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"What is it, Bron?” asked Felicita.
"The immensity of what lies ahead looms large on the horizon, but the biggest task I have to surmount at this stage is not undoing the curse, nor Veldor, but convincing Maerose of her part in this."
Felicita smiled, knowingly.
Egremont's expression grew serious. “The scrolls have told the way."
"Indeed they have.” There was irony in Bron's tone. His belief in the scrolls and the visions contained therein rarely wavered, but the connection between the daughter of Beltane and the elder born to be at her side was described as something immense and powerful, something that he could scarcely believe in. Veldor's confidence on that matter was much stronger; it was a point that he had labored over when he claimed that he was the chosen elder, not Bron.
Bron picked up his knapsack and accepted Felicita's parting embrace.
"Wait.” Egremont turned away and reached for his staff. “Take this."
Bron stared at the precious staff. “But this is the staff handed down from the visionary, Amelia, that which is now your own."
Egremont nodded.
This was no small gesture. Bron looked at the strong, time-hewn staff, with its crown of moonstone embedded atop the wood. He embraced it between his hands, feeling its age-old power, its vital connection to the earth and all things that spring from it. He could feel, too, all that Amelia, her predecessors and her followers had invested in it, as well as Egremont's own energies. The life force it carried was immense. He touched the moonstone to his forehead. “Thank you, Master Sage Egremont. For this and for you all your teachings and wisdom."
Egremont nodded again, and smiled. “Travel well, Bron. The magic is always with you, as are the gods. Now hasten, for I sense time is short for Maerose."
Bron took his leave, his mind busy as he strode through the late autumnal woodlands toward the village of Riversbend. Egremont's words echoed through his mind.
Time is short for Maerose. Yes. The skies were darkening. Night was close. They were but five moons away from Samhain, the first night of the dark season, wherein there would be death, and rebirth. This year, like no other. The scrolls have told the way. He shook his head. That was harder to come to terms with.
Maerose was destined to undertake the most immense deed of faith, putting her in danger of losing her life. She was to offer herself, to mate with a man who had faith, on the dark night of Samhain and at the very gates of the underworld. This, in order to drive back the evil spirits
who had met their end at The Strangeling. The strength of her love weighed the balance of life or death for all the inhabitants of Edren. Oh, yes. And he was sure innocent young maidens took on that sort of task every day, in between baking bread and carrying water from the well. He kicked a fallen pinecone out of his path, giving a sardonic smile when another fell in his path to take its place.
Thankfully Maerose wasn't just any innocent maiden. She was a beautiful, resilient young woman. He knew that not only from her descriptions in the prophecies of the scrolls, but also from his distant observation. The visions he'd had of her in his visior pool showed him that she was sharp and inquisitive, strong. He was determined to get past Veldor's scheming and assume his role as her mentor. Then, she would learn the way of this and all things.
He eyed the clouds scurrying across the horizon. Maerose. Her image was carved on his soul. His blood rose, dark and potent with fertile magic. The power was within him, but hers was dormant and he needed to open her mind to it, to draw it out. He needed her. She was the divining rod. The channel. The daughter of Beltane and the giver of life. He needed her understanding, and more. Much more.
He needed her willing submission.
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CHAPTER TWO
Maerose shifted restlessly on the narrow, hard cot. They had unchained her, but not until her body was wracked with pain from being bound so long. Her heart was numb to it now. She barely felt the hollow ache of hunger in her stomach, the platter of stale bread and the mug of water a serving woman had brought to her sat, rejected, on the floor.
In the distance she could hear the drunken revelry of her captors. She clutched her arms around herself, watching the candle in the overheard sconce burning low and flickering. Soon it would burn out. There was no other to take its place. The room was damp and cold. She clutched at the threadbare blanket the serving woman had given her, pulling it around her shoulders, and vowed to stay awake.
At any moment her captors would come down and use her in vile ways, she knew it. The one called Veldor, he had dark blood in him and he was evil to the core. She would resist him, though. She prayed to the gods to make her strong, to let her stand up to them and to spit in their faces when they came near her. Whatever they did to her, she would remain steadfast.
The candle was barely glowing. Eventually, the noise upstairs lessened. She had no idea of what time of day or night it was, but felt it must be some time near dawn. She heard scratching in the corner of the room. A rat. At home, she might have been afraid, but on this night her fear was focused elsewhere. She followed the movement of the creature around the walls by its sound. As bad as it was, it was preferable company to the gray-eyed beast upstairs. The rat scurried across the floor towards the platter of bread, and she closed her eyes, sighing quietly, wishing it away. As her eyelids finally lowered, exhaustion hit her and she slumped onto the cot.
She fell into the dream quite suddenly. Instinctively, she knew it was a dream, and yet it was so very real that she felt an unearthly sense of familiarity steal through her. She was by the river, standing by her basket of washing, alone. An icy, biting wind swept up around her, freezing her to the spot. Men dressed in the robes of elders were all around, marching in on her, many more than the three she had seen earlier that day, an armies worth. As they closed on her their hoods fell back and she saw the ghastly faces of death upon them. With bloodied grins and leering eyes, their rotting hands lifted to reach for her.
She turned away to run, but her limbs were made heavy with the torpor of sleep. The sound of hollow laughter echoed around her. Dragging one foot up from the ground, she snatched up her skirts and lurched forward. It was like running through quicksand and with each step she took she sank deeper into a pit. Her hands clutched at the grass; she smelled crushed mint, fern, earth and nettles. Vice-like hands snatched at her legs, tearing at her skirts, hauling her back. She closed her eyes, crawling on her belly across the ground, trying to break free.
A blast of heat, as if from a furnace, roared up around her, and then was gone. Her eyes flashed open. She was in a different place. Stillness surrounded her. Her fingers were raw, clutching at shards of stone that lay amongst the dry earth she clambered across now. Glancing over her shoulder, she found she was alone in this gloomy, dark place. The ground was barren and the sky hung low, making her breath catch in her throat, as if there were not enough air to breathe. Slowly, she rose to her feet, staggering and swaying. Around her, she saw that skeletal trees hovered, menacing in the gloom. The stillness was eerie, and although she could see no one around her, she sensed presences, fearful presences.
She barely dared breathe, as if in doing so she would announce herself to some unknown, malevolent force. She stood in a small patch of light and around her it was growing gloomier by the moment. As she watched, straining her eyes against the darkness, she saw movement, ghostly shadows shifting amongst the wasted trees. Her hand went to her throat; she was filled with the urge to flee. Glancing behind her she saw only darkness, the same moving shadows. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The only light seemed to be on her and if she moved, it moved with her.
Then she heard a sound, her name.
"Maerose?"
