Spirit of the Mist (10 page)

“Muriel—”
 

“And if I did want something from you, Brendan, what would it matter? It serves me not at all to want anything from you. After tomorrow you will be gone, and I will not see you again.”
 

“Ah, but you are wrong. I must leave in the morning to see my father, it is true, but I will return.”
 

She jerked her head around to look up into his eyes. “And what if you do return? What will I do then, if you are—if you are—”
 

If you are indeed the son of slaves, as the mirror says you are! What good will it do me to love you then, if I must trade all that I am to do it!
 

“If I am what?” Brendan looked down at her with a baffled expression.
 

She tried to take a breath. “If you are—bound to another,” she finished, turning away. It was a weak response but the only one she could think of.
 

She did not have the heart to tell him what she had seen in the mirror. She had no other proof and neither did he, and she could not bring herself to say such a terrible thing to him. Muriel knew she would have to keep her doubts and fear to herself and simply wait to see what the future might bring.
 

“Bound to another?” She could hear the confusion in his voice. “I have told you, there is no other. There is only you. I promise you: I will return.”
 

“Words are easy,” she whispered. “I can only wait to see what you will do. I wish you a safe journey, Brendan.” She caught up the hem of her skirts and hurried back to the shelter of her house, not wanting to see him go, knowing that if she had to stand and watch as he turned his back and went striding away with his gray cloak floating out behind him, she would never be able to let him go; she would use whatever magic she possessed to make him stay.
 

The dawn came. The sky above the flower-covered hills began to turn gray. Muriel pulled her cloak up around her head against the wind, for it still carried the chill of the night, and sat down on one of the boulders overlooking the great dun.
 

As she watched, the fortress gates swung open, and three men rode out. Brendan, Killian, and Darragh galloped their horses along the path and up to the top of the hill, past the place where Muriel sat hooded and silent among the rocks.
 

She expected that they would simply race on past, shouting and happy at the thought of going home, all memory of a woman named Muriel gone from Brendan’s mind. But as they rounded the curve at the top of the hill and came upon her, Brendan brought his horse to a stop. His companions did the same.
 

“It is cold out here in the early morning, Lady Muriel,” Brendan said. “Though I will tell you that I am glad to see you one more time before I go.”
 

She looked up at him then, and the cloak fell back to her shoulders. One more time she saw his strong young face, his fair skin touched with color from the cold sea wind, and his one blue eye and one brown eye shining down at her.
 

Muriel looked away and closed her eyes. “I merely came up here to watch the sunrise,” she heard herself say. “I did not know that you would be riding past.”
 

He began to laugh. She stole a glance at him. “The sun rises behind you, my lady. You are facing the sea!” He laughed again as she turned her face away from him yet again.
 

Brendan moved his horse to rejoin the others. “I will come back for you,” she heard him say. His voice was clear and steady, and he was not laughing now. “Think hard on marrying a prince—for what is a prince but a king, a few years hence?”
 

Muriel kept her face impassive and once again gazed out at the sea. “Go, Brendan,” she said. “Your companions are waiting for you.”
 

He hesitated, but then started his horse along the path. “Will you marry a prince?” he shouted, twisting to look over his shoulder as they galloped away.
 

Her breath caught as they disappeared over the crest of the hill. “Perhaps,” she whispered. “Perhaps…if that is what you truly are.”
 

The journey home took a few days longer than it otherwise would have, for Brendan and Darragh and Killian had to ride far to the east to avoid the lands controlled by King Odhran. And though they rode only on the outskirts of the man’s territory, the things they began to see filled them with increasing concern.
 

It was not yet mid-summer, but already the oak leaves were beginning to wither and turn yellow. A few had even dropped to the ground and blew dry and rattling across the pale grass. There were no flowers anywhere in sight; only a few dead blossoms scattered among the dead leaves. And strangest of all, no birds called from the trees. The forest was silent.
 

“How can this be?” asked Darragh. “The land looks like it’s beginning to die. Yet it is far too early for things to sleep in winter.”
 

“And I have seen not one bird, no sign of a single animal, since we rode past the borders of Dun Camas,” added Killian. “How is that possible?”
 

Brendan shook his head. “All my life I have heard the tales of such things happening, and now, I think, I am seeing it for myself. Dun Camas is a land which has a false king—a dishonest, unjust king by the name of Odhran.
 

“The land is like a wife to the king. If he does not care for it and protect it—if he takes it unjustly, if he is not worthy to have it—the land will begin to die. It will become dry and lifeless and barren, and all who are forced to live under his rule will suffer. As the king goes, so goes his land. That is what is happening to Dun Camas.”
 

The three men glanced at each other and rode on. It was not long before Brendan spotted a plume of black smoke rising up into the sky ahead of them—a plume too large and too thick to come from an ordinary hearth or campfire. The men urged their horses on and in moments reached a clearing where a herdsman’s rath stood.
 

The rath was like a smaller version of the great fortresses. This one was a single high earthen wall encircling a little round house and a couple of sheds, and it was quickly turning into a smoking, flaming inferno.
 

Fire broke through the old straw roof and began eating away at it, sending sparks flying on the wind to land on the empty wooden sheds nearby. Even the earthen wall showed smoldering lines of smoke as the sparks took hold of the dry grass and weeds growing out of it.
 

Frantically trying to put the fire out, using battered wooden buckets dipped into the nearby stream were the herdsman and his wife and their five sons.
 

Brendan and his two companions swung down from their horses and raced to help—but the family dropped the buckets and hurried into the woods the moment they spotted the three strange men running toward their home.
 

“Wait!” Brendan cried, running after them. “We will help you! Come out and speak to us! What has happened here?”
 

The old herdsman leaned out from behind a tree trunk and glared at him. “I do not know you,” he said, glancing at his family’s burning home. “Who is your king?”
 

Brendan stood as tall as he ever had in his life. “We are from Dun Bochna and I am the son of King Galvin. How did this happen? Is anyone hurt?”
 

“None are hurt, but I wish they were,” the old man growled. “It was Odhran and his men who did this.”
 

“Odhran!” Brendan looked at Darragh and at Killian. “We know that Odhran had displaced King Fallon and taken over these lands. Why would he burn out those who serve him?”
 

The old herdsman grunted, then spat on the ground. “We do not serve Odhran,” he said. “Why do you think they did this to us? He and his champion and a few of his followers rode out to see their new lands, and when they found us they demanded we swear our loyalty to him. When we would not, they did this and rode away laughing.”
 

“They could not have gone far,” Brendan said, already running back for his horse. “Save what you can. We will deal with Odhran.”
 

Brendan, Darragh, and Killian galloped their horses through the forest directly to the west, straight towards the fortress of Dun Camas far away on the coast. He was sure they would be headed home after inspecting the farthest reach of the newly stolen kingdom—and so they were. Odhran, his champion Aed, and four other fighting men walked their horses calmly just ahead of them, as if merely out for an enjoyable afternoon ride.
 

“Odhran!” shouted Brendan. “Odhran! Come back and face men with swords, instead of herders with sticks! Or do you not have the stomach for a match with real fighters?”
 

Instantly the six riders halted and whirled their horses. Then four of them drove their mounts straight for them, roaring in rage and slapping their horses with the flat sides of their swords. Two of the riders stayed behind and watched.
 

“That’s Aed who waits with Odhran,” Brendan said to his companions. “Leave him to me.” The others nodded, and then all three drew their iron and galloped out to meet their enemy.
 

As Brendan had expected, Odhran remained with Aed, his champion and guardian, for a king was too valuable to risk in battle. Even the boldest fighters would retreat if their king was struck down. A king would lead his warriors to the battlefield but then stay on the sidelines and let his champion do his fighting for him, unless circumstances forced him to do otherwise—and Brendan had other plans for both Odhran and his champion.
 

The sword felt good in his hand. He’d not had a chance to use it since the last time he had faced Odhran’s men. Now he galloped his horse at full speed straight into the shoulder of the first man’s horse, using his animal’s momentum and weight to drive the other horse nearly off its feet. He swung hard at its rider as it staggered.
 

It was a clean blow. The unexpected tactic caught the other man by surprise and left his side open to Brendan’s sword. He fell heavily to the ground, and as his horse recovered its balance and bolted away, he slowly got to his feet—but a growing stain of red covered his side and he could barely lift his sword. He would be no more threat on this day. Brendan swung his own horse around to face the next challengers.
 

The three of Odhran’s other men had tried to take on both Darragh and Killian at once, but were having a difficult time. One of them fell with a terrible wound to his arm, and his own horse’s hoof struck him in the head as the panicked animal turned and ran from the fight. The man did not move again.
 

The other two saw that the numbers had suddenly changed. Now the two of them faced three attackers, as Brendan raised his sword and charged the nearest one. The warrior fought back with his own sword, but with a powerful blow Brendan knocked the weapon out of his hands. It went spinning across the dry grass.
 

“Where is your champion?” Brendan cried out to the air. “Bring him on! None of you is a match for us. Where is your champion? Where is your king?”
 

The two men looked over their shoulders, and then at each other, and saw Aed and Odhran were gone. In an instant, they forced their horses around and galloped off the way they came.
 

Brendan’s laughter filled the silent forest. “Hurry back! We will not wait long! Bring your champion. Bring your king!”
 

“Look!” said Killian. “They’re not coming back.”
 

Brendan peered deep into the trees. Killian was right. There was no sign of any other riders. All they could see were the tails of the last two riders’ horses, fast disappearing into the thick woods. Odhran and Aed were long fled.
 

Darragh snorted. “They’ve run away, the dogs! Odhran is as cowardly as he is cruel.”
 

“That is why his kingdom dies,” Brendan whispered. He turned his horse away and set out once again for his home, where flowers bloomed on the high cliffs and birds rode high on the fresh winds from the sea. His friends followed.
 

Brendan and his men kept their horses moving at the fastest possible pace; and seven nights later they arrived at the high stone walls of Dun Bochna.
 

It was one of the largest fortresses ever built, sitting high on the cliffs on the westernmost part of the great island called Eire. But instead of circular walls like most of the other strongholds, this place was built with two enormous half circles of dry stone—half circles because the far side of the fortress ended at the sheer precipice of the cliffs overlooking the sea.
 

Only the birds could approach Dun Bochna from the west.
 

The three riders galloped through the gates and onto the wide expanse of green grass in front of the largest of the scattered round houses. Brendan slid down from his horse and tossed the exhausted animal’s reins to a servant, just as the door of the house swung open.
 

Two men stepped out to greet them—one young and dressed only in a simple long tunic, the other white-haired and bent but wearing the heavy gold and weapons of a king.