Born of Oak and Silver (The Caradoc Chronicles) (20 page)

“I
t’s more than likely that you do. Bram was always saying how much one of his sons would love specific piece of furniture, and that he would cover all the costs to have it shipped to them. There were quite a few things sent, though I don’t know exactly where to. There is also a wide array of pieces up at Bram’s house. If you see something that you like. . .” 

We
looked at awkwardly each other. We had both been caught up in the illusion that her home and family still existed, and that my father was still alive creating beautiful works of art through his trade.

Nervou
sly, Ayda looked at the sawdust-covered floor, shifting a bit with her foot before adding, “Your father was a master of his craft. I think I would have liked to have met him—and your mother, of course. Growing up, I would try to imagine what they must have been like to have produced someone of your like.”

I couldn’t help it:
I laughed. She must have created quite the image to explain the type of people that had been capable of producing such a selfish and self-absorbed individual as I. “Trust me,” I assured her, “they were incredible people and no reflection of me. My mother was the most generous and loving person I have ever encountered. She was extremely intelligent, witty, and—I’m sure you’ll appreciate this one—defiant. She had this eyebrow that she’d raise when she thought you were being absurd.”

“Like you,” Ayda added.

I nodded. “She was also fiery,” I said as I looked at her. “My father was extremely talented and hardworking. He too was genuinely kind, and had an excellent sense of humor. He had this laugh that, when you heard it, you couldn’t help but laugh yourself. He just laughed all over. And he was devoted. He loved my mother fiercely, and I always knew he loved me too.” I paused, trying to find the right words before I concluded my inadequate description. “They were wonderful. If I can ever become half of what they were, then my life will have been worth it.”

I shifted uncomfortably, running
my fingers absently over the tool that I only now realized was in my hands as I’d recounted their memory. I walked to the back of the barn, to the area where my mother had stored all of our old things. I shifted through a few things, old pots containing books that my father did not have room for, trunks of clothes and quilts, and finally, wrapped tenderly in what had been my favorite blanket when I was a boy, my fishing pole.

I unwrapped it and ran my fingers gently over its length.

“What is it?” Ayda asked as she walked up behind me.

“This,” I said proudly, “is the world’s greatest fishing pole.
Your grandfather and I caught the biggest fish that has possibly ever been caught in a freshwater pond with it.” I showed it to her flourishingly.

Ayda took it from my hands and swished it back and forth over her shoulder as if testing its ability to cast. “It is light, but strong. I’d bet you caught innumerable fish with this pole.”

I had, though I didn’t need to tell her that. I just watched her attempting to look legitimate while ridiculously circling the pole in the air around her head. I was taken off guard when she unexpectedly swiped me in the arm with it. She was trying to lighten the gravity of the day and the situation we were currently in. I was grateful for her efforts, which had momentarily taken my mind off the fact that my parents had been brutally murdered . . . though, hers had too. As had her siblings, the realization of which made her efforts all the more meaningful.

“Thank you, Ayda. I
appreciate the distraction. I should probably tell you that I am always on the lookout for someone who will give me a painful welt on my arm, or any other part of my body for that matter. It keeps a man on his toes.” I waggled my eyebrows at her.

“Och, you are foul Mr.
Dalton,” Ayda said with a smile. “Though I confess that I find the idea of whipping you any time that I think you might be getting out of line a pleasant one,” Ayda teased.

“Pay
back no doubt for all the times Gair, Cian, and I excluded you, or mercilessly toyed with you. Considering that I am the only member of that group present, I suppose it is only fair that I take their whippings for them too,” I offered chivalrously with a pompous bow.

“So you’re playing the gentleman now
, are you? Or is it whipping boy?” Ayda smacked the fishing pole playfully against her palm.

“I suppose time will tell
, Miss Macardle.” With that I snatched my pole away from her. “Until that time, I will keep my fishing pole for myself,” and I swatted her lightly on her backside.

“Ooooh, Daine, I might just have to tell Grandad on you for that one.” Her emerald eyes shone with intended retaliation.

“Good, maybe it will give him a distraction as well.”

Bram returned to the barn just then, clearly consumed by thoughts that I didn’t want to think about. Instead, I looked at Ayda with raised eyebrows, my pole tapping lightly against my palm, questioning if she was going to make good on her threat. Her pink lips pursed in an effort not to smile, and she slightly shook her head in the negative.

“I’ve attended to everything that I needed to,” Bram informed us sadly. His words had brought the reality of the situation blaringly to mind. The momentary easing of the sorrow I felt while bantering with Ayda had left me now. I felt entirely overwhelmed by what we had discovered here, as well as by the enormity of what still needed to be done.

Entirely sober once again, I stepped toward Bram,
handing my fishing pole over to Ayda for safekeeping before speaking generally to them both. “I do not think it is necessary that we wait any longer. If you do not have any issues with lighting the pyre now, I will attend to it immediately.”

Neither said a word, and I moved soundlessly out of the barn and
toward the cottage. The sun was now beginning to sink, and the last streaks of bright orange shone upon the layers of untampered frost. The potential beauty of the moment was lost to me.

I stopped
perhaps thirty feet from the cottage and directed fire to consume what was left of my childhood home. The dry, old wood throughout the cottage’s construction provided an excellent accelerant for burning. The flames needed little coercing before the entire structure was aflame. It was not enough, though, and I encouraged the fire to grow larger and to burn hotter.

I turned to the b
arn. Ayda and Bram now stood outside, standing a few feet away from me. “Is this really necessary?” Ayda asked a little dubiously. “We should salvage the last of your father’s work.”

I did not give her an answer. I simply
strode past the both of them and allowed the fire that was already with me to have the freedom it wanted to frolic over and throughout the old barn. It too took flame quickly, and we all had to step back from the intense heat. The blaze was enormous as it reached into the sky. But all of that was fine with me; the hotter it burned, the more assurance I had that there would be absolutely nothing left.

“I think it would be best if all of us took to rest for the duration of the evening. My home is heavily warded, and by my guess, still untouched. Am I
correct in that presumption?’ Bram looked at me and I nodded in response. “Well in that case, it would do well for us all to move on immediately, lest we run into local citizens coming to worry over the unexpected conflagration.”

He set off toward the w
ell-known path that led to his house. Neither Bram nor I needed light to know every bend and turn of the trail. Ayda, however, could do nothing but stumble blindly between us in the dark. I reached for her arm, twisting her around to face me, and then I lifted and carried her over my shoulder the remainder of the way. My pole thumped against my side as she held it, falling into an even tempo with my footsteps.

Bram’s house was indeed warded exceptionally well. I doubt anyone, Druid or not, would be able to enter the home with his wards in place except himself and those whom he wished to welcome in. We entered the freezing foyer, our breath clouding before our faces. Bram moved to the study, used the conveniently placed wood beside the fireplace that had been laid in wait eight years before, and started a fire that almost immediately began to warm the room.

Ayda went to stand before it, her dainty hands stretched out before its warmth.

“
Keep it burning, will you, lass?” Bram asked as he moved from the study to the other rooms in the house to do as he’d just done in this room.

I went to work removing dust-
covered sheets from the furniture and wall hangings. With them out of the way, the room took on a completely different feeling: one of comfort, warmth, and life. I promptly went in search of the other rooms in which Bram had left fires burning to also clear them of their dusty shrouds. It did not take long for both Bram and me to complete the tasks we’d given ourselves to perform. With nothing more to attend to, I made my way back to the study.

“Daine, I have something fo
r you,” Bram said as he entered.

I stared blankly
at a pair of shuttered windows while ungentlemanly sitting in one of the room’s many upholstered chairs.

“Ayda,” he asked
, “will you be able to manage here for a moment by yourself?” Ayda gave him a tight nod, her dark curls catching the fire’s light as she moved.

Bram then walked away, and I stood
up and followed. He went up the stairs and to the room that I had used occasionally when I was his student.

“You’ll f
ind a nightshirt laid out on the bed for you,” he said as he indicated the bed with his head.

I went to the bed, quickly stripped my clothes off
, and put the nightshirt on. Out of habit I went to the washbasin to wash my neck and face before going to bed, and was pleasantly surprised to find that Bram had already filled the pitcher for my use. Grateful, I went to work washing myself vigorously in an effort to rid myself of the day’s memories. When I had finished, I walked blearily toward the bed.

Bram stood patiently beside
it. I was exhausted. As I drew closer, I saw that Bram held a cup in his hand. He held it out to me with the simple command, “Drink this. All of it, please.”

I did not have the will
or strength to question him. I was emotionally spent, not to mention physically exhausted from using so much energy to create such a large and quickly burning fire at my parents’ cottage. However, mentally I was alert and miserable. I could not stop thinking about what I had seen and how my parents must have suffered. I was so consumed by their pain that I was completely unaware of my own.

I took the cup and drank whatever it was that Bram had given me.
I felt heavy and even dizzy. I vaguely recall Bram helping me into bed as I fell into a blissfully dreamless unconsciousness. 

I awoke three days later, completely starved and dehydrated. Someone had
been anticipating my awakening and had left a plate of still warm meat, bread, cheese, winter vegetables, a large dram of whiskey, and what appeared to a sizable mug of milk for me on the bedside table. I ate voraciously, feeling as though my stomach was a bottomless pit. My clothes had also been cleaned, and now lay in wait atop a chair that rested beside the wardrobe. My father had made both.

I did not want the memory
of either, but found the clothes much easier to manage. I tossed them into the fire and went to the wardrobe, feeling like I was burned when I touched it. I found all of my clothes from the trunks that had accompanied us to Strasbourg hanging inside. I dressed, combed my hair away from my face, and went to the heavily draped window to discover if it was night or day.

It was night, though there was no moon
, so I could not tell if the night had only just begun, was in its fullness, or was quickly fleeing before the dawn. It didn’t matter; I was restless. I took a woolen coat that was draped across the back of a chair, and went directly downstairs to the rooms where Ayda and Bram might be found—if they were still awake.

I
t was 2:24 in the morning, and neither was to be found. Truthfully, I was relieved to be alone. I opened the front door—feeling the wards shiver as I crossed the threshold they protected—and stepped out into the freezing, January night air.

It was both invigorating and calming
to walk through the well-known and loved places of my childhood under the cover of winter and darkness. I wandered aimlessly, not thinking much of where I was going. However, I soon realized that I was on the path that led back to what had been my parents’ home. I stopped abruptly. My fist pumped lightly as I thought about where I had been unconsciously going—home.

I looked around m
e, searching for another option. I froze entirely when I noticed I was precisely at the fork that would either take me toward the remnants of my childhood home, or to the stream where Maurelle had tempted me. Neither was a good, but having no desire to ever again see where I had grown up, or what was left of it for that matter, I cautiously began to walk down to the stream.

I didn’t know what I’d find, though I wasn’t sure if I expected to actually find anything. The trees that marked the edge of her confinement were quickly in view as the ground began to slope dramati
cally downward toward the river’s cut course. All too soon, I was standing before what had once been the perimeter line of Maurelle’s territory.

T
he runes glowed with an eerie, blue hue when I revealed them. They were all still active and in place. I couldn’t begin to fathom how a Fae Royal had ever managed to escape, especially when I was now looking at ancient containment runes that I did not even know existed. They were intricately intertwined with those that I knew were completely unbreakable. Suspicious that there may have been a breach at some point along the border, I began to walk the tree line. I circled the entire perimeter, and nowhere could I find any signs of tampering or weakness.

I walked back to where the
river path was intersected by the barrier wards. I kicked some dirt away from my feet in frustration, feeling as though the very idea of attempting to figure out this whole mess was impossible. I stared down the path, watching as it disappeared into the dark. I was no closer to learning anything standing outside of the wards, and seeing no reason not to proceed, I entered Maurelle’s prison.

I was consumed by a
barrage of thoughts as I moved forward. Nothing about this situation made any sense. Maurelle should have never been able to escape her confines—unless Bram himself had allowed her to go. But he had not been anywhere near France in the past eight years.

A whisper carried on the wind stopped
me dead in my tracks. A winter fog had accumulated and hovered lazily about the ground. The gentle stream provided the perfect amount of moisture to allow such a phenomenon to happen on its own. The night was clear. The stars shone brightly in the sky as I spied them through the tangle of bare branches overhead while I searched for what had startled me. There was nothing. Unnerved, I again began to descend toward the stream. I hadn’t gone more than a few paces when again I heard what I can best describe as a whisper sliding through the trees.

I
whirled around, searching for its source. My senses heightened and flexed out in an effort to locate whatever it was that I was obviously hearing. It started out as nothing, a slight change in the winter’s air and darkness. But no matter how insignificant, I knew for certain that I was not alone. I moved to stand beside a large oak, readying myself to meet . . . what? I couldn’t know.

S
oon I came to notice a faint . . . almost flickering in the mist. Ever so slowly, it seemed to build upon itself, seeming to take great quantities of energy and strength to do so. As I watched, a figure clearly began to take form, using the mist as its medium.

I scanned the area with my Druid’s heightened senses, searching for another presence that might revea
l this merely as a trick of sight. When I was unable to sense anyone present but me, I heightened my guard. Wary, I searched more thoroughly. No power was being taken from the elements to fuel this being’s formation.

I watched defensively as something that had began to resemble a human form define
d itself. A dress took shape, hugging a feminine figure. Strong and lithe hands formed, complete with definition that would lead one to assume that they were middle aged. I gasped when the transformation was complete. A full head of long, waving hair framed the perfect face of my mother.

I was horrified
. I was unclear if this . . . this thing hovering so innocuously before me was a creation of the Fae made to distract me from some ulterior purpose that was presently unfolding, or if it was purely a ghost. I watched, my mouth pursed tightly in preparation for whatever this creature should decide to do. The figure that was my mother did nothing, but remained lightly where she had formed. Swirls of mist curled and wisped around where her immaterial feet met the ground. I shivered as her mouth moved, and the wind carried my mother’s whisper of my name to me.

It was her voice;
there was no other voice that had ever existed that was quite like hers. I closed my eyes and swallowed heavily before opening them again. My heart hammered almost painfully in my chest. I braced myself for the possibility that this was a very cruel distraction, and hoped against everything I would not have to do battle with this creature, which was such a perfect replica of my mother. I would in no way survive it.

Almost imperceptibly, she began to
move forward. It startled me back to the reality of this situation. I thought quickly, and concluded that wind might provide the best defense against something that seemed to be immaterial. I stepped forward to meet its advancing form, threatening the warmly smiling face with my own menacing promise. “Do not move any closer, or I will have no choice but to destroy you.”

She
ceased advancing and raised her hands in a gesture of peace. I stalked forward, claiming the slightly higher ground to my advantage as I approached. All the while, she remained perfectly still and motionless. Even when I circled around her, she did not turn her head to watch me as I passed. I circled in closer, never once letting down my guard.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

She did not say anything; instead, one of her hands moved slowly from the motion of peace that she had maintained to tap her throat. She then sadly shook her head.

I understood her meaning, but s
till sought the verification. “You cannot speak?”

In answer, one of her brows raised as she smiled at me with the
exact face that my mother would have made. Again, my heart wrung itself over their similarities.

“Who are you, and what do you want?”
I knew it could not speak, but I asked it anyway. She was going to have to convince me that she did not want a fight between us.

The being seemed to take a deep breath and slightly shake her head in exasperation before motioning for me to follow her as she began
to recede and turn, moving down the path toward the stream.

I
stood there. Just what was it that I was up against? When I had made the decision to turn and go the other way, the wind again carried my name to me. I shivered with chill. Against my better judgment, I found my feet following the smoky apparition. I had yet to find out to what end. I grew even more skeptical that I would be pleased with whatever it was when I did.

We moved slowly, the ghostly figure that had c
hosen to take my mother’s form in the lead, and me trailing about fifteen feet behind her. Aside from the fact that I was following a ghost, nothing else seemed out of the ordinary. In fact, everything was silent and hushed as if it did not wish to disturb either of us as we passed. Even the trees seemed almost reverent of our passing.

She
stopped before a large tree. I moved closer and allowed myself to stand relatively close the being. Remarkably, this brought a pleased smile to her face. I ignored this, and instead focused on what it had led me to. It was the mistletoe-covered oak. The figure of my mother motioned toward the tree, but indicated that I remain where I was. I was more than happy to be a silent observer of whatever it was that I was meant to be party to.

She moved toward the tree, looking thro
ugh the barren winter branches to the moon above. She again smiled, revealing the shadow of teeth when she saw that the sky was clear and that the moon was able to shine brightly through the bracken to the frost-covered ground where we now stood.

She excitedly pointed to the moon, and then to the massive oak tree that was before us
. With a nod, she indicated that I look at the tree. Without a word, I did so. I was curious to see what had made this apparition so visibly excited. Despite my curiosity, I retained my skepticism about the ghost’s intent, and stared at the section of the massive oak with my senses flared to warn me of any potential danger.

It
was gradual, so scarce that I could hardly notice it. It was like one of those tricks of the eye where you’d swear something was there, but when you looked at it face forward you couldn’t see it. So I resisted the urge to focus, and allowed it to grow. The tree was shimmering or flickering, as though the bark of the tree was readjusting or realigning itself to the moonlight. I extended my hand, and saw that the area around my palm had also started to shimmer.

I l
ooked at the image of my mother. She smiled at me encouragingly, sure that I would soon come to understand what she couldn’t articulate herself. The realization struck me like lightning. I knew what I was standing before. A Silver: a Silver was hidden on the surface of the tree. This explained why the introduction of a new dynamic, such as moonlight or the palm of my hand, had caused the tree’s bark to readjust itself. It had to in order to continue its perfect illusion.

“There’s a Silver in this tree!” I said
wonderingly for her benefit. I glanced at my mother, for the first time allowing myself to believe that it was really her here with me. Her eyes were crinkled with happiness as she began to nod wildly to confirm my thoughts. She smiled broadly, and I offered her a warm smile in return.

She mouthed my name as she moved forward
. I held entirely still and allowed her hand to tenderly cup my face, feeling like it was nothing more than a cool breeze. I closed my eyes, relishing the sensation of experiencing my mother again. When I opened them, it was to find that her eyes held a hint of sadness despite the overwhelming smile she still held upon her face.

“What is it Maman
?” I asked her worriedly.

She shook her head dismissively. Stepping
away, she looked me up and down appreciatively. Her lips formed the word “handsome” when she had finished. I felt a sense of pride at having my mother approve my adult form; she had never beheld it with her mortal eyes. I watched with humor as she began to mime the action of eating. I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony that, even in death, a mother would still worry whether her child was eating enough.

I hated to ruin this moment of
blissful reunion; however, she seemed urgent despite our happiness. Seeing it, I felt a sense of duty awaken inside of me. I needed to find out what had happened to her. If it was as I had suspected, then I had no choice but to avenge my parents’ murder.

“
Maman,” I asked her softly, “did someone named Maurelle kill you?” She nodded her head. I’d had the sneaking suspicion of such, but having it confirmed by my mother’s sad nod was devastating.

“
Oh, I am so sorry, Maman,” I said as I instinctively reached my hand out to comfort her. Unfortunately, my hand went right through her in a swirl of haze as the fact that she was immaterial was tragically reaffirmed. Instead of redefining herself, she was simply what could be best described as smudged where my hand had passed through.

“
I will avenge you, Maman. I will make sure that Maurelle feels every pain that she gave to you.”