Summer of Frost (working title)

So, Bregna thought, this is what everyone was dying for.  He held the small gem in the palm of his hand, turning it this way and that.  It winked at him, the dark skin of the stone growing warm against him, drinking in the blood that slithered down his arm to it.  The sounds of battle beyond the chapel faded in Bregna’s ears as he pondered the stone.
Beyond the walls of this small sacred stone room, men were being butchered for the sake of superstition.  Warrior priests fought bravely, but futilely against the band of mercenaries the usurper king had sent to retrieve the Lokith Stone from the Protectors of Life.  They believed the myth that this stone, this tiny stone the size of a hens egg could bring about the ruination of the world.  Made from a single drop of God’s blood, it could give a man the power to lay waste kingdoms with a single blow, shape the weather, and end life with a thought.
         “You must not hold it,” a voice wheezed from the floor behind him.  Bregna turned to see an older priest dragging himself down the aisle toward him.  Blood left a ragged trail on the stone floor behind him and his breathing was labored.  Death rode his shoulders, both steely talons wrapped around the man’s throat. It winked at Bregna. “My son, you must not let it touch you.  Once it has tasted you, it will take you!  Put it back in the stone hands of the Mother.”
         Bregna cast a doubtful glance at the carved onyx statue of the woman.  Her hands were outstretched, palms up together, beseeching in their emptiness.  The shiny black of her eyes seemed to glisten, as though she were about to cry…Pain tore into Bregna’s palm, like sharp teeth through the skin.  He watched in horror as blood spurted from his palm around the stone as it burrowed into his flesh.  The stone hauled itself beneath the skin of his arm like an animal, traveling up the bone with a purpose.  Bregna screamed in terror, dropping to his knees as the stone raced its’ way across his shoulder, heading with single minded purpose to Bregna’s pounding heart.  Acid flowed through his veins, bubbling skin and singing hair, eyes melted from their sockets, pulsing beneath tightly closed lids.  The priest whimpered a plea to the great Mother, and Death coyly snapped his neck.  The creature scuttled curiously over to the smoldering lump that was once Bregna, the warrior.  It watched as the material covering the warriors back undulated and strained, then finally ripped as black leathern wings tore their way free.  What had been Bregna forced itself up onto long-fingered hands and turned its head to Death.  The creature dipped its head in greeting.
         What had been Bregna stood, bones elongating until he stood seven feet high, the horns sprouting from his forehead twisting violently as they grew.  Grey eyes glared at the lump straining against his chest, over his heart.  With a roar, he backhanded the crying statue off the altar and stalked down the aisle toward the sounds of battle.
         Bregna was dead.
         The Moira had just begun to live.

The flickering dance of flames leant eerie life to the animals and hunters carved into the massive cold stone.  Bran shivered as the totems watched her hungrily while she went about her rituals.  She detested tending the sacred Flame of Rowan, even though it was a true and sacred honor, but she could not rush her way through this, not like her other duties, the goddess Rowan would know…. worse the Revered Mother would know.  Bran feared the wrath of her Order more than she feared the vengeance of an angry goddess.  She reached for another piece of anointed wood and blessed it before feeding it into the flame pit.  A plume of multicolored smoke rose from the pyre and danced merrily, twisting itself into shapes.  Bran gasped.  The smoke formed an undulating snake that danced for a moment, slowly, seductively before her.  Then, it struck.  It snapped forward, tightening around her chest, pinning her arms to her sides.  The giant head flattened into a hood before her, swaying inches from her face, hypnotically drawing her eyes back and forth in a slow dance, sapping her will. Her mouth opened and the smoke serpent dove inside, filling her lungs with a sweet burning pain, writhing into her stomach like cold molten steel, creeping through her very veins like a shark through waves until it found what it sought.  The gift uncoiled inside her heart, pounding fiercely, driving the smoke upward to her inner eye and Bran SAW…

The Revered Mother leaned over Bran, her wrinkled face pinched in concern. 
         “And you found the child like this?” she demanded of the other girl in the room.           
         “Yes, Revered Mother.  I came looking for Bran when she failed to show for lunch bell.  I found her just this way.” The youngster’s voice squeaked with terror.  “What is wrong with her, Revered Mother?  Did Rowan strike her down for making a mistake?  Was she unworthy of her duty?”
         “Hold your tongue, girl, and be not unjust.  Rowan did not strike her down.  Instead, she has gifted her.  Bran has had her first vision.  It was too strong for her to bear alone, that is all.  Take yourself off, and fetch me the Lady Lydora.”

Bran’s eyes fluttered open to the velvety ink that was her room.  She had no sense of time, just a sickening feeling of floating, being adrift.  She felt the earth pulse beneath her, shift slightly, and then settle.  In the corner of the room, a rectangle of lighter black formed but the velvet darkness quickly swallowed it.  The air stirred faintly as someone approached and the bed dipped as a slight weight settled on it.
         “Feeling better?  You had the Revered Mother very worried, you know.” 
         “I didn’t mean to be troublesome, Lydora.  I do not know what happened.  I put the sacred wood in the fire and Rowan turned the smoke into a snake.  It attacked me,” she mumbled through parch lips.  A cool hand touched her brow and Bran felt her skin sear.
         “The sacred gave you your first vision.  It is something that we usually try to prepare the chosen girl for, and we have priestesses standing by to help ease the message.”  Lydora’s concerned voice suddenly seemed troubled and the very air rippled with emotion.  “The Revered Mother is troubled.  What was it, Bran that you saw?”
         “I don’t know how to describe it.  It was color and image and sound. And pain.”
         “The first ones usually are, dearest.  However, you must try, please, to let me know what you remember.  It is very important.”
         “I’ll try.” Bran took a shaky breath. “It started with the smoke turning into a snake that bound me tight.  It held me until I opened my mouth and it dove inside. Then, I saw a blinding waterfall of red that cascaded down fingers of white.  A mouse that devoured a wolf and walked off side by side with a cat followed it.  There were silver towers of iron piercing the night sky, and cold wind rushing by my ears.  Trumpets blowing and sounds of tears.  Moreover, a star, brilliant and blinding guiding through it all.  Like a scar on perfect milk white skin.”
         “That makes no sense.” Lydora mused softly.  “We must pray on this, Branwenn.  Get some rest, little sister; you will be released from your duties for the rest of this week.  I must see the Revered Mother.”

“I understand it not.” the Revered Mother sighed, running a hand through thinning white hair.  “This one has never been blessed before.  She is an unworthy, who will leave us when her time for choosing comes.  She has no talent that any of the sisters can perceive.  Why?  Why has the Lady bestowed on her a vision?”
         “Perhaps, had she not been written off as unworthy at such a young age and given over to the most manual of labors, she could have been trained in the simplest of the vision ways, and would have been able to make sense of the blessing she received.” Lydora said placidly, only her eyes delivering the sting of her words.  The Revered Mother blushed.
         “The sisters have never been wrong before,” she snapped.
         “Ah, yes.  The great and mighty sisters know all.” Lydora smiled. “That is why none of them have been gifted with a vision this many years.  And none of their apprentices have, either.  Perhaps, the great Lady thinks they know everything as it were, and that they no longer need her guidance.”
         “Lydora, I warn you, you go too far.” the Revered Mother glared at her across the table.  Lydora regarded her coolly, her hands clasped loosely on the table between them.
         “Yes, Revered Mother, and I remember when another of our Order went too far.  She followed the last true vision and, against the will of her own Revered Mother, set out on a journey that ended in the imprisonment of a demon that had ravaged the South lands for a generation.” Lydora’s smile tightened. “As I recall, she became a Revered Mother, herself.”
         “That was a long time ago, Lyd.” the Revered Mother sank back into her chair, anger draining from her.
         “Not so very long.  Rachel, please.  As my oldest and dearest friend, grant me this.  Have I ever asked anything more of you than I was ever willing to give, myself?” Lydora’s eyes softened and she reached across the small table to gently touch the other woman’s arm.  The Revered Mother smiled at her.
         “No, that you have never done.  All right, Lydora.  You win.  As always.  Take the child with you to Nuremben.  And I wish you well.  I will miss you, dear friend.” the Revered Mother squeezed her hand.
         “I will return, Rachel, darling.” Lydora promised. “As soon as my oath is fulfilled and my duty done.”          

Arawn looked down into the valley and sighed wistfully.  The grass was an emerald sea that rolled softly down from the tree lined rim of the mountain to be sliced by the ice blue of a stream that babbled away through another set of trees beyond the eastern edge of the valley.  To the north, just behind the large building of stone and timber, a waterfall cascaded down through the trees, feeding a large pool that, in its’ turn, fed the stream.  Unwillingly, the marble building perched precariously at the pools' edge, shining as a beacon in the early morning sun drew his eye.  A line of robed figures moved silently toward it in single file, each robe a different hue.  The last disappeared inside as a chime began to toll through the valley, and all was still.  It was a scene of serenity like he had never experienced.  Still, something in the back of his mind raged against it.
         “You know, we could plunge down this hill and ransack the place.  Take them by surprise.  They are all inside their little temple now.  They would not have a clue what hit them,” a voice hissed beside him, quivering with excitement.
         “I don’t think that the King of Valnavia would appreciate his guards wiping out the Order of the Rowan.  Especially when we were sent to escort his future daughter back to the capital city for her wedding.” Arawn glanced at his companion, then back down into the valley.
         “Come, little brother.  Do not tell me the thought doesn’t quicken your pulse.” Xharg urged. Arawn laughed.
         “My urges are not the point, brother.”
         “Then, what, pray tell, is?”
         “You are severely twisted.”
         “Only by human standards.” Xharg sniffed, lowering his voice even further. “I’m very mild for what I am.  What we are.”  Arawn shot him a warning look. A horse moved restlessly behind them, and one of the guardsmen dared urge his mount forward to join them.
         “My lord, will we ride down, now?” he asked hesitantly.
         “No, they are at prayers.  We will wait until they are finished.  Have the men dismount and stretch their legs.  Perhaps see to their appearances.  We do not want to scare them.  I dare say, some may never have seen a man before.” Arawn waved the man away, and he retreated at once.  Xharg leaned closer to Arawn.
         “See how they fear you?  They don’t know the truth, but they know that something is not right about you.” he hissed, gleefully.  Arawn watched the marble hall.
         “It is not I, Xharg.  It is you they detest.” he said without rancor.  A movement atop the school caught his attention.  A single figure robed in white stood atop the roof, its’ arms raised to the rising sun in greeting.  It stood for a moment thus, then dropped the robe, revealing naked skin to the elements.  From where he stood, Arawn could only make out curves and pale skin, but Xharg whistled appreciatively.
         “Now, that is a sight worth coming for.” he nudged Arawn with his elbow, grinning.  Then, he looked at him hard, his jaw dropped in aggravation and he hissed.  “Oh, don’t tell me you can’t see?  For Sabon’s sake!  Use your true sight, you little maggot!  It’s worth the view!”  Arawn shook his head.  Already the figure was kneeling to pick up the fallen robe, and within seconds had disappeared.  Xharg growled.  “One of these days, you will embrace what you are.  Even if I have to make you.  Even if it kills us both.” The appearance of the robes as they filed their way back to the school saved Arawn from answering and chimes sounded once more in the valley.  Arawn lifted a curved horn to his lips and blew gently.  The call was deep and loud, ringing clearly through the still morning air.  The men behind him sprang back to their mounts as Arawn replaced the horn at his belt, and then urged his mount forward into the vale.  A range of deep blue robes formed a line before the others, who swiftly made their way into the safety of the building.  Arawn rode leisurely toward them, his hands held high so that they could see he bore no weapons.  The crest of the king of Valnavia glinted off the shield tied to his saddle as an errant ray of early morning sun touched it.  One of the robed ones gestured, and the others filed into the building, leaving only one other to stand beside the waiting robe.  Arawn reigned in his horse and dismounted, ordering by gesture that his men do the same, and bowed to the cowled figure.
         “I am Arawn, guardsman and friend of Jarrick, son of Loren, King of Valnavia.  My liege has sent me here to escort the Lady Morigan to the great castle at Nuremben.  Have I the honor of addressing a handmaiden of the Revered Mother?” he asked.  The cowl slipped back, and the Revered Mother smiled at him.
         “You have the honor of addressing the Revered Mother, herself, Lord Arawn.” she answered lightly.  He dropped to one knee, and she brushed his head in blessing.  A sharp pain ran up his spine, but he rose gracefully to see her cast a blessing over his men.  He noted, though he doubted anyone else did, that Xharg had disappeared.  There was, however, a snake curled up behind the second acolyte that winked at him.  “We were not expecting you until late this evening.”
         “We had good fortune on our journey, and so made excellent time,” he said, watching as the snake slithered away through the tall grass toward his horse.
         “Thank the Rowan for it.  You may set up an encampment by the pool, Lord Arawn.  I hope you will not be offended, but we are bound that no man should enter the sanctity of the home of Rowan.  It is a safe place for all women,” the Revered Mother intoned.
         “And so should it always remain.” Arawn agreed, and the older woman smiled.  “We should be glad to set up our encampment there, if the lady allows it.  Or should we withdraw into the trees?”
         “”The pool is fine, young lord.  We will have a feasting and a prayer tonight, and then on the morrow Lady Morigan, Lady Lydora, and her handmaiden Bran will depart with you back to Nuremben.” the Revered Mother said as she turned to go.
         “Forgive me, Revered Mother, but I was not told about the other two travelers.” Arawn said, bringing the other woman forward.  She pulled back her cowl and visited a soft smile upon him, her warm brown eyes soothing his irritation like milk over a burn.
         “My lord Arawn, surely you would not have us simply turn over a young lady to such a group of men, no matter how honorable.  There will always be those that spread nasty rumor,” she said softly.  “But, be not afraid, I am Lady Lydora and I assure you that Branwenn and I will not be a burden on this journey.  Please, make yourself at home by our pool.  I will send supplies out to you soon.  Please, allow your horses to roam and eat of the grass.  They will not wander away.”  Lydora turned and swiftly followed the retreating Revered Mother into the school.
         “Well, you heard the ladies, men.  To the pool.” Xharg snapped from beside the horses.  The small party of men quickly began setting up their tents and Arawn unsaddled his horse.  Xharg moved to help him with the bridle.  “How could you let her touch you?  Didn’t that hurt?”
         “Yes, it hurt, but I had no choice.  One cannot deny the avatar of the Rowan if she wants to bless you.  You took a chance, Xharg.  What if someone had seen you change?” Arawn demanded angrily.  Xharg grinned toothily.
         “Don’t worry, Lord Arawn. I went behind the horses.  No one could see me from where I was.” Xharg assured him.
         “You take too many chances.  One day, you will get caught, you know.” Arawn demanded.  Xharg shrugged.
         “Do not worry for me, little brother, worry for the unfortunate human that notices.”  Xharg looked up at the school and grinned.  “So many eyes fastened upon you, Arawn.  How handsome they must think you are.  But, as you said, many have never seen a man, so how would they know you aren’t as plain as dirt?”  Arawn growled and Xharg walked away to unsaddle his own mount.
The beast stood to the side, alone, waiting.  Xharg scratched around the horn protruding from its’ forehead, and its’ forked tongue lolled a bit with pleasure.  Xharg moved back and unsaddled the beast, then gave it a thorough combing, the teeth of the brush slipping through the silken midnight strands of hair with ease. Suddenly, massive hooves rose and fell as the beast shuffled to the side, tossing its’ great head.  Xharg looked up to see a young woman standing a yard away, staring at his mount.  “Yes, little one?”
         “I brought you an ointment for your horse’s sore.” she said hesitantly, staring perplexed at the beast’s forehead.  It snorted harshly, and she stepped forward, her hand reaching out.  “But, from here, it doesn’t appear to be a sore at all.  What ails him?”
         “Oh, his forehead?” Xharg asked, straightening up.  He leaned on his mount's neck and studied the girl.  What was she, that she could see the shadow of the horn?  Obviously, she was not like him… “His mother was struck by lightning while he was foaling.  He bears the scar of her passing.  You can only see it in certain light, though.  My name is Xharg.”
         “I am called Branwenn.” she looked up into his eyes, and her breath caught.  He wondered what she was seeing.
         “The Branwenn that will be traveling with us to Nuremben?” he asked, and she nodded with a small smile.  “A pleasure to meet you, my dear lady.”
         “Oh, I’m no lady.  I am low born,” she hurriedly corrected.  Xharg shook his head.
         “I know a lady when I see one, but if you wish to remain anonymous, I will not reveal your secret.” Xharg winked at her.  “Do you ride?”
         “A little.  There is not much need for it, here.  In truth, I have never left this valley before.  I am a little frightened.”  Bran stretched out her hand and scratched the beast’s nose.  Xharg tensed in anticipation: the last person who had dared touch Solanaceae unbidden drew back a stump.  Solanaceae pressed his nose into her palm.  “He is beautiful.  What is his name?”
         “Solanaceae.”
         “What a deadly name,” Bran’s hand slid down to stroke his neck.  “Not many would know a name like that.  Are you an herb master?”
         “I have dabbled in a few growings in my day, but I would not call myself a master.”  She was so close to him now, he could hear the rush of her blood, taste her milk and honeyed scent.  So close that he could simply reach out and…
         “I am impressed.” Arawn said, materializing behind her.  Xharg drew back from her as Arawn’s hand slid over Solanaceae’s nose.  “Solanaceae is usually so ill tempered that he lets no one touch him.”
         “Lady Branwenn, allow me to introduce my half brother, Arawn.” Xharg’s eyes flashed deadly menace at his brother, but Arawn only smiled.
         “An honor, dear lady.” he murmured, catching her hand and bringing it to his lips.  Her skin was cool and sweet smelling; Arawn released it before the urge to taste her palm overwhelmed him.
         “Another interesting name.  Your father must have been very learned to think of such.” she stared at Arawn, inquiringly.  Xharg glared over her head at him.
         “Yes. Arawn, for instance, means he of bad timing.”  Xharg mouthed the words Go away at him, but Arawn gave a near imperceptible shake of his head.
         “And Xharg means player of dangerous games.” he offered, instead.  Feeling the strain between them, Bran looked from one to the other of them uncertainly, but both were smiling.  Still, something about the two of them was…off, and there was a dark tension growing between them. A bell suddenly pealed through the valley and Bran jumped.
         “Forgive me, I must go.  That is first bell, and I should be in the kitchens.” she pressed the pot of ointment into Xharg’s hand and curtseyed quickly before running back to the building.  As she disappeared inside, Xharg growled.
         “What were you thinking?  That I needed to be saved from that little stripling?  Were you come to slay my dragon for me, oh great protector?” he sneered.  Arawn regarded him, coldly.
         “Slay a dragon?  Exactly what I had in mind, only hers, not yours.  Need I remind you of what she is?” he snapped.
         “And how would you, with your limited range of senses, possibly know what she is, when even I myself can’t figure it out?” Xharg snapped irritably.  Arawn stroked Solanaceae’s nose casually.
         “Brother, she is a novice in the Order of the Rowan, and that Goddess does not share her toys.  Especially with the likes of us.” Arawn murmured.  “You would do well to remember that.”
         “You would do well to remember, brother, that others have the power to see more thoroughly.  That novice who has sworn herself to virginity and piety was the one welcoming the sun this morning in such a graceful fashion.  Where Rowan hides herself away, that one gladly tosses all aside.” Xharg stared at the school, curiously.  “I have the feeling that even she is not sure what she is.”
         “Well, in any case, it will not be you that shows her.” Arawn walked away, leaving Xharg to chew on his words.
         “You never know, little brother.” he grinned, looking up at the school.  “You never know.”

Bran rolled her blanket tight and secured it with two cords.  The night had passed quickly, and they were almost prepared to leave.  The horsemen were busy loading a small wagon with Lady Morigan’s belongings, trinkets she just could not be parted from.  Bran looked around the small barren room that had been her home for most all of her sixteen years, and shuddered with excitement.  This would be the last time she saw it, she silently vowed.  She gathered up her small bundle of possessions and closed the window tightly, savoring the all-consuming darkness that fell at once one last time.  Quickly, she made her way outside, to where the Revered Mother waited with Lady Lydora and the other sisters.  Lydora motioned to a pony, thin but well made, and Bran quickly lashed her belongings to the rear of the rough saddle.  A trumpet sounded and Bran rolled her eyes in disgust.  Lady Morigan and her handmaiden, Faydra, emerged from the school dressed in all their finery.  Lady Morigan’s robe of crimson caught the sunlight and sparkled like a pool of fresh blood, and the gold mesh of her snood flashed garishly.  Her black hair had been oiled and braided in loops before being caught in the mesh, and still it scraped the nape of her neck.  Her grey eyes raked over the assembled group, and her thin lips tightened in a scowl. 
         “Faydra, make sure they have neither forgotten nor broken anything.” she snapped irritably and the maid scurried to do her bidding. 
         “Isn’t she a peach?” Xharg asked from the other side of Bran’s pony and the girl jumped guiltily.
         “Oh,” she smiled ruefully, “Just you wait.  It gets worse. She is not even fully awake, yet.”
         “I can’t wait.  If I may?” he asked, reaching up to resecure her packs.
         “My thanks.  I think you should be prepared, my lord.  Solanaceae is the finest horse among those gathered.  She will want him.” Bran warned, watching Lady Morigan closely.
         Lady Morigan was looking over the mount provided by the sisters with great disdain.  Obvious anger and disgust made her pale features twist in a most unattractive fashion.  Even as they watched, she tossed her head and began looking at the other horses.  Her face lit with grim satisfaction when she spotted Solanaceae, and she barked at her maid.
         “I shall ride that one, move the royal blankets to it at once!” she ordered, striding toward the grazing horse.  Bran started after her, but Xharg touched her wrist.
         “Watch.” he hissed, his eyes alight with ill suppressed excitement.  Solanaceae’s head came up to regard the princess coldly as she moved purposefully toward him, and he snorted in anger.  She ignored the warning and reached for his saddle horn.  Solanaceae waited for her to place her foot in the stirrup, then he stepped to the right, pulling her off balance.  Lady Morigan hopped a step closer to him, and tried to mount again.  This time Solanaceae’s head lashed around and his teeth neatly shredded a bit of lace from the sleeve of her dress.  She jerked her hand back with a horrified shriek and lost her balance, tumbling to the dirt.  “Haughty little chit.  She should be glad Solanaceae’s in a playful mood, or it would have been a finger he’d have taken, not lace.”
         They watched in amusement as Faydra leapt to her mistress’s side and attempted to help up the now shrieking woman.  Rage purpled her face as she slapped the maid, who was busily brushing dirt from her dress and cloak, away.  Several of the men had dashed to her aid, Arawn among them.  Lady Morigan pointed at Solanaceae.
         “I want that beast destroyed!  It is mad!” she shrieked.  “Do it, now, I say!”
         “With all respect, my lady, Solanaceae is a war horse.” Xharg was suddenly beside her, and Bran blinked.  She had not seen him move from the other side of her pony.  “He is trained to let no one touch him but me.  He was only doing what he was taught to do.”
         “I don’t care!  I want him dead!” she howled.  Xharg leaned close to her, his eyes flashing dangerously.
         “My father gave me Solanaceae as a gift before he died.  I will not kill the only reminder I have of him to assuage the pride of a spoilt brat.  You may be a princess, but I am no liegeman of yours.  Had you not tried to take what was not yours, you would not have ended up in the dirt.  Stick to your own mount, Lady.” Xharg hissed low enough to be heard only by her.  She stared at him, her jaw working silently in rage.  Xharg turned his back on her and went to stroke Solanaceae’s nose.  Arawn gently ushered Lady Morigan back to her own horse and helped her mount.
         “I want that man whipped!” she snapped, looking down imperiously at him from the saddle.  Arawn tipped his head back and met her grey eyes with the liquid black of his own.
         “My brother speaks harshly, but he speaks the truth.  I will not have him struck, nor Solanaceae put down.  My lady, you have much to learn of court ways, and civility is highest among them.  Jarrick is a good friend of mine, and he expects courtesy of all he keeps around him.  You would do wise to remember that, even though you are a princess, yours is not the only drum to which men must march.” he said simply, and then turned to mount his own horse.  Faydra climbed into the saddle of a loaned horse, its owner taking the reigns of the cart mule, as Lady Lydora vaulted into her own saddle.  Xharg led Solanaceae over to where Bran frowned up at her saddle.  The stirrup hung at the height of her stomach, and she knew she could not reach it with her foot.
         “Allow me to assist you, Branwenn?” Xharg asked.  She nodded, biting her lower lip.  Xharg put his hands around her waist and lifted her gently to the saddle.  Her divided skirt fell back and hit him in the face as he let her go.
         “Oh, Xharg!  I am so sorry!” she gasped, and he laughed.
         “It was nothing.” he assured her.  “Are you seated well?”  She nodded.  He mounted Solanaceae and moved away.  Lady Morigan glared at him as he passed, and then turned her sour look on Bran.  A cruel smile passed her lips, then, and Bran shivered.  Poor Prince Jarrick.  What evil politics had brought him such a cold and malicious bride?  The Revered Mother clapped her hands for attention, and they turned toward her.  The benediction was simple and brief and Bran was thrilled to be on her way.  She glanced back at the edge of the trees, and a shower of doubt cloaked her.  What was there for her, but this valley?  It was the only home she had ever known!  Bran set her shoulders resolutely, and turned away.  Whatever the coming journey would bring, she would face it head on, and she would succeed.  Never again would she be told by the haughty sisters of the Order of Rowan that she was worthless, useless, or dumb. 
         Lady Lydora watched the girl, riding slightly behind.  What was this girl?  Why had that knight taken such a shine to her so quickly?  Lydora settled back comfortably in her saddle, taking in the passing surroundings.  Patience, she told herself.  All would be revealed if she only had patience.  Lydora glanced at Lady Morigan, plodding sullenly along on her horse.  How one so spoiled and ungrateful could be placed in such position of power, Lydora did not understand.  There was something hungry in that girl, something that could not be satiated.  Lydora pitied her.  With all her blessings, the girl was still miserable: more importantly, she would see to it that everyone around her were miserable as well.  Again, Lydora could only wait and see. 

The journey back to Nuremben seemed to take forever.  The weather turned sour, raining for three straight days, and the Lady Morigan refused to budge from her tent until it had stopped.  When it did, she complained incessantly about the mud, the humidity, the bugs…her list of complaints was endless.  Xharg had withdrawn from Arawn and, while that was something he would pray for at times, he found himself missing his older brother’s company.  Xharg was seldom among them, choosing to do guard duty and to scout, even do a little hunting for the group: When he was with them, he divided his time between Solanaceae and Bran. 
         Bran.
         What was it about that girl that intrigued Xharg so?  She was no beauty.  Appealing, maybe, with her short chestnut hair and her smokey blue eyes.  When she smiled, which she often did at Xharg, her bow of a berry mouth made her eyes crinkle and a small dimple appear in her right cheek.  She was no voluptuous courtier, either.  Rather, her curves were soft and her limbs long, but her hands were rough as any soldiers.  You could tell a lady by her hands, so they said.  Bran was no lady.  As well she showed by her mannerisms.  While the Lady Morigan languished in her tent, bemoaning the rain, Bran raised a shelter for Lady Lydora and herself.  Then, she helped the men build a makeshift shelter for the horses.  She busied herself with trying to find enough dry wood to keep the fire going, and then with tending a cooking pot that she had secreted in the wagon with Morigan’s things.  She kept busy and useful, and he found himself thankful to whatever great power was out there that the Revered Mother had sent her along.  Her earnest hard work almost renewed his faith in the wretched creatures called women.  Almost.
         “That was not a nice thing to say.” Xharg admonished from the darkness behind him.
         “I didn’t say anything.” he answered testily.
         “Ah, must have been thinking loudly, again.  Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”
         “Stay, Xharg.  We haven’t spoken in days.”
         “I have been watching you coddle that little chit this whole journey.” Xharg snorted, dropping beside Arawn.  “You would have made an excellent nanny.”
         “I am simply carrying out my orders.  Bring her back safe and make her as comfortable as I can.  After that little scene at the school, I have had to keep her happy.  What will you do if she demands satisfaction from the king for her wounded pride?” Arawn demanded.  Xharg shrugged.
         “Wish him luck…tear out her throat…turn the chit into a toadstool…the possibilities are just endless.” Xharg paused for dramatic effect.  “She could just meet with an accident along the road.  All the better for poor Jarrick.  Don’t you think he deserves better in a mate?”
         “Of course.  But who are we to make that call?  Besides, she is the daughter of Breitan’s.”
         “So?”
         “So, they have no manners.  Barely walk on two legs.  Perhaps, Jarrick can teach her acceptable behavior.”
         “My brother, the romantic.” Xharg snorted.  They sat side by side in the gathering dark, silently, watching the camp.  Faydra and Bran hauled water from a nearby spring to the fire to warm for Morigan’s ablutions.  The girls seemed to have an easy camaraderie going, now.  Faydra laughed at something Bran said, before lifting the steaming kettle from the fire.  She carefully carried it inside.  Moments later, she returned with the empty kettle and a rising handprint on her cheek.  She spoke to Bran no more as they went about their duties, but cast dark glances at the tent over her shoulder.  Later, Arawn watched Bran slip a piece of her own bread into Faydra’s bowl when the girl turned away.  He and Xharg continued to watch until the camp turned in, and then Arawn snorted softly with amusement.
         “My brother, the romantic.” he murmured.  “Have you figured out what she is?”
         “Other than a puzzle?” Xharg asked.  “No.  But, I will.”
         “Why does she intrigue you?”
         “If I knew, the puzzle would be solved.”
         “Just be careful that your secrets aren’t revealed while you search hers out.” Arawn warned softly. 

Faydra crept through the camp toward the saddles that night, clutching the small knife close to her body.  She didn’t want to do this, prayed Rowan would forgive, but her mistress had commanded her to:  her cheek still smarted with the blow from earlier.  Faydra paused to listen.  Silence.  She continued on her way, sorted through the dark lumps of leather until she came to the one she wanted.  Quickly, Faydra did what she had been commanded to do, and returned to her pallet just inside the tent.  Morning would come too soon for her.

Arawn was pleased that the morning had passed with no complications.  Even Morigan seemed pleasant on this day, humming to herself contentedly as they traveled.  Xharg appeared and disappeared, as was his wont, through the surrounding trees.  Bran sat silently upon her saddle, head bent in determination as she attempted to mend a tear in her traveling cloak.  It happened without warning.  Bran’s horse reared, as if it had been stung.  The terrified girl cried out, dropping her cloak as she grabbed for the saddle horn.  The horse sprang through the trees, screaming along with its rider, and disappeared.  Arawn barely noted Morigan’s delighted look before he drove his mount after the terrified girl.  The horse galloped as though possessed, whipping through tangled branches that tried to tear the rider from it’s back.  Bran clung desperately to the bouncing saddle horn, tears streaming down her cheeks as she was lashed by branches, bouncing back and forth.  Suddenly, up ahead a fallen log hove into view, fully a man’s height from the ground and round as a wagon’s wheel.  Bran tried desperately to catch the flopping reigns, to slow the horse…too late.  The horse leapt even as the saddle beneath her parted with it’s back.  Bran fell with a heavy thud onto the rock hard log.  The horse’s hind leg caught in a tangle of dead branches and, screaming, it thrashed down toward her.  Immobile with terror, she watched it fall.  Suddenly, a hand closed around her throbbing arm, jerking her into a strong embrace as the horse crashed down where she had been only seconds before.  It squealed in agony, thrashing about and trying to regain its feet.
         “For Sabon’s sake, Arawn, put it out of its misery!” Xharg snapped, cradling Bran against his chest.  Arawn moved forward and with a swift movement of his sword, the screaming of the horse stopped.
         “Branwenn, are you all right?” Xharg demanded, setting her gently on the ground.  She tried to speak, but found she could only sob incoherently.  Lady Lydora came racing through the trees, her hair wild, her gown torn, calling the girls name.  She dropped to her knees beside the pair.
         “What happened?” Xharg demanded, his fingers probing her shoulder.  She winced.
         “I don’t know!  I was just trying to sew my cloak…” Bran cried out as his fingers probed her side.
         “Definitely injured the shoulder, and the ribs.  I don’t think anything inside is hurt.” Xharg muttered.
         “Thank you, Lord Xharg, but I will take over from here.  If you would be of help, fetch something to bind her ribs with.” Lydora insisted, removing his hands gently but firmly from the girl’s side.  He glared at her, but moved away, watching as her fingers took over the gentle prodding of Bran’s swiftly bruising side.  He spun and disappeared into the trees.  Lydora glanced up at Arawn, who squatted nearby, examining the saddle.  “I am sorry if I offended your brother, Lord Arawn.  Propriety does demand that I should not let him touch my charge so familiarly, though he is trying to heal her wounds.”
         “Think nothing of it, Lady,” Arawn said, “Xharg does not take to too many people, but when he does, he is as protective as a lion.  Forgive him his familiarity.” He rose, bringing the remains of the saddle up with him.  “I’m afraid this is a bit useless now.  Not that she would be riding, anyway, with injured ribs.”
         “She will ride Solanaceae.  He can have the gentlest of gaits when the need arises.” Xharg reappeared with several long strips of black cloth over his arm.  He held them out to Lydora, and she took them with a smile, surprised at the softness of the strips.  “Bind her wounds with these.  They are strong, yet gentle to the skin.  Shall I fetch Faydra to help you?”
         “No.” Bran gasped, sitting up.  She grimaced, her arm curled around her side.  Instinctively, Xharg reached forward, but she smiled and shook her head.  “We can manage, Xharg.  Thank you.” 
         “When you are ready, Lady, call and we will bring Solanaceae, but do not rush the job.  We will wait.” Xharg turned away from Lydora, stiffly, and Arawn followed him into the trees, still carrying the saddle.  When they were far enough away, Xharg turned eyes the color of hell flames to his brother.
         “What happened?” he demanded in a voice of grinding steel.  His skin took on a mottled hue, the ridges of his eyes becoming more pronounced above blazing eyes.
         “The saddle strap was cut, for one thing.  For another, see where the underside has been hacked at, to make points.  If it weren’t for the saddle blanket, Bran might have been in trouble from the outset this morning.  The horse’s back was severely cut from the points.”  Arawn dropped the saddle at Xharg’s feet. 
         “And which of our lovely troupe would do that?” sneered Xharg, his blackened lips wrinkling back from lengthening fangs.  Arawn grabbed Xharg’s shoulder and gave him a firm shake.
         “Control, brother.  Remember where you are.” he hissed, urgently.  Xharg took a deep breath, steadying himself.  Slowly, his face took on a human appearance once more.  “That’s better.  Keep hold of yourself.”
         “You know she is behind this.” Xharg snarled deep in his throat.  Arawn nodded.
         “But by another’s hand, I’ll wager.  I will speak to Jarrick of this.  For now, though,” Arawn grinned wickedly, “don’t you think she will be punished enough to see that Solanaceae would not carry her, but bears Bran with the greatest tenderness?” 

Bran sat tall in Solanaceae’s saddle, mostly because of the tightness of her bindings, and wrapped herself tighter in Arawn’s cloak.  The air had taken an unseasonable chill, and her cloak had been lost, so Arawn had given her his.  The soft grey fur of the collar tickled her cheeks, and the musky smell of the cloak and the subtle scent of the horse lulled her into a uneasy mental peace.  Xharg had not strayed far from her side, guiding Solanaceae’s gentle steps.  Lady Morigan rode behind, again in a sullen mood that pinched her sharp features into the likeness of an old crone.  She wrapped herself tightly in a cloak of crimson and green so thick with fur trimming that she looked like a lump on a fur trader’s packhorse.  Xharg turned to look up at Bran over his shoulder.  She had not spoken in all the seven hours that they had been traveling, not since she had thanked Arawn for the cloak.  Now, he saw that she was pale, her bottom lip clenched solidly between her teeth and her eyes screwed shut, locked solidly in a misery that she refused to give voice to.
         “Arawn,  I think we’d best stop for the night.” he called.  Lady Morigan’s head perked up, her grey eyes two flint chips in a sea of white fur.
         “No.  I wish to reach the Nuremben by nightfall.” she snapped peevishly.  “We will travel on.” 
         “Even without an injured member of our party, Lady, that would be impossible.  Night comes soon, and we still have leagues to go.” Arawn’s voice was strained courtesy, hardly repressing his distaste for this woman.  In fact, he found himself actively despising her, and pitied Jarrick all the more.  “We will make camp here.”
         “Here, little one,” Xharg said, reaching up to gently lift Bran from Solanaceae’s back.  She whimpered just a bit, but allowed him to gently set her on the ground without complaint.  “Lean here against Solanaceae, and I will make you a comfortable place to lie.”  Lydora hastened over to her charge, laying a cool hand against Bran’s burning face.
         “She has a fever, lady.  Once I have made her a place to lie, I will go into the woods.  I know of a few herbs and barks that will help ease her pain and heat.” Xharg promised as he moved away, ignoring the sly looks from the other guardsmen.  He didn’t care the least about the thoughts he read in their puny little minds, his only thought was for Bran.  Once he had made a place for her on a bed of moss covered by Solanaceae’s blanket, he helped Lydora lay her down and cover her with Arawn’s cloak.  Lydora smoothed the hair from Bran’s face as he moved off into the trees.
         “He is very strange, your protector.” she murmured to herself.  Bran’s eyes fluttered.
         “But he has a good heart.  I am thankful to Rowan for him, and for Lord Arawn.” Bran muttered.
         “My lady?” Faydra asked timidly, coming up beside Lydora.  She kept her eyes lowered and would not look at Bran, her lank black hair not quite covering new bruises on her neck.  Bruises suspiciously like finger marks.
         “Yes, Faydra?”
         “My lady demands you attend her.  She is not well.” Faydra sniffed.  Bran looked up and saw that quiet tears were welling in the girl’s eyes.  She tried to raise her arm to give her a reassuring pat, but her shoulder had seized up and she could not lift it.
         “What ails her?” Lydora frowned.
         “Blisters, my lady, and aches.  And she feels faint.” Faydra repeated slowly.
         “And yet, she was so ready to ride on.” Lydora scowled.  “Tell Lady Morigan that I will be with her after I have seen to Bran.”  The look of terror on Faydra’s face gave Bran the strength to speak.
         “Go to her, sister.  I will be fine.  I am not going to move from this spot.” Bran insisted.  Lydora stared at her a moment, then glanced at the terrified girl, and then she rose with a sigh and followed Faydra to Lady Morigan’s tent.  Bran closed her eyes and slipped into an uneasy sleep.  She awoke an hour later, the camp around her covered by a thick mist.  Xharg sat upon the ground beside her pallet, using the hilt of his dagger to crush leaves against a smooth stone.  Smokey tendrils curled just beyond her outstretched legs, and Bran could see nothing outside their cocoon.  “Where are the others?”
         “They are around, don’t fear.  This mist is thick, and it is a good thing we stopped when we did.” he smiled over at her, dumping the crushed leaves onto a strip of leather.
         “It feels as if we are alone in the world,” she muttered, watching him.
         “Help is only a shout away, Branwenn, I promise.”
         “I won’t need it.  What danger is there in you for me?”
         “None.”