Pagan Fire (4 page)

He walked in, ducking his head to avoid the dried herbs that hung from every rafter, nook, and cranny. As he pulled out the chair opposite the old woman, the pungent odor of garlic and rosemary filled his senses. So many days and nights he’d spent in this very seat, since that first night when she’d found him running from his would-be captors. The rhythm of Aethelred’s work, combined with the warmth of the room, took him back to that time. Back to the night he lost all that was dear to him, everything and everyone he loved.

Just a boy of fourteen, he had stood between the dying flames of the many Beltane festival fires, clutching Maere’s white mantle to his breast. It was all he had left of her; all he managed to grab when Eugis rode off. Dylan tried to pull Maere off the horse but it was too big and too fast for him. How did this come to pass, he wondered, that his father and Maere’s kin should be murdered? That his newly betrothed should be stolen from him, dragged off screaming into that Beltane night?

The people of his village, chased away by Eugis’ men, were gone. Dylan was sick and disoriented, vomiting over and over onto the hard ground until there was nothing left in him but the bitter taste of bile. He watched, in dazed silence, as the fluids his body had given up flowed into the hot coals of the sacrificial fire, simmering and then evaporating in the heat.

Eugis’ men reappeared. “There he is! Grab ‘im!”

Dylan, crouched near the ground, spun around on the balls of his feet. Three men on horseback were almost upon him.

There was no escape through the hot embers of the Beltane fires to his left or right. He scrambled to his feet, kicking up dirt behind him, and bolted for the forest. He ran fast and hard as the attackers followed. The low underbrush and sharp brambles tugged at his stocking covered legs. The plants tore the fine woolen fabric of his ceremonial robe into shreds, and his skin along with it. He gave a quick glance over his shoulder.
Sweet Danu
. They were so close he could see the horse’s nostrils flaring. He could see the steam rising in the pale moonlight from their hot and sweaty bodies.

“Don’t let the bugger get away! We’ll have the gods to pay if we don’t kill ‘im dead.”

Kill me?! Why?!
A steel band of fear tightened around his chest. Frantic, his eyes darted from side to side, looking for some refuge from his pursuers. He splashed through a shallow stream, sending water flying high, soaking the edge of his garment. His breath came in short, ragged gulps. His lungs were near-to-bursting as the horses and their riders gained on him.

He glanced behind him again. One of the men was leaning forward, his arm stretched out, dirty fingers flexed, just inches from Dylan’s face. Another minute, and they’d have him.

In that instant, Dylan saw a dark opening in the bush. Could he make it? The man’s hand caught his shoulder and the boy stumbled. In a last burst of speed, Dylan’s long legs pushed him forward into the unknown. He tumbled straight into Aethelred’s keep. And it was here he stayed, listening and learning while Aethelred explained to him the various levels of power, their rewards, and their dangers. She always insisted on telling him the bad along with the good. What was burned most clearly into his memory, though, was the moment she looked at him, the wisdom of the years in her eyes, and said, “True magic comes from within. If you possess it with honor, no one can take it away from you, no matter how hard they may try.”

Dylan blinked back the tears forming in his eyes and poured himself a cup of water from the pitcher sitting in front of him. He’d miss this place terribly. He looked around the room once more, impressing every detail on his mind. The small window near the kitchen cupboard outlined with the flowering vines he himself had painted for his teacher, the worn rush seat of the rocking chair next to the stone hearth. He cleared his throat. “It’s time I left.”

“I know,” she said without looking up.

It wasn’t like her to be taciturn. He’d decided long ago that there must be something inside of him that attracted boisterous instructors. First there had been Maere’s father, Manfred cu Llwyr, with his strict and loud lessons, then Aethelred with her swatting and shrieking. He smiled slightly when, in his mind’s eye, he saw her that first day shaking a finger in his face, telling him to be quiet so she could talk.

He learned then that Morrigu had instructed Aethelred to care for him, to teach him the ways of the magic she’d given him when he was born. And he’d been a good student, he thought, learning to commune with the trees and command knowledge from them.

And now it was time he took his leave, to embark on the quest for vengeance against Eugis cu Llwyr the goddess herself had granted him last night. Dylan leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “Tell me. How did you know?”

Aethelred snorted and slammed down the pestle. She stood and scooped the dark green paste into her hands, then dropped it into another bowl. “After all these years you have to ask? Do you think you’re the only one around here the goddess speaks with?”

He blushed under the whiskers he’d yet to remove. It hadn’t been quite an hour since he’d left Morrigu lying on the soft pine boughs near the stream. He saw her, in his mind’s eye, rising from the ground. The goddess stood and gracefully shifted back into the form of the raven. What if she had flown here after their lovemaking? He hadn’t thought about that. She could have easily beaten him to the house and told Aethelred everything. His cheeks burned brighter as he thought of the intimacies they’d shared.

“So, you’ve seen her this morning, have you?” he asked, trying to sound as uninterested as possible.

Aethelred sighed. She sat down and leaned back in the old chair until the front legs came off the compacted dirt floor. “No, Dylan.” She let the legs drop with a thud and reached across the table. With her little finger, she traced the bloodied line on his cheek. “She has made her mark on you for everyone to see.” She pushed his mug of water toward him.

He bent over and looked at his reflection. There, running diagonally across his cheek, was a thin scar surrounded by dried blood. Dylan dunked his finger into the cup, then rubbed it over the mark. The blood disappeared, but the scar remained. He put his hand over it. The skin was raised in a smooth line. He shoved the mug away.

“It’s all right, boy. Sometimes she takes a liking to a mortal man.” She laughed and winked. “If I were a few years younger, I might have taken a liking to you myself, handsome devil that you are.” Aethelred shook her head. “And I’m sure she’s taught you more about pleasing a woman than any man has a right to know.”

Images of Morrigu’s lovemaking lessons filled Dylan’s mind: Her long legs entwined with his, her soft lips as they imparted the knowledge of how to seduce a woman so completely she’d beg for mercy before he was through. He shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aroused. He took a drink of water and forced the image away. “She said she was setting me free,” he whispered, his voice strained. “So I might seek my revenge.”

“Oh, Dylan. Is that what you want from this lifetime?” Aethelred shook her head. A long strand of gray hair fell out of its bun and touched her wrinkled cheek. “No wonder Morrigu sought you. Though she can be a loving goddess, she feeds on war and hatred. Why do you think she took you and made a man of you last night? Let this need for revenge go. Invite the light into your spirit.” She tilted her head and her eyes met his. “You yourself have seen how dangerous the lure of evil is.”

He jumped to his feet and roughly shoved his chair against the table. “We’ve had this discussion more times than I can count, Aethelred.” He ran a hand through his black hair and turned his back to her. “Why do you think I was spared that night? Why do you think I survived Eugis’ wrath? So I could live on quietly as if my father wasn’t murdered? Pretend I never saw the pain in his eyes and in the eyes of Manfred and Rhea?” He spun back around. “Was I spared so I could simply forget Maere as she screamed for me – for me, Aethelred – as Eugis dragged her off? Am I to forget everything we were to share?” He slammed his fist into his palm. “I tell you, this is something I will do.”

Aethelred bowed her head for a moment then looked up at him again. “I won’t fight with you, Dylan. You’re a grown man. I believe I’ve taught you well, in spite of your temper. Go on.” She gestured toward his room. “Pack your things.”

Dylan nodded, then walked toward the rear of the house. He pushed back the long curtain that served as the door to his room, entered it, and closed the fabric behind him. Walking over to the desk, he straightened the parchments into a neat pile and checked the ink stoppers to be certain they were stuck tightly in the jars. He crouched down and pulled a rough linen sack from under the mattress.

He opened the bag and began stuffing his clothing into it when he saw a flash of white. He tipped the bag upside down. A length of cloth with a gold-and-garnet brooch pinned to it came tumbling out. He slowly picked it up. Tears gathered in his dark eyes again as he buried his face in the fabric, the agony of losing Maere renewed.

He took a deep breath then stuffed it back into the sack, followed by a tunic, two pairs of stockings, a pair of sandals, and the parchments. When he had gathered everything he owned, he stood and wrapped his mantle over his shoulder.

Dylan took one last look around the room, his room. How was he ever going to repay Aethelred for everything she’d done for him? She’d taken in a sorry boy and helped him grow into a man. He went to his desk and pulled out a parchment, one he’d been working on for many nights. He hadn’t realized until now that it would become his farewell gift to this wise and kind woman. He picked the sack up and left the room.

“Aethelred? I have a gift for you.”

“I love presents.” The old woman clapped her wrinkled and work worn hands. “What is it?”

“You are an impatient one, aren’t you?” Dylan said, with a smile. He placed the manuscript on the table in front of her.

“Oh, Dylan. Your work is the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. It’s full of grace and meaning.” She pointed at the inked and painted interlacings of colorful animals devouring each other as they traveled around the page. In the center was a raven, its head held high, as if it dared anyone to challenge it. “This is Morrigu, isn’t it? No wonder the work is so lovely. It was she who guided your hand as you drew.”

He shrugged. “I suppose, but I didn’t know it at the time I was painting. I tell you, Aethelred, the images come to my mind and I have to draw them. I’ve tried to ignore them, but they threaten to drive me to madness when I do.”

Aethelred nodded, her pale eyes glittering. “I understand. It’s part of your gift.” She gently placed the parchment on the table then looked up at Dylan. “Tell me, boy. How will you find her?”

“Find who?”

Aethelred leaned forward and swatted him on the arm. She squinted, her eyes all but disappearing into the mass of wrinkles that was her face. “Don’t play games with me, boy.”

Dylan smiled for a moment, then grew serious. “I’ve been watching her. Some nights, I send my spirit to her dream world. She’s living at St. Columba’s Abbey in Glastonbury. It’s only a week’s walk from here.”

His teacher smiled proudly. “Good work.” She poked him in the center of the chest with her finger. “I’d wish you luck, but I want you to remember we make our own luck.”

Dylan bent over and gave Aethelred a quick hug. He tossed his bag over his shoulder and walked toward the door. When he reached it, he turned back around to face her. “To say thank you is not nearly enough,” he whispered.

“Yes, it is. I know what’s in your heart. You’ve been like a son to me and I’ll always be thankful to the goddess for the time we’ve had together.” Aethelred clasped her hands in front of her. “I’ve a last warning for you, though, Dylan mac Connall. You’ve been hidden away in the woods for a good many years. Your magic is untested. And you don’t know everything, although at nearly twenty-four winters you think you do. Don’t forget: You
are
mortal.”

With a nod, he turned to leave. “Sweet Danu, I know,” Dylan said quietly as he walked through the door. If he had been anything but mortal, he’d have been able to prevent those tragic deaths. He’d have had magic enough to pummel Eugis into the ground and rescue those he loved.

Would he have enough magic now? Dylan set his mouth in a firm line as he looked out past the trees and east toward the horizon, toward Glastonbury. Only time would tell.

Chapter Four

Maere sat in bed, her head resting against the whitewashed wall, the Gospel of St. Mark spread across her lap. She stared at the ceiling as if she would find relief from the evil that plagued her in the uncomplicated criss-cross of hewn wood. The exposed timber rafters slanted high and disappeared into the flat boards and rushes that formed the roof of her small room. There were times she wanted to follow them and disappear as easily.

A slight draft crept in from under the door and the candle on the bedside table flickered, sending elongated shadows dancing across the walls. An even stronger draft blew in through cracks in the window shutters. The flame sputtered, then grew strong again. Maere gently closed the precious volume - only one of two copies the convent owned - and placed it on the table. Where was Seelie? The girl should have been back by now.

Maere leaned forward and pulled her shawl up and around her shoulders. Why in heaven’s name had she let the girl talk her into such foolishness? She never should have agreed to lie. Seelie shouldn’t be cavorting around at night. And especially not with a priest! What would become of
all
their souls?

The worry ate at her insides and made her head hurt. Maere lifted a cup of water from the table, then froze, the vessel halfway to her lips. What was that? Her ears pricked up, setting all her senses on edge. A muffled scratching was coming from outside the window.