”
Brennon took the ointments and herbs from Rori’s thin arms and piled them onto a table he had dragged closer to the cot. He chose two envelopes and one jar, folding and twisting them open and taking small amounts of dried herbs from each. The medicine ended up in a clay bowl.
“I’ll also need some of the tallow from the pantry,” Brennon said, without looking up.
Rori darted off once more, his hands placed carefully in front of him. He returned shortly with another container. This one he knew by shape, so it didn’t take nearly as long for him to find.
“What are you doing with all those?” he asked, as he found a stool with his fingers, pulling it closer to the table.
Rori might not be able to see the world surrounding him any longer, but he was still a curious boy and did his best to imagine what the sounds and sensations looked like.
“I’m making a paste of healing herbs for the wound. I’ll mix in a little ointment, too.”
Rori folded his arms on the edge of the table and rested his chin on top of them. He tried hard to listen to his uncle’s every move. There were so many sounds in the room: the whisper of the fire, the quick, shuddering breath of one of the hounds chasing a rabbit in his dreams, the clacking of the stone mortar and pestle as Brennon prepared the medicine.
More than ever before, Rori wished he could see again. He wanted to know what the young woman looked like. Did she resemble his mother? Was her hair the dark, earthy brown of Ardun’s fields before planting and was her face covered in freckles? A bud of sadness bloomed beside Rori’s heart, so he gave up on trying to picture the stranger. The only women he’d known before losing his sight were his mother and grandmother, and thinking about them dampened his spirits.
“Could you return everything to where you found it, please?” Brennon asked.
Sighing, Rori obeyed his uncle and gathered up all the jars and envelopes. By the time he made it back to the great room, Brenn had once again moved away from the table. He could tell because the fire was brighter; there was no one standing there to block it. Somehow, Rori knew exactly where to find him. Reaching out a hand to trace along the wall, the boy stepped forward until he came to the place where the young woman lay sleeping. Rori’s outstretched hand located the back of a chair, then made its way down Brenn’s arm until his fingers tightened around his uncle’s thumb.
“Will she be all right?” he asked softly, somewhat afraid of the answer.
Brennon took in a deep breath before answering, “I hope so.”
The chair he sat in creaked as he leaned back into it. “You can go to bed, Rori. I’m going to stay with her a bit longer, just in case she awakens.”
Rori stuck out his bottom lip and headed toward the wide, over-stuffed chair near the fireplace. “Then I’m staying down here, too,” he insisted, as he curled up like one of the hounds.
“Suit yourself,” Brenn murmured quietly.
Rori nodded, then yawned as his eyes drooped with sleep, his already darkened vision growing even more so. He couldn’t be certain, but Rori had a sneaking suspicion his uncle would spend more of the night watching the girl than sleeping.
Seren was floating in a warm emerald pool in the center of the Weald, her dark hair fanning around her like the delicate fins of a shadow fish. She felt weightless, carefree and relaxed, all of her worries and troubles sinking to the bottom of the pond to leave her in peace. She could have been the only person in the entire world, and she smiled at the thought. The sudden muffled laughter and cheerful shouts of her peers reminded her, however, that she wasn’t alone. With a sigh, she cracked open one eye to watch them. Scattered throughout the secluded glen were several people close to her own age. Her Fahndi tribe mates. Languid and blithe, they soaked in the warmth of the summer day like the broad leaves of the beech trees far above. Those she had heard shouting were just arriving, shoving at one another in their eagerness to reach the wide pond which had become a favorite gathering place once daily chores and lessons were through.
Seren felt herself go still, more so than she already was, drifting along the surface of the water. Soon, they would notice her, and her few moments of peace would be over. They would call her names and tease her for her lack of magic. Seren grinned at that last thought. No, perhaps they wouldn’t make fun of her for that reason any longer because she had finally managed to Change. The memory of it both thrilled and terrified her, for she had been the last one of them all to transform, even though she wasn’t the youngest.
At just over twenty years of age, her people had wondered if she had been somehow denied the unique magic of her kind. But last week, while she was out collecting berries, she had done it. She had compelled her glamour to flow through her veins and reform her, flesh and bone. It had felt so strange, like a thousand invisible threads pulling at her joints and muscles all at once. And when it was over, she stood on four spindly legs. Her eyes could see farther, her hearing had grown sharper. Smoke from the campfires back in the village had tickled her nose, and an overwhelming desire to run through the forest had nearly taken hold of her senses. Instead, she turned and bounded back to the village, her new legs giving her speed.
Every Fahndi child was honored in a celebration when they first Changed, but not Seren. She had only been eyed by her tribe mates with indifference. Their judgmental expressions said as much to her: So, the odd one has finally Changed. Nothing worth celebrating. Besides, she is no longer a child and only children are given a party. Seren had thought maybe, if she could only Change, they would finally come to accept her. She had been terribly wrong. But her mother had been so proud, and that, above everything else, had brought her joy.
Before she could get too lost in her reminiscence, the afternoon’s serenity shattered as someone’s crude laughter carried through the secluded cove. Seren jerked in the water, losing her buoyancy for a moment. Realizing her small window of tranquility had been slammed shut, she directed her feet to the pond’s bottom and stood, eyeing the new arrival with trepidation. Rozenn, the bane of her existence. Considered the most beautiful of her tribe, Rozenn was the perfect example of what a female Fahndi should look like. High, delicate cheekbones gave her an air of superiority, and skin a wonderful shade of burnished copper never failed to draw the attention of the young men in their village. Seren did not envy Rozenn. Her mother had taught her that such emotions were a profound waste of energy. But she did hate the girl, if only for the simple reason she had never once been kind to her. As if hearing her thoughts, Rozenn turned her changeable green eyes onto Seren, standing there waist-deep in the water.
“Oh, the half-breed is here,” she sneered, crossing her arms and looking down her nose. Not a difficult task considering she was standing atop one of the many moss-covered boulders crowding the glen. “Your father must be Faelorehn,” she continued. “If your awkwardness wasn’t enough, your horribly pale skin is just more proof your mother likes to sleep around. Honestly, I think it’s getting lighter. Do you spend the daylight hours cowering in a cave?”
The others laughed at that, either adding their own words of agreement or shaking their heads in disgust. Earlier, they had been content to leave her alone. Rozenn, as usual, had to go and ruin it all. And all Seren could do was stand there, her mouth drawn tight, her cheeks flaming with color. Like the deer her kind could shift into, she was timid and quiet in the presence of her tribe mates, and this time was no different.
Casting her eyes downward for a moment, Seren studied her hands and frowned. Her skin wasn’t that pale. It wasn’t as dark as everyone else’s, true, but then again, that wasn’t the only characteristic working against her. Unlike the others, her hair was also lighter, more like the color of tea left to steep too long compared to their glossy, raven-black. And her eyes were different, too. A honey-brown that stood out among all the shades of green, many of which were trained on her at that very moment.
“That must be it!” someone else, Alpin, added. “No child of the Tribe of Cernunnos is a late-shifter!”
“Or maybe it’s your mother’s tainted blood that has been passed on to you!” Nualan crowed. “Rumor has it your grandmother snuck off with a man from another tribe during one of the feast day celebrations. Some say she invited his friends along, too. Really, what self-respecting Fahndi woman would do such a thing?”
He cast Rozenn a devilish look, his grin revealing perfect teeth. It was common knowledge Nualan hoped to make Rozenn his mate someday, and he did everything he could to garner her favor. Most of the time, that meant seeking out Seren and tormenting her.
Rozenn only gave him a small smirk for his efforts. Then, she tossed her shimmery hair and sneered. “And they were the ones left behind during the hunt because of their incompetence. So, who knows what sorts of inferior beings make up your ancestry.”
By that point, everyone was roaring with laughter, and Seren’s calm demeanor snapped. She never lost her temper; she was always too afraid. But this time, Rozenn had gone too far.
“Shut your mouth, you bitter, spiteful harpy!”
Silence permeated the meadow like some invisible, deadly disease. Seren, shocked at the anger that had spilled forth from her lips, gasped and quickly cupped her hands over her mouth. After a heartbeat or two, she lowered her hands and tried to apologize, though she didn’t really know why. Habit, she told herself. Since coming into this world, Seren had been awarded the place of weakest member of the tribe, and for years, she had simply accepted that fact. She was always the butt of all the jokes, the one to take blame for any unfortunate event, the child who got left out of every game. Seren had grown used to it over the years, but something had shifted. Perhaps her Fahndi magic finally waking up and forcing the Change upon her had also given her the courage to stand up for herself.
Rozenn deserved the name Seren had spit out at her, because that’s exactly what she was. A cruel, selfish, manipulative harpy. Despite all that, however, Seren was ready with an apology. Before any words could leave her mouth, however, Rozenn climbed down from her rock, her long, toned legs a trademark of their race, and moved gracefully across the glade. Her arm lifted, and with the same poise she’d exhibited while making her short march, brought her hand fiercely and violently down across Seren’s face.
Pain exploded in her cheek, and a bright-white light blinded her for a split second before her skin began to sting.
“How dare you speak to me that way!” the other girl spat. “I am Cernunnos’s Favored, the most skilled at hunting, the most beautiful and the strongest of the young women of our tribe. I will not have some filthy half-breed, Fae-tainted, bastard call me names or tell me what to do! You obey me, not the other way around.”
Although the silence continued to hang in the air, Seren could feel her fellow comrades moving in closer, their aggression slowly spiking. They were feeding off of Rozenn’s violence, using it to fuel their own, like damp rot that spread to the healthy wood surrounding it.
Despite her fear, pain and lingering anger at her peers’ taunting, Seren knew Rozenn was right. She was the most beautiful, strongest and best hunter among them. Seren couldn’t even bring herself to eat meat, a characteristic usually only present among the strongest magic-wielders of her tribe. Yes, Rozenn was a force to be reckoned with. But despite her claims of prowess and superior good-looks, she was missing the one thing Cernunnos prized above all the others. He was the god of the Wild, a symbol of fertility, and although he appreciated beauty, strength and skill in the hunt, he especially appreciated the gift of healing, because it was so rare. In four hundred years, not a single Fahndi had been born with the ability to heal, except for Seren.
Since she was a young girl, she had been able to fix many of the things the world had broken. The gift had developed in stages, slowly. First, she had started with plants. Seren’s tribe happened to live along the edge of one of the many meadows dotting the Weald, and several of the families kept small gardens just outside their dens. One day, Seren had woken before her mother, on the very brink of dawn, before the sun crested the earth, to find their tiny seedlings trampled. Seren knew, even at that young age, that someone in their tribe had sabotaged their garden on purpose. She had stepped out into the deep, loamy earth, her bare feet tingling with Eile’s magic, and knelt in the midst of the destruction. Hot tears of sorrow fell from her eyes and trailed down her cheeks. She had knelt in the soil, splaying her hands over the most damaged of the lot. Then, the pain and hurt in her heart stopped burning, and instead, spread throughout her body like warm sunshine piercing a bank of rainclouds. Her fingers began to glow a golden green, and the light swirled around the stems of the tiny plants, weaving the broken leaves and shoots back together.
Gasping in surprise, Seren had stood up, trembling not from the cold of the early morning, but from the exhilaration and shock of what had just happened. When her fingers stopped tingling, she bent down and tried to repeat the action with another row of plants, this time reining in her fear. For once in her life, she felt a boldness welling up inside of her. No longer was she the smallest and the weakest of her tribe. No, in this she was strong. Not because she thought so, but because she felt it. Sweet pride, tinged with a bone-deep certainty, flowed free with this new and strange magic.
This is my strength, that inner voice told her, this is what I’m good at.
Seren remembered that day now as she stood in humiliation before her peers, her cheek smarting and her eyes filling with unshed tears. Something tickled her stinging face, and when she lifted a hand to touch the tender skin, her fingers came away red. Blood. Rozenn had hit her so hard, she’d left a gash. The silence surrounding them soon filled up with the soft voices of her fellow tribe mates like an ocean tide rolling in at twilight.
“That’ll teach her,” someone murmured, viciously.
“If she thought she was an outcast before,” another commented, “now she is even less than that.”
A male voice, Braen, who had at least been kind to Seren until a few years ago when Rozenn used her influence on him, said, “She won’t be coming back from that insult.”
Instead of crying and running for the warm love of her mother, instead of curling in upon herself and turning her eyes downward in submission, instead of coming back with another retort, which, incidentally, she didn’t have, Seren did something else entirely. Something she had promised her mother, and herself, she’d never do in front of those who wished her ill.
As Rozenn stood resolute, her arms crossed over her chest, her face a mask of beautiful hatred, Seren lifted her arm in silence and called upon her healing magic. She had practiced every chance she got since discovering her gift that day, and she had become very good at wielding it. She had kept it hidden from others, her mother not trusting her own people. Daniela had been certain they would find a way to use it against her child, to exploit her and make her situation worse. If Seren had been anybody else’s daughter, things would have been different, her mother had said. But Seren was so tired of hiding her gift, so sick of mutely accepting her place as the punching bag for her peers. And above everything else, she was tired of being afraid.
Rozenn’s dark jade eyes widened as a pale golden glow illuminated Seren’s fingertips. She twirled her hand a little, making the brilliance swirl like disturbed mist. When she thought she had gathered enough, Seren brushed at the cut on her cheek, feeling the skin knit carefully together. Not even a thin red line marking the place of the injury remained when she dropped her hand back to her side.
With great resolve and a determination that seemed to grow whenever she used her gift, she met Rozenn’s eyes with her own.
Sharp anger and horror flashed in the other Fahndi woman’s gaze, but before she could fully enjoy the retaliation she had meted out against her enemy, a pain beyond reckoning ripped Seren from what had only been a memory. She gasped as a burning agony rolled through her shoulder, a harsh scream abrading her throat as it tore its way free from her lungs. Her eyes flashed open, and she caught a fleeting glance of a bright fire burning on the edge of a large, cavernous space, and the blurry face of a stranger with intense grey eyes gazing worriedly down at her. Before she could discover if what she was seeing was real or just another illusion, Seren fell back into the dark pit she’d been floating in.
For several moments, or perhaps several hours, Seren couldn’t tell for sure, she drifted in that empty space. Eventually, the dark void was filled with more memories, all of them reminding her of the torment she’d endured growing up.
One scene showed Seren a time she had cried into her mother’s lap, too ashamed to face the bullies on her own.
“Hush now, fawnlet, hush now,” Daniela had crooned to her distraught daughter. “Nothing they said to you today was true. Many of the Fahndi take their time to come into their changeling glamour. You are but seventeen, still quite young.”
“But, but Elatha and Avenie are both fifteen, and they have Changed!”
The scene faded out of view like fine dust scattering with the wind, and another, older one replaced it in the same manner.
“Let’s see if we can get her to Change!” Rozenn shouted. “Let’s chase her and see if the frightened doe comes out!”
All at once, her peers descended upon her, kicking her and calling her all sorts of terrible names. Seren curled up upon herself, screaming at them to stop and crying her mother’s name. Pain bloomed on her arms and legs and down her spine as their blows fell. But it was the terrible, all-too-real ache in her shoulder that was the worst of it.
The memory twisted and warped, and Seren looked down upon herself, still curled up into a ball as her enemies took their anger out on her. Only, she was no longer a girl of thirteen or fourteen. She was fully grown and this recollection felt so much fresher ...
Rozenn stood outside the circle of her friends, her face pinched with fear and rage. And something else: Disbelief.
“Don’t let her get away! We need her to Change, so they’ll believe it was an accident!”
Seren cried out as she was torn from her nightmarish memories for a second time. The pain in her shoulder made her catch her breath, and a heavy weight gently pushed her down.
“Steady now,” a soft voice murmured. “Steady. You’ve been through a trauma, and it’s best if you lie still.”
Seren blinked away tears of discomfort and gritted her teeth. She was once again in that unfamiliar place, sensing only a wide open space and a blazing fire somewhere at the edge of her vision. Why was she hurting so much? What had happened? Her shoulder throbbed and burned with heat. She turned her head and caught her breath. Now that she was fully conscious and not reliving the worst moments of her life, her very last memory hit her with full force. She had run away from home, and she had been shot with an arrow.
The young man who had spoken regarded her with a look of cautious concern, and with what Seren thought was a fair dose of fear. She turned her head back toward the strange roof far above and squeezed her eyes shut. There was too much to remember, and her brain felt like it had been scrambled. Taking in long, deep breaths through her nose, she tackled one obstacle at a time. This man had shot her, that much she could tell. His eyes and voice were familiar. But as soon as the arrow had struck, she’d fled. He must have followed her to finish the job, but found her in her Fahndi form instead. She couldn’t blame his mystified look, then. Only a handful of the Faelorehn had ever seen the Fahndi, and even fewer had ever seen them Change.
For a few moments, Seren simply studied the young man leaning over her. Handsome, in a reserved sort of way, with dark brown hair and pale skin, so different from her own. He was also tall. She could tell from the way he sat in the chair and from what she could remember of their forest encounter. There was something about his eyes, however, which piqued her interest. Even now, the pale grey was giving way to a golden hazel color. Changeable, like hers and her people’s. But beneath that pale color was a lurking darkness and depth she imagined held just as many secrets as she did. Only, something told her his secrets were far more terrifying than her own. This man was damaged somehow, her healing glamour told her as much. The realization unnerved her, even more so than the knowledge he’d been the one to shoot her and run her to ground.
Despite these facts, she felt strangely drawn to him, the way young plants are drawn to sunlight. She was a natural healer after all, and all wounds, visible and invisible alike, called upon her glamour to heal them. It had been an instinct she’d fought since discovering that aspect of her power, and she fought it even now, so far away from the ones who would use it against her. But could this Faelorehn man be any different? He may have brought her to safety after injuring her, but she did not know him, and she did not know his motives.
Taking a small breath, Seren pulled her eyes away from his face and looked around, intent on familiarizing herself with her surroundings. If she needed to flee, it would behoove her to find a way out. It didn’t take her long to realize she was in a spacious stone building of sorts. Large, rough-hewn logs lent support to the walls and held up a wooden slat roof. Dark rectangles along the walls suggested windows. Glass was said to be expensive and rare. Seren had only heard about these things from the elders in her tribe, those who had been brave enough to wander beyond their secluded corner of the Weald to gather and bring back stories from the great world outside their territory. That was also how she knew this particular building was something akin to a cabin.
A hearth with a crackling fire occupied the center of one wall and at least five wolfhounds lay piled on top of each other in one corner, snoozing and twitching in restless sleep. Finally, Seren’s eyes fell upon a huge, stuffed leather chair. An old faded quilt was bundled up in the center of it, but beneath the blanket she sensed a bright life form. It, too, exuded an aura of buried pain.
As she watched, the small bundle moved, and a scruffy head of tangled sandy hair emerged. A Faelorehn boy, shifting in his sleep. The hunter’s son? He must be. Where was the mother, then?
“How are you feeling?” that soft, gruff voice queried.
Seren turned her eyes back onto the hunter. That haunted look was still there, but this time it was a bit more guarded, sheathed in a deeper shade of grey.
Deciding it was rude to continue staring without speaking, Seren wet her lips and rasped, “My shoulder. Hurts.”
The man nodded. “I’m sorry about that. I went hunting last night and thought I shot a deer, but …”
He trailed off. Seren bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. Clearly, neither of them wanted to broach the subject of what had really happened. The stranger didn’t want to admit he’d shot a changeling, and she didn’t want to admit what she was. Since they both seemed to silently agree upon that fact, Seren continued on as if they’d already discussed and come to terms with it.
“Thank you. For bringing me back here and helping me.”
“But,” the man began.
Seren shook her head, ignoring the twinge in her shoulder and the sick, nauseous feeling that action stirred up.
“It’s okay. I don’t blame you for the accident. I’m just glad you didn’t leave me out there to die.”
In fact, Seren wasn’t all that glad. She had been trying to find a safe haven, and yes, the man’s bad shot had been a painful inconvenience, but had he left her alone she would have healed on her own. Even now, as they spoke, her shoulder began to itch and tingle, a sign that her advanced healing powers were getting to work. Without even directing her glamour to fix the injury, the wound would be fully healed by tomorrow or the next day. But she couldn’t tell him that. She couldn’t let anyone know what she was. She now understood her mother had been right. Keeping her healing glamour a secret was so very important.
“I’ll be better soon,” she said instead. “Then, I shall leave you in peace.”
The young man leaned forward in his chair, lacing his fingers together and resting his elbows on his thighs.
“Do you live around here? I’ve never seen you before.”
The man’s eyes gave her a quick perusal, settling back on her face when he was through. She imagined he found her strange, just as she found his appearance odd as well. He kept his dark hair shorter than the Fahndi men she knew, and his pale eyes were also different. But it was his skin tone, touched with bronze, but so much lighter than her own, that intrigued her the most. Realizing she was staring, she cleared her throat awkwardly before responding to him.
“No,” she said, casting her gaze toward the fire once again. “I’m far from home, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine on my own.”
The hunter furrowed his brow and said, “I can’t let you go out on your own, not this close to winter. We have room in this house. If you are willing to help out with some of the chores, you are welcome to stay. There are plenty of stores for the winter, as well as some more root vegetables we’ll be harvesting in the next few weeks. It is the least I can do for nearly killing you.”
Seren held her breath and splayed her fingers over the warm wool blanket that was hiding her nudity. Being what she was, she was by no means modest, but she still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of traipsing around this man’s house naked, especially with a little boy underfoot. And the last thing she wanted to do was Change back into her deer form for the entire winter. No. She would have to leave. She was a stranger to this man, a stranger to this part of Eile.
“I, uh, have some spare clothing that should fit you,” the man said awkwardly, after watching the path of her eyes and coming up with his own conclusions. “My sister’s old dresses, shirts and trousers. You are a bit slimmer than she was, and not as tall, but you are welcome to alter anything that doesn’t fit.”
Seren blinked up at him. She could tell her eyes were fading from brown, to gold and maybe even to violet. They often turned violet when she detected emotional pain. At least her mother had once told her so. And she felt something tragic had happened to this man’s sister.
Despite her suspicions, she cleared her throat and asked, “Won’t she need them?”
The pain momentarily spiked, and Seren didn’t need to hear his words to know his answer.
“No,” he replied shortly. “She’s dead.”
Seren turned her head, so her eyes fixed on the far wall. “I am sorry.”
Those native to Eile, Faelorehn men, women and children, didn’t die of old age, unless they had some mortal blood in their veins. But something told Seren that this man’s sister did not die of natural causes. A disease or some other grave injury, perhaps?
“That is why I have come to live in this house and play foster father to Rori.”
He indicated the sleeping child under the faded quilt. Seren blinked over toward the boy. So, not his son then.
“He is my sister’s son. My nephew. The accident that took the lives of my parents also took the lives of his mother and father.”
A twinge of anguish pulled at Seren’s heart. Poor soul. To lose your grandparents and parents as well? And at such a young age. She had never known her father, so she had no idea what that sort of loss felt like, but she could imagine what sort of agony losing a mother might feel like. She was feeling a little of that now. Was her mother safe back at home in the Weald? Had she condemned her by fleeing like a coward? Seren gritted her teeth and tried not to think about it.
Instead, she turned her eyes onto the dark-haired man one more time. His eyes flashed suddenly, their color shifting more toward blue. For that split second before they changed, Seren caught the edge of that darkness she’d sensed in him earlier.
And what caused his deep pain? Was it the death of his sister? The death of his parents? Seren studied him freely now, for his eyes had turned away from her and grown distant, their focus somewhere else entirely. She let her gaze trail down his face, taking in the day’s worth of beard growth and his slightly unkempt hair. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and in the dim glow of the firelight, she noticed several thin scars, crisscrossing up both forearms. What sort of life had he led to acquire such marks? And then, she suddenly realized one more thing.
“What is your name?” she blurted, drawing his attention back to her presence.
“Brennon,” he answered, “Brennon Roarke.”
“I am Seren,” she responded, feeling the least she could do was give him that.
Brennon lifted a brow in question.
“Just Seren,” she clarified.
He nodded. “You are welcome to stay with us as long as you need, Seren.”
She wrinkled her nose and took a breath, ready to insist she would be leaving as soon as she was able. Before she could speak a word, however, her healing glamour welled up, suffusing her with warmth, and her mind turned back to the shadows she’d sensed in him. She should leave, for her own safety, but her gift had other plans.
“I’ll consider that offer,” she said eventually. “Thank you.”
Brennon woke early the next morning, the bitter taste of anxiety clinging to the back of his throat. He lay in bed, the bed that used to belong to his parents, in the grand second story room, his forearm thrown over his eyes. As the sleep slowly seeped from his body, he tried for the life of him to remember why his nerves felt frayed. It wasn’t because Samhain was a mere three weeks away, and it wasn’t because of his nightmares. No, his sleep had remained calm and free of demons, a blessing in disguise considering the time of year. Perhaps his restless mood had something to do with Rori.
Brenn sat up abruptly, ready to march down the hallway and check on his nephew, but when he took stock of himself, he realized he was still fully dressed and had been sleeping on top of the bed sheets. And then the reason for his restlessness hit him: the injured girl. After she had woken from her delirium just before midnight, she had spoken to him. Her words had been accented more softly than those native to the north, but she was undoubtedly of Eile. And her name was Seren. Just Seren, no surname to go with it. He had offered her refuge, to heal and grow stronger over the winter.
Why he had so easily welcomed her into his home was something of a mystery. She was not known to him, one who could possibly be a denizen of the Morrigan. Brenn snorted at such a notion. He knew exactly what had possessed him to act so rashly: guilt. And not only the guilt of shooting and nearly killing her, but the guilt he’d carried with him for the past nine years. He was so desperate to rid himself of the black cloud threatening to engulf his soul, that he was willing to do anything to reach that end, even welcome a complete stranger into his and Rori’s lives. Perhaps, if he performed enough good deeds, the taint would be washed away.
Brenn sighed, running his hands over his face and through his hair as he fell back against the mattress. Well, he couldn’t very well go downstairs and tell the girl to leave now. And in all honesty, he didn’t want to. He was intensely curious about her. Where had she come from? Why was her glamour so powerful? And more importantly, what was she? No common Faelorehn woman, that was certain.
If her powerful glamour and the fact she had transformed from a deer into a woman before his very eyes hadn’t convinced him she was a stranger in these parts, then her other physical features most definitely did. Her skin tone was the most obvious difference. Darker than his, it reminded him a little of the beautiful red clay he sometimes found by the creek when he was a boy. A golden, pale rust color and smooth as an eggshell. Her eyes were different as well. Larger than his and Rori’s and slanted ever so slightly at the corners. They reminded him of the sly, cunning eyes of the wild things that roamed Dorcha Forest. This girl would definitely stand out in a crowd of people in Dundoire Hollow.
The very thought of Dundoire Hollow and its denizens drew a groan of annoyance from Brenn. He had very few friends living in the settlement closest to his home. Had he decided to turn Seren away and send her into the village, they would as soon stone her to death for her differences as offer her aid. No. He had made the right choice in extending his hospitality. He would keep his honor and keep his word. And protect her from the cruelty and prejudice of those he once called his neighbors and friends.
Deciding he had remained in bed long enough, Brennon rose and stepped into the upstairs water closet to shave and clean up. Donning fresh clothes, he stepped out onto the balcony hallway and headed down the stairs. He had carried Rori to bed last night, after waiting for Seren to fall back to sleep after speaking with her. But the boy was already awake, sitting in his customary seat next to the ceiling to floor bookcase which occupied the wall opposite the huge fireplace.
“Where are you going?” Rori asked, glancing up from an open book on his lap.
Brenn cast him a glance over his shoulder. His nephew could no longer see the words printed on the pages of the books, but his mother and father had read to him, and he found comfort in the leather bound tomes. He would run his fingers over the paper, trying to detect the slight lift of the illuminations against the pages or breathe in the familiar scent of glue, treated parchment and leather. It was one of his ways of staying connected to his parents.
“Into Dundoire Hollow,” Brennon finally answered. “We need a few supplies, and I want to visit the butcher, since I failed to get a deer.”
He shot a quick glance toward the cot by the fireplace. The young woman was bundled up beneath the blankets, pushed as close to the glowing coals as he considered safe. Only her head stuck out above the blankets, her dark russet curls fanning out around her like the soft fur of a mink. Brennon narrowed his eyes and tried to study her a bit closer. Was there a little more color to her cheeks now? Her skin looked closer to copper in the morning light than it had the night before. Good. Perhaps that meant she was healing. He was tempted to wake her, just to make sure she was feeling better and check to see if her wound wasn’t festering, but she needed the rest. He didn’t plan on staying in town long. He would check on her when he returned.
Clearing his throat, Brenn returned his attention to Rori. “Stay nearby while I’m gone. If she becomes feverish, keep her cool with a damp cloth. If she wakes up, explain that I have gone into town for supplies and that I’ll be back as soon as I can. Do not,” he emphasized, his fingers tightening on the door handle, “let her leave this house. Do you understand?”
Rori nodded mutely, then felt his way over to the side of the cot so he could lay his hand atop the sheet, in case the stranger moved.
“Thank you, Rori. I should be back in a few hours.”
Brennon didn’t wait for his nephew to say anything more. He shut the door behind him and strode across the yard and down the hill toward the barn where the horses slept. The mare and her foal were already out in the paddock, their ears twitching in his direction as he approached. Brenn had no business with either of them. He needed Dermot, the older stallion who was the only one fit to ride. The horse had been his father’s pride and joy, and although he was past his prime, Dermot more than earned his keep at Ardun. He was strong in springtime when he was needed for the plow, and he was gentle and patient with Rori. Now that the harvest was nearly over, he spent most of his days lazing around in the barn, nibbling oats and swishing at flies with his tail. Not today.
Once the big horse was saddled and ready to go, Brenn swung himself onto his back and let him out into the yard, turning him south down the path leading to the larger road running east and west past Ardun.
The main road into Dundoire Hollow was damp and riddled with puddles, a common sight at the start of the dark half of the year. Brenn drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he surveyed the land around him. His family home, an old stone and wood roof manor house, sat atop a small hill situated between the great northeastern mountains and hills that stretched many leagues north of Erintara, Eile’s capitol city. Although Eile was broken into several realms, each governed in some capacity by one of the Tuatha De Danann, there were also several lost corners of the world unattached to these designated realms. Ardun and Dundoire Hollow occupied one of those areas.
The people of the north tended to take matters into their own hands when it came to governance, and it could be a hostile place to live, if one wasn’t familiar with the politics and dangers of the area. Fortunately, Brenn had been more than educated on that ground and knew he and Rori would be safe so long as they stuck to Roarke Manor and Ardun land. This had been another reason he had so readily offered refuge to Seren. A young woman like her, clearly far from home and injured, wouldn’t last long on her own in the northern reaches. He would not let the cruelty that had ensnared him entangle her as well.
Brenn stared out at the road stretching ahead of him. An icy drop of precipitation fell from the sky and slipped beneath his collar, making him shiver ever so slightly. He tilted his head, scowling at the iron grey clouds above. No doubt it would rain again. He only hoped to be finished with his business in town before the storm broke.
A half hour after setting off from the farm, Brennon came around a bend in the road, and the huddled buildings of Dundoire Hollow drifted into view. Comprised mainly of stone walls and thatched roofs, the houses and businesses of the northeastern most settlement in this part of Eile blended well with their bleak surroundings. The great river flowing from the mountains standing guard over the moors and valleys of the north seemed to twine its way around the far side of town, when the truth of the matter was the town had sprouted up around the river. But, Brenn noted with a wry quirk of his lips, the village was so old and so much a part of the landscape that it seemed the former was more accurate.
He led Dermot away from the main road and through a stone arch that stood guard at the entrance to the village. To his relief, the main thoroughfare was practically deserted, and the few souls who lingered about happened to be those who took a neutral side with regards to his decades-old feud with the Corcorain family. Good. Perhaps Brenn could go about his business and be on his way without causing a scene.
He nudged his great stallion over the wide bridge spanning a smaller tributary of the river and pointed him in the direction of the butcher’s shop. The street was bogged down with mud from the recent rainy weather, but the horse hardly seemed to notice. Despite the early hour, the butcher was up and open for business. Brenn ordered what he thought would hold him and Rori, and now Seren, over until he got a chance to hunt again, then went to fetch Dermot for the return journey to Ardun.
Some of the residents of Dundoire Hollow had emerged from the warmth of their houses by then, turning their coats and shawls against the damp weather as they made their way to the various shops to begin their work day or to purchase items needed back home. A few tipped their hats to acknowledge him, but most ignored his presence. He wasn’t the only one making his way down the main thoroughfare, after all, and the larger carts demanded more attention than a single horse and its rider. Brenn was almost to the main gate when a familiar voice cut through the relative quiet of the morning.
“Visiting the butcher’s shop, were you, Roarke?”
Brennon’s hands tightened on the reins of his horse as he turned his attention toward the man who had addressed him. Baird Corcorain had been nothing more than a childhood bully a decade ago. A young man who was used to getting everything his heart desired, Baird had freely given in to that rotten darkness that sometimes overtook the Faelorehn when he had taken his hatred for Brenn too far. Now the stink of faeduhn glamour, the black, oily magic born from pure evil, clung to him like swamp muck. Brennon knew that darkness all too well, for he had been battling it from the moment the Morrigan’s soldiers dragged him away from his family those many years ago. But unlike Baird, he had more reason than any to turn bitter, and unlike his nemesis, he had not succumbed. He still fought against the faeduhn’s vicious attempt to take root in his soul every day, and he didn’t plan on giving up the fight anytime soon. Schooling his features into bland indifference, Brenn turned a cool eye to his enemy.
Baird was an inch taller than Brenn, but years of wallowing in his own self-loathing, and the hatred he held for anyone who opposed him had taken the edge off his fierceness. The considerable bulk and muscle mass that had once rivaled Brenn’s own had also wasted away. It was possible that part of the reason for that was Baird’s habit of visiting the local tavern on an almost daily basis. Brennon never ventured into town often enough to witness that possibility with his own eyes, but he had heard rumors from some of the locals. Considering what he was seeing at this very minute, he doubted the rumors were false.
Baird’s blond hair was unkempt and matted in some places, and his green eyes were as dull as unpolished jade. He staggered as he left the doorway of the Black Boar Inn, and the lopsided smile plastered on his face only provided more evidence of his inebriated state. Had Baird been some other resident of Dundoire Hollow, Brennon would have felt some pity for him. Instead, he almost sneered at the other man. This was his penance for what he’d done to his sister and parents. And, to Brennon himself. Brenn had lived under the Morrigan’s tyranny long enough to know that anyone who turned another Faelorehn man, woman or child over to the goddess deserved whatever ill luck came their way.
Despite Baird’s state of intoxication and Brenn’s great effort to ignore him, the eldest Corcorain sibling insisted on making note of his sudden appearance in town.
“What’s the matter?” Baird slurred with great vitriol, turning in an unbalanced circle to address his question to the small crowd that had gathered. “Has the Morrigan’s greatest tool lost its use? Can’t even track down and fell a deer to feed himself and that little bastard he keeps?”
Brenn’s jaw tightened, and red fury flooded his vision. The Morrigan’s men used to speak to him in this way. When he was younger, when he had first been taken, he had bravely remained silent while taking their teasing and torture. Only long after dark, when the camp was asleep and the low burning fire and miserable cold were the only things to keep him company, did he give in to his tears. Each morning, he felt shamed by it. He was a Faelorehn man of the house of Roarke. He wasn’t a boy anymore. A boy would break and fall beneath the harsh cruelty of the goddess of war. He could not break. If he did, his family might suffer for it. Over time, he had learned to harden himself against the taunts of the other soldiers and even the pain of the lash.
He would not break now, not when Rori depended on him, and he was finally free, to some extent, from the Morrigan’s wrath. He would not let that pathetic, worthless, inebriate Baird Corcorain make him feel that terror or shame again. And he would not let the man drive him to use the cursed gift which had made him such a valuable asset to the goddess of war to begin with. No. He had to remain calm. He couldn’t rise to Baird’s bait. He would never use that aspect of his glamour again. It was a promise he’d made to himself after returning home to bury the remains of his parents and sister and brother-in-law.
Baird stumbled from the cobblestone walking path and stepped out into the road, his already unsteady feet having a difficult time finding purchase in the muddy street.
Brenn had been so lost in his memories he’d almost forgotten where he was. Blinking away the remnants of his unpleasant past, he lifted a brow, his anger cooling as he got a closer look at Baird’s unfortunate state.
“Am I to take offense from someone who drinks himself stupid before the sun even rises? Go home to your sister, Baird, and mind your own business.”
Brennon straightened in the saddle, pulling on the reins to turn Dermot back toward the main road. A guttural snarl, a collective gasp from those who had come out to witness the confrontation, and the light rasp of steel against leather were the only indications that Baird had drawn a blade. Quicker than thought, Brenn pulled his own weapon, a dagger the length of his forearm, and turned just in time to deflect the knife flying toward his back. The blade of Brenn’s dagger connected with the cross guard of Baird’s, and the other man’s weapon fell harmlessly to the ground, all but the hilt sinking beneath the muck.
Everything went still and silent on the street as the dozen or so townsfolk gaped, their eyes wide, at Brennon. The anger from earlier boiled up once more, and he quickly dismounted his horse, moving through the ankle-deep mud as if he were passing easily through the barley fields surrounding Ardun. Baird was staring blankly at Brenn, his mouth slightly slack from shock. Whether he was struck dumb at his own attempt at murder in front of all these witnesses, or just surprised his target had reacted so quickly, Brenn couldn’t say. He was far too irate and far too preoccupied with controlling his own glamour to care.
Visions of Baird snapping to attention, then moving forward to retrieve his dagger from the mud, only to turn the point toward his own heart before plunging it deep into his chest flashed like lightning through Brenn’s mind. Pressing his molars together, his nostrils flaring, he willed the images to disappear. He would not give in. As tempting as it was, he would not use his glamour to seek revenge on this worthless excuse for a Faelorehn man. Baird had been responsible, in his own way, for the massacre of Brenn’s family, but it was done, and he was now paying the price for his malice. To demand revenge now, after all this time, would prove nothing and accomplish little.
Despite all that, Brennon was determined to show Baird he wasn’t the young boy he’d been those many years ago. He reached down and plucked Baird’s dagger from the street, sweeping it up in his left hand while he held his own long knife ready in his right. Baird blinked a few times as Brenn charged forward with a strong, steady pace, his gaze never leaving the other man’s face. The crowd tensed as Brenn bore down on Baird, kicking one leg out from beneath him so that he fell to one knee, as if bowing before a king. Baird grunted in surprise, but said nothing, even as some of the townsfolk pushed forward. The bright blade pressed to Baird’s throat convinced the more determined of the lot to stop where they were.
Ignoring the grumbled complaints of those clearly in Baird’s corner, Brenn hissed between clenched teeth, “I have forgotten nothing I learned while a slave among the Morrigan’s soldiers.” His voice was just loud enough for Baird, and maybe one or two of the people standing closest to them, to hear.
His eyes flashed silver as he continued. “And you will do well to remember it. I have also not forgotten what your greed did to my family, Baird Corcorain, nor will I forgive it. As tempting as it may be to use my cursed glamour on you,” he added, pressing the sharp tip of Baird’s own knife into the flesh over his collar bone, “I have vowed never to use it again. I experienced firsthand what it is to completely control the will of another, to force them to do whatever you wish them to do. Strip in front of an army and dance naked, pluck out their own eyes, skin their loved ones alive.”
Brenn nearly choked as he recalled the memories, and a tremor of horror coursed through him, making his precarious hold on the knife below Baird’s throat grow even more dangerous.
Baird paled and swallowed a lump in his throat.
“If you think you can break me, or intimidate me, after all I have been through, then you are terribly mistaken. I may not use my power against you, but don’t think for one second I won’t employ what other skills I have learned under the Morrigan’s tutelage to forever keep you from threatening me or my nephew again. Do you understand?”
Baird said nothing, and Brennon didn’t expect him to come up with a reply. Instead, he waited for some sign that his enemy had understood him. When Baird gave a wobbly nod, Brenn removed the knife from the other man’s throat and tossed it several feet away. He returned his own dagger to the sheath strapped against his side and stepped away from Baird. He wasn’t worried about the other man retaliating. He had thrown the knife out of reach, and even if he’d had a backup weapon, Brenn was certain his threat had made enough of an impression to keep Baird at bay. At least for the time being.
Dermot was waiting patiently where he’d left him in the middle of the road. Brenn reached out and ran a hand up the stallion’s nose, and the horse returned the gesture with a careful nudge. Brenn gave a rueful smile as he once again mounted the horse. No wonder the people in town avoided him. Not only was it common knowledge the Morrigan had used him to spread her evil across the eastern portion of Eile, but he also preferred the quiet company of Rori and the farm animals to those in town. He was used to being alone and had no desire to change his solitary ways. The few friends he did have in Dundoire Hollow were plenty enough for him.
For some reason, reminiscing about his friends, or lack thereof, drew an image of Seren’s serene face from his most recent memories. Brenn tried to squash it down, but it was too late. Did he consider her a friend? No, how could he? He didn’t even know the girl. She was a stranger only, someone in need of help. And once she was healed of her injuries, and the weather proved better, she would be on her way.
Done with his business in town, Brenn had no desire to linger. As soon as he was settled in the saddle, he pointed Dermot in the direction of home and led the large horse to the main road. On his way out, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a young woman running to Baird’s side, taking him by the elbow and helping him up from the mud. A flash of golden hair tainted with strands of red told him who it was. Arlana, Baird’s shrew of a sister. The crowd had moved in closer, some of them sneering in Brenn’s direction. One figure in particular, a tall, slender man dressed in pale robes, glared at him from under a large, loose hood. His eyes were barely visible beneath the shadows, but his height and the cascade of white, braided beard falling down his chest like frothy snow was instantly familiar. Uscias. The Druid who oversaw the spiritual aspects of Dundoire Hollow and the other small, nearby settlements. A rush of ice spread through Brennon’s blood. Baird, Arlana and Uscias. The three people responsible for his fate a decade ago. More than ever, he longed to return to the safety of Ardun’s borders.
“Come on, Dermot,” he grumbled down to the horse, giving him a nudge in the ribs as they crossed onto the bridge leading out to the main road. “Let’s leave this hostile place behind.”
Dermot, it seemed, was just as eager to return home as Brennon. The horse galloped west down the wide road, his heavy hooves kicking up sheets of muddy water as the leaden clouds above wept their contents upon the fallow land. Brenn pulled up the hood of his cloak to cover his head, but it was a futile effort. He was already soaked through.
As horse and rider widened the distance between themselves and the unpleasant people in Dundoire Hollow, Brenn’s thoughts once again turned to the strange young woman asleep on the cot in the great room of his home. Instinct told him she would bring nothing but trouble upon his and his nephew’s heads. Surely someone with glamour powerful enough for shape shifting was also a danger to those around her. That intense burst of magic the moment he’d removed the arrow was also evidence of her volatility. His heart, however, was telling him something else.
You injured her, his conscience reminded. It is your duty to see her well again. You owe her at least that much. Let her wound heal, and then, send her on her way. What could a few weeks or even a few months matter?
Somehow, Brenn suspected he might live to regret his decision, as honorable as it may seem.
Seren was asleep on her cot, beside the fire, when the Faelorehn hunter returned. At least she was pretending to be asleep. The young boy, Rori, she thought the man had called him, hadn’t left her side. Not once. She had listened to their conversation several hours earlier. It was very hazy, but she had heard the hunter tell the boy to watch her. And he had done so. She had hoped, like most young children, he would get bored and wander away. But he’d never even left to pilfer something from the pantry. She’d lain there for almost an hour, patiently hoping he’d disappear. Eventually, she gave up on that hope and drifted off to sleep before the sound of the door opening and closing jolted her awake once more.
“She still sleeps?” the man, Brennon she remembered, asked in a quiet voice.
His boots fell softly upon the floor as he stepped closer. Seren’s head was tilted to the side, so she very carefully cracked open one eye, just enough to see by. The boy was out of her vision, but not his caregiver. The man was shedding his cloak, his dark hair wet and plastered to his head. After the garment was flung over a chair beside the fire, he reached for the hem of his shirt, his pale fingers tugging at the now semi-translucent fabric. He was soaked through. Not surprising if he’d been outside. Rain drummed incessantly upon the roof far above. It was loud enough to mask the crackle of the fire and the soft snores of the dogs sleeping beside it.
With a swift, fluid motion, Brennon peeled off his shirt and hung it on another chair beside the first one. Seren caught her breath, working very hard not to gasp and give herself away. Toned muscle ran the length of his torso, disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants. Although several shades lighter than her own, there was a delicate beauty to the color of his skin. It reminded her of the pale golden cream of parchment paper the travelers through the Weald sometimes traded with the Fahndi. Dark marks covered parts of his skin, like the patterns and designs her people painted on the inside walls of their homes. One pattern stood out the most to her. Located on the left side of his chest and below the collar bone, it was a crude illustration of what looked like the sun. The mark may have been composed of several lines radiating out from its center, but since her eyes were narrowed, she couldn’t say for certain.
As Seren studied this strange and exotic man from the relative safety of her feigned sleep, Brennon in turn gazed down at her. She resisted the urge to squirm. Surely, he couldn’t tell she was awake, or he would have said something by now. He stood in front of the fire, his hands resting casually on his hips. Perhaps he was deciding what to do with her. Drag her outside and let her fend for herself, or wait for her to turn back into a doe, so he could finish the job he’d started?
Before Seren could consider it any further, he turned to face the fire, putting his back to her. What she saw then through her half-closed eyes sent shivers down her spine. Long, narrow lines of pale white ran up and down his back in a random lacework pattern, too many to count. Seren knew without having to ask anyone what those lines were. They were the scars left behind from whiplashes. She had seen such marks on the dangerous men and women who stumbled upon the boundaries of their territory from time to time. Hardened criminals who had probably done the same to others at some point in their lives. But to have nearly your entire back covered in such marks? Seren couldn’t think what this particular Faelorehn man must have done to deserve such a fate.
Before she could consider it for very much longer, Brennon turned back around and addressed the boy.
“Rori, I’m going upstairs to fetch another shirt. When I come back down, I’ll see if I can get her to eat some of the broth heating over the fire.”
The hunter’s shadow momentarily darkened her vision as he crossed the room, disappearing up the staircase built into the far wall. She wondered what might be up there. More rooms? A large storage area of sorts? A door leading to the roof? Brennon’s footsteps stopped somewhere above her head, and soon, the only thing she could hear was the falling rain outside, now a light patter, the whisper of the fire not too far away and the creak of wood scraping against wood as the boy shifted in his chair.
When an unfamiliar weight pressed down upon the end of her bed, Seren almost screamed, her heart trying to punch its way through her chest.
“No, Nola, get down!” the young boy hissed.
The weight moved up her body, small concentrations of it, like an animal putting one foot in front of the other. When the mass moved to her stomach, she could just make out a low rattling sound. Seren was puzzled until she cracked her eye open once again. Two half-lidded, yellow-green eyes gazed at her from a face full of fur and long whiskers. The creature opened its mouth and made a strange mewling sound.
Terrified, Seren gave up on pretending to be asleep. Both her eyes flew open, and she drew in a long breath. The creature sitting on her stomach was large, almost as big as a fox, with a long furry tail that twitched. Its color was a mix of brown, grey and auburn with dark stripes marking its coat. Triangular, tufted ears swiveled on a square head as the beast continued to gaze at her with those chartreuse eyes. When the beast opened its mouth wide, displaying a set of sharp teeth, Seren lost what shred of control she still clung to. She drew in a great breath to scream, but Rori’s sudden movement from the chair caught her attention.
He stared in her direction with wide, blue eyes and proclaimed, “You’re awake!”
Before she could respond to that, the creature pinning her down made that strange mewling sound again, and Seren returned her gaze to it. The animal was sitting up now, its long tail twitching once again.
“What, what,” she began, trying to figure out what to say. Was this creature dangerous? Had the Faelorehn hunter sent it down to guard her? Would it bite her if she moved?
“Oh, sorry!” the boy proclaimed, standing up and reaching out his arms.
After patting the side of the cot with his hands, he wrapped the beast up in an awkward hug and pulled it to himself, even as the creature protested. As he lowered it to the ground, Seren caught a glimpse of its feet. Hooked claws protruded from the fur. She shuddered.
Rori returned to his seat. “Sorry about that. Nola is curious about new things and likes soft, warm blankets.”
He paused for a moment and tilted his head to the side, his eyes on her, but for some reason, Seren didn’t get the impression he was really seeing her.
“Do you like cats?” he asked, eventually.
“Cats?” she echoed.
Before Rori could even form a response, the thud of heavy footsteps sounded once again from above. Seren turned her head toward the staircase and found Brennon returning to the great room. He had pulled on a clean shirt, and his hair looked somewhat drier.
“Uncle!” Rori cried out. “She’s awake!”
Brennon’s confident pace faltered, and he paused halfway down the stairs, casting a somewhat careful look in her direction. Seren met his eyes, her own wide, she was sure. The hunter didn’t say anything. He merely studied her for a few moments before finishing his trek downstairs. He approached the cot slowly, the way a predator approached a dangerous animal. If not for her unfortunate predicament, Seren would’ve laughed out loud. She was about as dangerous as a newborn fawn left alone by its mother at the moment.
Only when the man was standing beside the boy’s chair did he finally speak. “It’s good to see you awake. Do you remember me from last night?”
Seren nodded, then hissed and shut her eyes. The ache that lingered in her shoulder traveled up her arm, then came to rest in her neck and the base of her skull. Carefully, so as not to draw attention to herself, Seren delved deep and drew on some of her glamour, willing the pain to go away. She couldn’t heal her wound the way she wished to, not with strangers looking on, so instead she let out just enough to take away the edge.
Brennon turned and moved over to the great fireplace. A small cauldron was hanging over the flames, its contents steaming and bubbling. Seren sat up a little straighter and inclined her head curiously. Brennon dipped in a ladle and spooned out just enough of the cauldron’s contents to fill a small wooden bowl. He brought it back over to where Seren rested on her cot, blowing over the hot liquid to cool it off.
“Here,” Brenn said gently, “drink this. It will bring you strength.”
It smelled strange to Seren, but not necessarily in a bad way. She struggled to sit up, her shoulder protesting again. Rori, the young boy, was there in an instant, standing behind her and helping her as best he could.
“Thank you,” she said timidly, unsure of what else to do.
Brennon offered the bowl again, and she took it, savoring the warmth of the broth that seeped through the thin layer of wood.
Blowing on it some more, Seren took a tentative sip. Still hot, but good. Carefully, she sipped some more, then took a small drink. Only when she was halfway done with the meal did she realize her stomach was not enjoying the broth nearly as much as her taste buds.
Before she could even cry out a warning, the liquid rose back up her throat. She bent over the side of the cot, spewing it all over the stone floor. Her face flaming in embarrassment, Seren cried out and covered her shame with her hands.
“I am sorry!” she said, her voice muffled between her fingers, the misery plain in her tone.
“No, don’t be,” Brennon reassured her, the scrape of wooden chair legs rasping against her ears as he stood.
She only prayed to the gods and goddesses that she hadn’t thrown up all over his pants.
“Here,” he said.
She risked a peek through her fingers. He was holding out a damp rag, another one, much larger, clutched in his other hand. As Seren wiped off her face and mouth, Brennon mopped up the rest of the mess using his booted foot.
Seren felt her face burn again. How mortifying. First, she was foolish enough to let a hunter track her and shoot her, then when he attempted to help her after discovering she was really a woman, she had repaid him by becoming sick all over his floor.
“I’m sorry,” she said once again, her tone miserable.
Brennon shook his head. “You’ve been through a lot in the past few days. Hopefully, you are not coming down with a fever.”
He narrowed his eyes, and Seren thought their clear grey color resembled the winter sky reflected on the surface of the meadow pond back in the Weald. The reminder of her home, her old home, made her heart twinge with regret. What had happened after she left? Would her mother ever know what had become of her? Would the clan treat Daniela better now that her misfit daughter was gone?
Dragging in a ragged breath, Seren returned her attention to her current predicament. “I won’t get a fever,” she said, with bland conviction.
Brennon only lifted his eyebrows at that. “There is no guarantee against that,” he warned. “I reuse my arrows if I can, and I don’t always clean them thoroughly after each use.” He leaned over in the chair and rubbed the back of his neck, adding under his breath, “It’s not like I had any reason to do so.”
Seren lowered her gaze again and flicked her eyes to the side. There was something off about the hunter today, something that hadn’t been there the night before. He seemed wound tighter, his demeanor a bit darker. The light around him had dimmed ever so slightly, the way it does on days when rainclouds are passing overhead. But Seren didn’t know him well enough to judge what might be plaguing him. No, that was wrong. She didn’t know him at all. Perhaps this was how he always was, and she just hadn’t noticed because she was too busy recovering from the initial shock of her wound.
“Is it true?” the boy finally said. His gaze didn’t waver, even as he stretched his hand out over the quilt. He seemed to be studying the texture of the blanket by touch alone.
Seren considered him again, narrowing her eyes at his. This wasn’t the first time she’d noticed his strange way of examining his surroundings. There was something off about his eyes, as if the pupils were cloudier than they should be.
She would have pondered it further, but the boy took a breath and asked, “Can you really turn into a deer?”
Seren went instantly stiff, clutching the rag she’d been given to clean up in her fingers like a raccoon holding onto a fish it had just pulled from a pond.
“Riordan Lyall O’Faolain,” Brennon snapped, in a low voice.
Immediately, the boy dropped his gaze and bit his lower lip.
“I’m sorry, Uncle,” the boy squeaked out.
Rori made to rise from his chair, but Brennon spoke to him before he took so much as a single step. “There is a rail broken in the northern paddock. I’ll need your help mending it so the sheep do not get out. Meet me down in the barn.”
The hunter’s voice was stern, but gentle, like the icicles Seren used to play with as a child. They grew from the waterfalls in winter, and she would break them off when they became as long as her forearm. If it was cold enough, the streams would freeze solid, and the icicles would be so cold they would readily stick to her hands if her palms were clammy. Seren remembered that if she held them long enough, they would begin to melt on the outside. Brennon’s tone of voice reminded her of those icicles: Frozen but beginning to melt.
Without a word, Rori stood, his arm slightly outstretched. Seren watched him closely, wondering if his uncle’s command would be obeyed with bitterness or fear. He seemed to show neither, but there was something strange in the way he walked. Most children would head straight to the door and dart out into the open yard to get to their destination quickly, especially considering the deluge outside. Rori didn’t do that. He walked purposefully, one hand held out loosely at his side, his fingers trailing delicately across the back of a chair, the top of a table, the outline of the doorframe.
Seren sucked in a breath as he walked his fingers up the backside of the door, seeking the handle. Only after he had opened and shut the door behind him did she turn to Brennon.
He was watching her again with those sharp grey eyes, and Seren remembered the network of scar tissue decorating his back and parts of his torso. Anyone who had survived through that had little softness left in them. She bit her lip and looked away, wondering if he found her as interesting to study as she had found him. Or was that narrowed gaze he was giving her one of suspicion?
Shaking those thoughts from her mind, she drew upon what little courage she had left and looked up at him.
“Rori,” she said. “He’s blind, isn’t he?”
Brennon tensed ever so slightly, his biceps bunching against his hands as he stood with his arms crossed over his chest. The tension passed, and he let out a huff of breath, turning his head to regard the fire, now burning closer to hot blue than orange.
Eventually, he answered her. “Yes.”
“How?”
Seren knew it was none of her business, but the question had leapt from her mouth anyway. Brennon surprised her by responding.
“An accident,” was all he said, stepping forward to pluck a log from a neat stack in the corner. He threw it into the hot coals with ease, then chose another and added it to the hungry blaze.
He dusted off his hands and stood back from the leaping flames. The hard features of his face warned her not to press the issue with Rori. At least now she knew why the boy acted the way he did, and why she had thought he was staring at her. Yes, his eyes had been fixed on her, but he had seen nothing. Poor dear soul. As if reacting on instinct, her glamour began to bubble up inside her chest, aching to be set free.
No, she told it with a pinch of sorrow, no, I can’t let you out while I’m here. Not for any reason at all. Not even to help that poor boy.
The very thought gave her pause. Could she? Was her healing gift strong enough to reverse the damage done by whatever mishap had taken his sight away to begin with?
Shaking her head against such silly notions, she reminded herself that using her gift in front of others only led to suffering. She could not use her magic here, not even to help an innocent child.
The widening silence between herself and the master of the house begged for some sort of conversation, and wanting to distract her mind from any more thoughts regarding her rare glamour, she glanced up and said, “You do not have the same surname, you and Rori.”
“No,” Brennon conceded, with a tired sigh. “His mother was my sister, but her husband’s name was Donal, Donal O’Faolain. He died alongside my sister and parents.”
Seren formed an ‘O’ with her lips, vaguely recalling the conversation they’d had the night before. A cold chill blossomed in her chest, and Seren decided she would leave it at that for now. No need to dig up this man’s ghosts. He already seemed haunted enough as it was.
Brennon took a breath, Seren’s prying question already forgotten.
“I will leave you to rest, but there are a few things you should know about the house.” Brennon pointed down a hallway to the right of the grand fireplace. “The first archway on the right will bring you to a set of stairs leading to the kitchen. The pantry is attached to the kitchen, and they are both half a level down, along with a larger store room. The bedrooms are upstairs, should you need Rori or myself for anything during the night. The bathing room,” he paused then, as if speaking of such things in front of her might not be appropriate. Seren nodded for him to go on. Surely a bathing room in a Faelorehn house was far more modern than whatever might be found in a Fahndi settlement.
“The bathing room is attached to the back of the house. There is a basin for washing your hands and face, and a larger stone tub for bathing, should you wish to do so.”
Seren pressed her lips together and nodded. She would be needing to use this bathing room soon, but a true bath could wait a while longer. Before making use of the bathing room, however, she waited for Brennon to gather up the lingering wolfhounds lazing in front of the fire and head outside into the foul weather. She hoped he and his nephew didn’t seek out chores which could wait for better weather simply to stay out of the house for her sake. Nevertheless, Seren took advantage of their absence and headed straight for the lavatory. It was exactly where Brenn had said it would be, and once she was done cleaning up the last bits of evidence of her incident with the broth, she scurried back to the pallet, sending a little healing magic into her wound as she did so. Again, she was careful not to overdo it. It would be difficult to explain a wound healed miraculously within a handful of hours after receiving it.
Once she was back beneath the warm blankets, she drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying not to cry. Surely, the spirits of the Weald had not meant for her to have such a life, always afraid, always quailing away from those who wished to harm her. Always being the victim. She gritted her teeth against that last one. Her inner spirit may be that of a timid doe, and she may have taken her clan mates’ brutality time and time again, but when she stood up to Rozenn in defiance and displayed her gift for all to see, she had taken a stand against everything they had groomed her to be. Maybe, once she was healed, more emotionally than physically, she could strike out on her own. Perhaps, she could even return to the heart of the Weald and find her mother and the two of them could start over somewhere else.
With that thought to help bolster her confidence, Seren let her consciousness slip away, and soon, she was sleeping once more.
Brennon lingered beneath the extended eave of the back porch, his fingers brushing the metal of the door handle as if reluctant to leave the cold, solid touch of it behind. His head was awhirl with the same thoughts that had plagued him since the evening before: questions surrounding the young woman resting in the great room of his home. Where on Eile had she come from? Where was her family? What had she been doing in Dorcha Forest alone? What exactly was she? A nagging thought at the back of his head told him it really wasn’t all that difficult to figure out. He had just been so distracted with her presence, he hadn’t let his mind settle down long enough to come up with the most likely conclusion. She had been a deer the night before, but now she seemed purely Faelorehn. Faelorehn with powerful glamour and skin the color of honeyed tea. Yes, those characteristics seemed so familiar, like a memory from childhood.
Brenn squeezed his eyes shut and tried to picture the other features he had been able to catch a glimpse of. Her eyes were larger and more angled than most, and her ears a little more narrowed at their tops, compared to his and Rori’s. Not pointed like the race of Fomorians who most resembled the Faelorehn, but more oval compared to the rounded ears of his kind. And there was her slender graceful figure, and her hair as silky and dark as toasted flax seed.
Brenn drew his hand from the door and curled his fingers into a fist. He couldn’t let her striking features ensorcell him and encourage him to open up his heart. He had far too many demons lingering there already. There was no more room for anything, or anyone else, especially not someone as lovely as the strange girl resting peacefully in Roarke Manor’s great room.
Seren, he reminded himself. Her name is Seren.
And how easily she had stirred up those demons with a few simple questions. By asking about Rori’s surname, she had unwittingly torn open Brenn’s memories. He’d somehow managed to skim over the details the night before, but being asked about his family, twice within a twenty-four hour period, was too much, especially after his unfortunate encounter with Baird Corcorain in Dundoire Hollow earlier that morning. True, his old wounds should have been healed by now, and by most accounts, they were, only because neither he nor Rori ever spoke of what had happened. And then, this strange young woman stumbled into his life and dared to ask what had become of his family, forcing him to think about a past he’d just as soon forget. But it wasn’t really her fault, was it? How was she to know what hellish nightmares she was dredging up with her curiosity?
Brennon gritted his molars and drew in a breath through his nose, savoring the sting of the early morning cold. The rain had lightened a little, but even so, as he stepped out from under the eave and started to cross the yard, the dampness had no trouble finding the gap in his collar. The wolfhounds, the alpha pair who had been waiting for him on the piles of dried grass beneath the porch cover, leapt to their feet and loped after him. Brogan and Addie were the parents of the rest, and the two most loyal to him. Their grown pups were down in the barn with Rori, most likely.
Brenn sighed at the thought of his precocious nephew. Perhaps he had been too hard on the boy when reprimanding him about his curiosity. It hadn’t been an inappropriate question. In all honesty, Brennon was still trying to come to terms with what his mind was desperately trying to tell him: that Seren was something of myth and legend. The only problem was, Brenn wasn’t ready to accept the most likely truth. Her arrival still had him a little on edge, like a horse scenting a wolf in the area, twitchy and wary until the danger passes. Rori’s easy, innocent inquisitiveness had tipped the balance, and instead of allowing Seren to answer, he had barked at the boy to remain silent.
At the bottom of the small hill the land flattened out into a widespread blanket of fertile farmland. The rich earth veined and pooled between the low hills and thickets of trees dotting the landscape from Lake Ohll and Dorcha Forest in the west and north, all the way to the mountains and moors east and south of Ardun. As Brennon stepped out onto the wide, muddy expanse of the barnyard, he did his best to avoid the deepest puddles. He carefully meandered his way toward the massive building, its great west-facing door flung open. Inside, the floor was mostly dry, a carpet of old hay and packed earth. The ceiling rose twenty feet or more, and thick beams of wood crisscrossed like the laced fingers of some forest giant using his strength to hold up the roof.
Rori wasn’t easy to find right away, but Brenn guessed where he might be. Taking a left, he strolled past the stalls housing the small collection of livestock they kept and came to an area which was sectioned off with tall, thin willow branches forming a lattice fence. Inside, several hens in a mottled mix of browns, whites, reds and blacks scratched around in the dirt. Nesting boxes piled four high and five wide lined the wall like compartments waiting for letters and packages. A few feathered bodies, stoic hens in the process of laying their eggs, occupied some of the compartments, while others were bursting with the dried, fine grasses Rori had harvested from the edges of the fields.
As he suspected, Brennon found the boy sitting on a stool in the corner, his lap full of red plumes. A collection of black, green and violet tail feathers cascaded over his knees and the hand not holding onto the bird belonging to the feathers was gently running down its glossy neck, careful not to damage its large comb.
Brenn came to stand next to the indoor chicken coop, crossing his arms and resting them atop the fence. He crossed his ankles in a similar fashioned and leaned his weight against the willow branches, ignoring their groan of protest. With a tone he hoped came off as casual, he asked, “So, how is Ruan doing this morning?”
Rori didn’t flinch in surprise. Brenn hadn’t expected him to. Instead, he kept stroking his favorite pet, soothing and reassuring the rooster as much as he was soothing and reassuring himself. Brenn tilted his head to the side to glance at the bird and soon felt himself smirking. Trusting fellow. He had his eyes closed, and his breathing was even. Spoiled rotten creature, more like. Rori had raised him from a newborn chick, and the two were inseparable whenever Rori was working in the barnyard area. Sometimes, the rooster even followed him out into the fields, leaving the hens to fend for themselves.
“Rori, I want to apologize. I did not mean to scold you inside. I’m just a little nervous about everything that has happened since last night.”
Rori continued to preen the rooster, but he lifted his head a little. Good. He was listening.
“I’m not used to having guests, and the girl, Seren, well, she isn’t like most people.”
His nephew surprised him by saying, “But neither are we, Uncle. Maybe that’s why Cernunnos sent her to us.”
Brennon smiled, a small, sad smile that he was glad Rori couldn’t see. He didn’t quite know why his nephew’s words should make him feel melancholy, but they did.
“So, you think it is Cernunnos who sent her, do you? Why do you say that?”
The boy turned his head toward Brenn now, and although his eyes were wide, their gaze seemed to look past him.
“Because,” he whispered, “she turns into a deer. Like the Fahndi from my book of fae-tales.”
Brennon stilled and a cold chill coursed through him. Was Rori right? Could that be what his subconscious had been hinting at since he woke up that morning? And now that he had his nephew to point it out, to say the words with such surety, could he really keep telling himself it had all been an illusion? Eile was a land of deep magic and places still unexplored, and for him to deny the existence of something simply because he had only ever heard of it in stories was not only foolish, but dangerous, as well.
Brenn worked to regain some of his composure and took a breath. He was ready to accept the strange truth, but he needed someone to verify that truth. “Tell me, Rori, how would you describe someone who was Fahndi?”
Rori screwed up his face, trying to recall the details from the book.
“They are like us, but their skin is darker, more like clay soil, and they all have black hair and forest-green eyes. Oh, and their ears are different, but I can’t remember how.”
Goose pimples rose over Brenn’s flesh, despite the relative warmth of the barn. All the characteristics he had noticed in Seren. Except for her eyes. Hers were more brown than green, and her hair wasn’t exactly black, but still... Good gods. Was she truly one of these legendary people, and if so, what on Eile was she doing so far away from her home? The Fahndi were the favored tribe of Cernunnos, and they lived deep in the heart of the Weald, leagues upon leagues away from the northern reaches. Did she not have a family who would miss her?
“I don’t need to remind you, Rori,” Brenn said, his voice low and serious, but not cruel, “that this must remain a secret between the two of us. Should anyone from town come by, you cannot tell them. Can I count on you for this? It might bring ill will down upon Ardun, as well as Seren, if anyone from Dundoire Hollow knew what she was.”
Brenn said this as much for their benefit as well as for Seren’s. He knew what it was like to be different, to have some quality another might covet or fear. He knew the dangers of such things. After all, he had learned the hard way that fear and jealousy could so easily poison a person’s heart and make them forget how to love.
The boy nodded his head vigorously, then, abruptly cheering up the way children do, he set his rooster on the ground and piped, “So, she is Fahndi then?”
Ruan, having lost his lofty seat on Rori’s lap, flapped his wings and crowed, making sure all within hearing range knew that, despite the fact he was treated like a pampered lap dog, he was still the king of the chicken coop.
“I’m not saying that for certain,” Brenn countered. “We will assume nothing, treat her no different than any injured person who has come into our care. Seren may choose to tell us, but I’m not going to force her. If she is running from some trouble, or has just stumbled upon ill luck, I want her to feel safe here. That’s the least I can do for her after shooting her, don’t you think?”
Rori bobbed his head. “Yes, but does she really look like a Fahndi?”
Brennon pictured those huge, flashing golden brown eyes and her beautiful skin once more, then shook his head to clear it. Yes, she did look like one of the Fahndi, but he wouldn’t admit it so assuredly to Rori. Instead, he unlatched the small gate and waited for his nephew to step out, not needing the assistance of his fingers to find his way in a place so familiar to him.
Brenn reached out and pulled the boy close, ruffling his hair. Instead of giving him a straight answer, he said with some amusement, “I don’t know. I’ve never seen one before.”
Rori giggled and pushed at his uncle, hoping he would let him go. It was no use. Brenn was a good two to three inches over six feet of well-conditioned muscle and strength, and Rori didn’t stand a chance against him.
Now that the small rift was mended between them, the two of them got to work on the damaged fence. Brennon carried the spare posts out, and Rori dragged along the tool bag. Their boots squelched through the mud as they made their way to the far northeastern corner of the large pasture, the mare and her endlessly curious foal in tow.
When they arrived at their destination, Brenn felt his heart sink. The broken boards didn’t look like they’d suffered the usual wear and tear that occurred on a farm. Instead, it appeared as if someone had taken an axe to the wood, splintering it into pieces and leaving deep gouges in the posts. A sickening unease began to build in the pit of his stomach as he took in the damage, all too aware this was not a result of the sheep or horses pressing through old, rotten wood. Brennon took a deep breath and closed his eyes, rifling through his memories and examining all the mishaps that had occurred on Ardun land of late. A handful of months ago, he had woken to find a section of their freshly planted field uprooted, the seedlings shredded and scattered like twigs torn from larger branches after a storm. A few weeks after that, some of the trees in their apple orchard had been knocked down.
Brenn had been completely flummoxed, until he saw the horseshoe prints and the rope burns on the trunks of the felled trees. Someone was trying to sabotage their livelihood, and he had a feeling who it might be. Only the Corcorain siblings were vindictive enough, and hated him enough, to stoop to such levels. But Brenn could not take the matter to the town elders. They did not trust him, and never had since learning of his special gift. And Baird and Arlana had the ear of Uscias, a man with enough glamour to intimidate and manipulate any weak-souled person living in Eile.
Brennon sneered in disgust as he considered Uscias, remembering the weight of the Druid’s eyes upon him as he left Dundoire Hollow earlier that day. The man was even more devious than Baird and had ten times the ambition. And his hatred for Brenn was like a dormant volcano: Brooding and silent, its volatility hidden beneath a calm surface that, when it finally did erupt, would level all in its path. Uscias, with Baird and Arlana serving as his henchmen, had tried to destroy him once, several years ago. They had failed. Now, they were striking out at him from a different angle, biting at his heels instead of coming down on him like a hammer. He would just have to find a way to overcome this obstacle as well.
Brenn heaved a great breath, then returned to his work, eyeing the damage dubiously. Eventually, he would have to think of something to discourage his enemies. Until then, he and Rori would do their best to rebuild whatever the malevolent trio managed to destroy in the small hours of the night. With that not-so-comforting thought, Brennon turned back to the task at hand. He chose a board amongst those he’d brought along that matched the length of the damaged one and got to work nailing it into place. Rori served as a tool and equipment provider, becoming distracted only when the foal nudged him with his nose, trying to get him to play.
When the fence was finally mended, Brenn and Rori checked the rest of the perimeter for more damage. After finding none, Brenn concluded the vandal must have been hoping the horses would get out. He shook his head with a rueful smile. If Baird and Uscias knew the Roarke horses at all, they would know the animals were too well-cared for to ever consider running away. Brenn and Rori let them wander free half the time as it was, and even if the mare and her foal had slipped through the hole in the fence, they would return before sundown.
“Are we going back to the house now?” Rori asked, once he had all the tools packed away safely.
Brenn tilted his head and regarded the sky. A light mist had dampened their clothes over the past few hours, but darker clouds loomed on the horizon.
“I think that would be a good idea,” he concurred. “Especially since the sky looks ready to open up again.”
With a final glance at the mended fence, Brenn turned Rori in the direction of the barn, and the two of them began their trek back through the damp fields.