Brotherhood of the Gemstone Chapter I: A Long-Await’d Festival

First bit of my English/Scottish Magnum Opus the Brotherhood of the Gemstone

When a date for the autumn festival of the Paragon Muireall, was at last set, there was considereable relief. The date in question was that of the fourteenth of the ninth month of An t-Sultain. Years prior, it had been set a day prior which had not ended badly, with the date always moving forward by one year and a day. The difficulty lay in the druid’s frequent inability to remember to forego the unlucky number as a date, for the favourite festival of his flock.

They had learnt to dread more than any other date, the thirteenth of the ninth month. For ‘twas upon that date that the worst storm they had ever borne witness to, struck the local coast. Glasvhail was ordinarily a peaceful place. ‘Dull’ some dubbed it ungenerously. However, for those who lived there, tending to the land and the local sheep or liked to fish nearby, so that it was as paradise to those who preferred a quieter sort of life. Not for seventy years had a single man been slain or been suffered to join in the once many wars of the lairds and kings of Caledonia. Therefore it was a place, of supreme quiet, joy and rich food. For this reason, the loss of Murchadh the fisherman, during a great storm nine years ago had quite naturally shocked a great many locals.

None more so than Kenna the seamstress, who had been wife to the unfortunate fisherman. Such was her horror that she had been bedridden at the time, so intense was her grief. In time though, she had awoken from her bed, if only to care for her son, whom she swore to make a finer man than his father. She had sworn to forge him, not into the sort of lackadaisical, easily distracted man that her husband had been but into a better man: Sadly for her, her efforts had long sinc been deemed a failure in the eyes of her neighbours. For Cormac was not only absent-minded, but where his father had appeared wise and genial, the son was so utterly absent in mind and in body when most had need of him that, he was believed to be empty-headed. Still, somehow he managed to figure into many more conversations than most other local boys had a tendency of doing, as was the case for those of the house of Conn, the local druid of Glasvhail.

*****

When Rothien was in the midst of spring, the whole of the hamlet of Glasvhail tended to rouse itself, from the stupor left behind by winter. Not simply because, it meant life was renewed, but because of the great ‘Spring-Solstice’ festival that all of the locals celebrated with an almost, manic glee. All save one man of course. This one was of course, the fifty-five year old druid of the village, and its surrounding farms, as he had the very difficult and wearisome task of organising the festival. Whereupon the whole of the land became frantic with activity as all sought to bring in as much agriculture and fish in preparation for the coming winter. In the year when this story begins, Conn, the druid in question was in particularly dire straits as he faced the coming of age of his second to youngest daughter, Helga. His favourite, he struggled to reconcile himself with the notion that he must marry her off. Sworn to Scota, the great goddess of the Caleds, he had as his father before him, managed the wooden shrine, dedicated to her, all his life since his predecessor had passed away. The expectation was that without a son, to succeed him he must either move to secure some other man to succeed him, or find himself a good-son or grandson to do so. His two eldest daughters had married well with one marrying a fisherman, a man of some means and gentility, who had inherited the finest boat in Glasvhail. As to the eldest daughter of the druid, she had wed a local laird, the laird of Bjørndun, by the name of Lauchlan’s third son, Mungo. The laird of Bjørndun had taken her into his house with the son she had married, succeeding his childless uncle as chief huscarl of the house of Bjørndun. Therefore, it fell upon Helga to bring him a proper heir into his house. The trouble was as he was soon to discover, the lad whom she adored was the worst possible lad in the village in his eyes. For Conn respected hard-work, persistence and intelligence. All of which when he called her hither was to come out, doing so late one evening with beer made from local barley wheat flowing easily. With his wife Ainsley, his second eldest and two younger daughters all at hand, his good-son Bhàtair, and three of his wife’s friends, whom were all wealthy merchants’ wives that had grown up with Ainsley at hand to feast with him. Their table which stood proud in the midst of the small mead-hall was gay and full of laughter, with none more full of joy that day than Conn himself. There was to his mind, good, respectable company at hand, the harvest had been good, his sheep (for even a well-to do druid had to do sheepherding in those days) were fat this year and the preparations for the festival were coming along nicely.

“Yes papa,” His dearest daughter responded as she took up a seat by his side, between him and his wife with a happy look in her eyes that pleased him.

The fire was well-lit some way down from them, to the center of the building just below the chimney hole in the center of the large domicile next to the temple where he did much of his work. Bathed in the warmth and in the light of the fire, he almost dozed off only to rouse himself, as he questioned the young woman, regarding a subject he both dreaded and awaited anxiously.

“I must ask you, though I am at some pains to do so, given the nature of this particular subject,” He prevaricated for some time, which inspired Ainsley to grow impatient with him where their daughter grew incredibly bemused herself with his discomfort.

“Aye, father I do have a man in mind, though I am not so certain, you will take to him half so well as mother has,” Helga said stoutly, with a roll of her eyes in the direction of her sister, Doada who being the elder by eight years and having gone through the exact same conversation nigh on a decade prior, well-understood her exasperation. The slow-witted man was often the butt of jests though he was rarely if ever aware of it, in spite of this though he was well-beloved in the locality. “What say you of Cormac, son of Murchadh the Fisherman?”

At her words a tremendous choking sound resonated throughout the domicile, along with a series of chortles and snorts. The terrible gagging noise originated from Conn himself, whereas the chortle stemmed from his second eldest Doada and the snort her husband who appeared every bit as incredulously as his good-father. For several long minutes all that could be heard, were the patriarch’s attempts to swallow his beer, whilst his daughter stared askance and wife gave him a reproving look.

“C-C-Cormac?!” He bellowed when he could speak again, his voice hoarse and hardly above a whisper. “Surely you jest!”

His disgust towards the boy in question, who was fortunately absent to hear the man speak so poorly of him, was hardly welcomed by the girl of sixteen seasons. Her countenance changed from one of expectant yet that of a decidedly feminine joyous manner of a young maid in the full bloom of young love, to one of shocked outrage. She was quick to be enveloped in her mother’s arms, as she sunk into tears at his horror and her younger sister Eilidh’s great peals of laughter, as she hooted at the thought of the fisherman’s son.

“Really father, you should not speak so of Cormac- and do stop Eilidh!” the eldest of Conn’s daughters present in Glasvhail objected, ever quick to protect her sister as though, she were her own rather than but a younger sibling, one that she had once detested, ten years prior.

It was however to her husband, she reserved her most piercing look. Her husband adopted the abashed expression of a well-nagged man, who knew his final hour had come upon him were he to continue, his present behaviour, whereupon he mumbled a swift apology. Still though, his shoulders shook the moment her head and back were once more to him, as she turned her wroth upon the youngest of her sisters.

“Really Conn, you asked her to name who she most desired, and Cormac is a respectable lad.” Ainsley defended with the sort of scowl that might otherwise have properly subdued, her fat boisterous husband, who so filled with contempt for the boy in question could not repress a snort.

“Oh aye, aye if by respectable you mean layabout,” Grunted the druid who did not much like the fisherman’s son. “His is possibly the laziest youth in all of Glasvhail- nay let alone all of Rothien, nary has there ever been a more unsuitable man for my office.” He paused to take a sip before continuing. “All he does most days, is stare out at sea, or run about near the fairy-woods and avoid the sort of toil a lad his age, ought to be occupied with.”

The woods he referred to were the Dyrkwoods, an infamous place to the south-west of the village, which was notable principally for the great big oak that appeared to stand guard just outside it. The oak was one that had been ancient, one that was said to stretched back into Conn’s great-grandfather’s time. It was a majestic thing that was a short distance from the woods. A sinister place, with a formidable reputation and legends of fairies living in it, it is said that it was there that the warrior Ciaran had fallen. From the spot that he had been struck by a pixie-dart, which had caused a wound that had not healed it is said, for nigh on twenty-years. Such was the force of their spite for his foolish, hot-tempered words against them, at one of their feasts when he spurned their Queen.

The spot where he had fallen, it was said that the largest of all the oaks of Rothien had grown from, one that all the children and elders of the land tended to remark was destined to never fall. Though Conn had always spoken out against the oak, he had on many occasions refused to draw a single hatchet or allow others to do so, against this great oak. The reason for this, if he was ever honest was entirely due to his own fear, of the fey-folk whom he was convinced lived in the nearby woods.

Cormac was along with the blacksmith’s daughter, the only one willing to approach the oak and the woods. This might well have seemed brave, were it not for the fact that he did so simply to snooze with his back against the tree, something that not only horrified many of the locals but disgusted the older members of the locality. For they felt this to be a wildly disrespectful deed, with these same members of the region likely to have preferred it, had he avoided the spot too with many prone to whispering that there was something very queer about the lad.

However, when Conn brought up this very issue or more specifically the queer nature of the boy and some of the other peculiarities that haunted him, the women in his family objected. What was worse that wherever he wandered he was confronted by Helga’s passion which further bewildered him. “How can you love such a man, who is a layabout, who knows naught but to stare at woods, water and stars? He has accomplished so little, so that in this way he is no different from his father.” This led to Conn muttering without any real prompting, “His father Murchadh was mighty queer too. Had a tendency to take his boat out farther than others, to return either with no fish, other times with more salmon than any of us had ever seen. He also loved that accursed oak, and I could never quite tell what Kenna the weaver was thinking, when she accepted to be his. Or quite why, he insisted upon setting out to sea in the midst of a storm…” His words drifted off, as he became lost for a few moments in his own thoughts, quite what they were only he could have known.

No sooner had he finished his grumbling, did Helga object in defence of the subject of her adoration, “Cormac is no fool, he is kind!”

“And funny! He knows all sorts of funny jests, and tells the strangest fairy stories!” Eilidh piped up at last, seeing a chance to leap into the midst of the conversation between the adults that surrounded her.

“He is more than that, he is peculiar, why Bhàtair, you have spoken to him in the past, and knew his father did you not?” Conn inquired sharply of his good-son, who in the midst of draining his drinking horn, was startled before he hurriedly confirmed that yes, he knew Cormac.

“Why he is the son of mad old Murchadh!” Bhàtair called ignoring the sharp look his wife gave him.

“Mad? Why do you call him that?” Helga queried irritably.

“Because he was lass, he was the only man mad enough to embark on his fishing-boat in the midst of a storm, in spite of how all could see it was a fool’s errand.” Conn snorted disdainfully, utterly convinced of the rectitude of his own wisdom and that those of whom he spake lacked all semblance of it.

“Regardless his madness, you asked who I would take for a husband, and I answered father,” His favourite daughter answered stiffly, much to his displeasure. He never liked to make her, or any others in his family wholly miserable.

The insolence of his daughters persisted, were he but a little wiser, the druid might well have noticed that they were too united in their efforts. Yet he was not so, though he fancied himself wise and cunning beyond comparison. With Bhàtair likewise falling into the trap for which the three ladies had prepared for the head of the family, “Bah, you are pretty enough Helga, and may have any other man, why request Murchadh’s son?”

“Because, there is no other like him in the village,” Said Helga persistently to the dismay of the men and bemusement of her younger sister.

“What of Daegan, the blacksmith’s daughter?”  This time the question drew more than a scowl, with a flush flying across her fair cheeks up to her small ears.

“Daegan’s funny also,” Eilidh hooted only to be shushed by her mother.

The mention of the daughter of Corin, the smith was one that Conn had meant to bring up, if slightly more delicately. The difficulty lay in just how sensitive she could be, in marked contrast to the woman of whom they spoke. The suit presented by his child, was unlikely to proceed in his view, as the lass mentioned by his good-son was inseparable from Cormac. For reasons that escaped him, just as Kenna the seamstress’s union with Murchadh had been the subject of confusion nigh on a generation ago also.

Conn’s next attempt some time later, to make her rethink her choice in partner was to end only in the young woman persisting, “Cormac or no one at all.”

Her words served only to exacerbate, the heated atmosphere in the small mead-hall. Helga wept for a time, and entreated her mother to aid her, with the older woman and Doada scolding him all evening. Still he would not bend. He had made his decision. Why the thought of Cormac, inheriting his position was enough to send him into an apoplexy of shock and horror. Something that he was at great pains to inform, everyone he spoke to over the next several hours.

It was the next morn’ when he conceded defeat, as they all knew he would; this in spite of his great dislike for the boy in question.

*****

An-t-Sultain in the year, of 719 of the Saviour was a magnificent time, crisp and not at all as cool as the previous year when all shuffled along, shivering up and down the unpaved road of the sea-side landscape. A week after the discussion with Helga, the rain that had haunted that night abated to the gratitude of all those who lived nearby. During which time, many of the local fishermen, who were responsible for feeding the vast majority of the locals took ever more to the sea. Keen as they were to gather enough fish, in preparation of the autumn festival of Fufluns, the god of the harvest.

Days passed with every house bustling with activity and every boat perpetually out at sea. None were more preoccupied though than Kenna the seamstress, due to the popularity of this particular festival with the local girls. Each one of them, along with also those who were older with little time for weaving or knitting, and in possession of spare coin or food were keen to turn to her for assistance. Her only aid in this trying time was her assistant Indulf and her goddaughter Daegan. Daegan was the daughter of her deceased friend Olith, and the local blacksmith Corin. From dawn to dusk, the former where he could ordinarily be found not only aiding his mother Ida, or his fiancée Inga, he was instead found bent over his loom in his teacher’s shop. Shy, more so than the rest of those who lived nearby, which included his younger brother the rather loud Trygve or his excitable love, Inga. So that a great many of those who lived in the local area, preferred to leave him be, attempted to prompt him into chattering with them, if unsuccessfully (this being whensoever they saw him).

Kenna was of a completely different nature. Loud by nature, she was an argumentative woman of middling height and years, one whom had a tendency to either be greatly loved or despised. Notably by the family, that lived nearest to her for they had long hungered for the land she had inherited from her teacher, Eachann who had taught her the art and business of weaving. He had also taught her to dye cloth, with his knowledge of such things rare even in those days. Long since deceased by a fair amount of years he had been respected, and even admired by most. Her complaints upon this year though, were far worst and more strident than any others, in the vicinity of Glasvhail, so that even those who hated her such as Frang and his wife Lucrais felt irritated by her son’s absence.

“He ought to be herewith Indulf and I! How dare he scamper off, to who knows where to do who knows what!” Screeched brown-haired Kenna, who had in a matter of days developed the habit (more than usual) of chewing the ears of any and all who visited her at some length, on the topic of her son; whom she felt had let her down more than at any other time. Still considered pretty by some if she were to only cease scowling and yelling so often at present none dared correct her. Ida, her closest friend, Indulf and Daegan were amongst the only ones who ever did.

Where was Cormac during such a time of chaos, you may ask? He was off visiting, with his missing father’s finest friend, Corin. Born abroad, the blacksmith had appeared nigh on twenty years prior after a storm had tore apart the coasts of the kingdom of Caledonia, whereupon he was found at sea by Murchadh. Wounded he was not expected to survive at the time, he was nursed back to proper health by the lady Olith though, whom he married only to succeed her father as the blacksmith of Glasvhail. A skilled artisan, one whom was the only man in the locality outside of Freygil to speak highly of the lad’s father, it was for this reason he was prone to visiting his home.

“They are both queer if you ask me,” Grumbled the Salmon, the dour-natured grandfather of Inga who was grey-bearded and with few hairs still left upon the top of his round head. Like with Kenna, his face was at almost all times twisted into the form of a scowl. Salmon’s actual name was Muirdach the Fisher for his immense success as a fisherman, a trade and art-form he held above all others. His was a pessimistic nature, so that he had never truly taken to either Corin or Cormac. “Hardly any good has ever come out of anything they have ever done.”

“But what of Daegan? Without uncle Murchadh rescuing Corin, she would not be alive today,” Inga objected at once, the young seventeen year old woman was pretty, blonde and a great admirer of the smith’s fifteen year old daughter. This in spite of her being the other girl’s senior by twenty-five months, not that this bothered the romantic girl who was promised to Indulf.

“Bah, as though she or her father, have truly done much good, for our village,” Complained Salmon harshly with a slight grunt of indifference. “In any case the lass could stand to also be humbled as she is by far the most arrogant wench I have ever beheld.”

His words drew many an eye-rolls and long-suffering remarks from all those about him, for they all thought him far in a way the most arrogant person of any sort in the locality.

What was more, to call this a village, was something of an exaggeration, what with how it was simply a series of farms, smithies and shops, aligned along the near-eternally unpaved road.

The Erlbaryn Mountains loomed in the distance, to the south, the Narthern River before them to the north. Rothien was very plentiful as far as farming communities went. With many travelers visiting it throughout the year, most especially, when there was a festival near ‘Castle-Fidach’, where the Mormaer of Fidach resided. A man descended from the Duibh blood-line, one that traced its lineage back to the illegitimately born High-King of the Caleds, Duibh himself. With the man’s son Giric having forsworn his place in the line of succession to the thistle-crown, the MacDuibh family had become trusted advisors of the royal line whom they were cousins to. Their lands bordered those of Strawthern in the south, and were originally a well-positioned check upon the power and growing influence of that southron line. In more recent times though, the MacDuibh line had come to favour with the split in the royal line into two, the elder which was that of Donnchad the Mad. Whereas the Strawtherns under the headship of the young Mormaer Raghnall the Red or the ‘Lion’ as some had come to know him by this time, was a close personal friend and pupil of Mael Bethad the King.

The few that stopped, on by had to push through the Dyrkwoods to reach it. Or they arrived by boat, from the northern tip of the inner sea, known as the Firth of the Thern, to the north-east of the village. The port was not a sizeable one, as all towns and cities and hamlets in Caledonia were always considerably smaller in size to those in Brittia or even on the Continent. Save for mayhaps Sgain, the largest of the cities of the Caleds, for which they often called it the ‘jewel of the promontory’ for the promontory facing the sea that, it stood upon.

*****

Merchants poured in from all throughout the south, in small numbers for the hamlet of Glasvhail were after-all hardly of any great importance. Being out of the way, with only a slim route around the Dyrkwoods which covered much of the south of this part of Rothien, Glasvhail was however popular amongst the wine-traders of Strawthern (where most of the finest grapes of Caledonia grew along with the best barley-wheat). Some of the cloth merchants arrived from as far as Norençia, the northernmost lands of Gallia that great continental state that loomed over all the west of North-Agenor, with the Norençians renowned for their fine wool.

Many of those who arrived did so slowly, over the course of weeks from the end of the eighth month of Dàmhar and well into the ninth one. Most of those who arrived from abroad were amongst those who had been in attendance during the previous year’s festival. Several others had been present during the spring-festival of Turan, which was to follow the Fufluns autumn festival when the winter was at an end.

The most noteworthy of the newcomers was none other than Wiglaf the sorcerer. A Cymran of some renown, he cut a fine figure with his waist-length beard, great pointed grey hat and blue robes that shone in the sunlight of the twin suns that were high in the heavens when he arrived. Grey-eyed, with a twinkle in his gaze, he reached Glasvhail riding his well-saddled horse, which trotted slowly under the weight of a great baggage drawn behind the small horse. By no means a war-horse, the steed appeared where its rider was cheerful, utterly disheartened to the brink of grouchy unhappiness.

His arrival was a terrible shock to a great many of the locals, with the quiet old man seeking out the small home of Corin of Forlarin. A one-story building made of local ash-wood with a small amount of stone near the foundations, taken from a local quarry thirty leagues west of the village. The red-roof made from local red-bark had been carefully put together, and shone brilliantly in the light of the twin suns’. With the roofed stone-building next to the house where most of Corin’s great labour was undertaken, with it having its own chimney, large collection of wood and was where he could most commonly be found. The house exterior was also reddened in the descending light of the suns, with none more startled by the arrival of the Cymran than the Gallian himself.

Long-since familiar with the sorcerer, who had been present at Murchadh’s funeral years prior, where he had delivered a magnificent eulogy and death-song in the custom of the old way of the Cymru and the Caleds’. Corin had been amongst the chief-mourners for the funeral. Ordinarily it would have included the cremation of the body of the man in question, but as he drowned at sea and there were but a few wood-planks of his boat discovered; they had instead filled his ash-container with little private possessions. Such as earrings, a favourite scarf, several clay-rings and a wooden lion he had once carved for his son. This last possession was placed inside the coffin, by the lad, who had said that he wished the lion to offer some comfort and memory of him wherever he was headed.

Where the elders and those of middle-age had never much cared for the old sorcerer, using the term ‘wizard’ and ‘heretic’ in scorn of him. If ever you run into a magii there are few things that are as likely to outrage them so much, as the term ‘wizard’. A term which they have never much cared for, and which is a counterpart to that of ‘witch’ a people infamous for their many dealings with demons.

“Let us hope he keeps away, from Cormac,” Muttered Kenna to Indulf, in a foul mood from the moment she learnt of the sorcerer’s arrival into the area. Though he had been unfailing in his kindness to her, Wiglaf had won hardly any gratitude from her. Her antipathy had its roots in his sudden departure shortly after Murchadh’s funeral nigh on ten years previous to the current date.

She hardly noticed the expression of frustration that painted itself unto the youthful face, of the eighteen summers-old son of her great friend Ida. He bit his lower lip to keep from speaking, too timid to speak out against her, even if in defence of his friend Cormac. It being no great secret that he loved her son as one might a younger brother, in many ways he preferred him to the company of a great many of his five brothers and three sisters.

Where Indulf was soft-hearted by nature towards his young friend, though like her mistrustful of the sorcerer, his fiancé he discovered had considerable interest in the old man. Keen to meet him (as she had not yet done so) and even keener, to see magic-tricks which she was disappointed after she was introduced to him by Trygve that he preferred to demure from. Saying as he did so, “Nay, magic- true magic is not for simple show, if you wish I could sing a good tune though?”

Though Inga accepted this latter offer, she did not stay over-long as she was soon called away by the Salmon, who had just run back to shore in the hopes of food. Having forgotten to carry some of the bread and cheese she had offered earlier along with him in his boat, it was at present up to his granddaughter to fetch some for him. With her future good-brother in turn staying to mock and banter with the old magii.

Latterly he was to report to his brother, with considerable confusion when the day and the many labours that it had carried with it were at an end. “It is an odd thing.”

“What is?” Indulf asked him, as they walked home, his brother having not worked out at sea as a fisherman’s apprentice for the day, to aid their mother and Inga in various other tasks.

“The black bolt of cloth that had been dragged along by his horse was upon the table in the smithy.” Noted the younger of the two men, stroking his chin thoughtfully as though it had a beard already, this was a habit he had learnt since his earliest years from their father, who had a thick beard. “The metal beneath it was onyx, in coloration when I pressed him to know from whence it came, Wiglaf grew angry with me. ‘Never you mind the black rock and pray you never need know from whence it came or whithersoever it is headed,’ he said to me, quite why is beyond me.”

Indulf agreed that it was strange, especially given how typically free with knowledge the Cymran was on most occasions when he happened to visit Glasvhail. Though they both thought this strange, and had in their curiosity towards the black-stone in common. They knew only though that it had been brought north with the foreigner, neither evinced much desire to further test the fury of the sorcerer. It was akin in their eyes, to angering one’s grandfather as they were both familiar with him and disliked the notion of disappointing him a great deal more, than they expressed that evening.

It was not Inga, or the two men who took the greatest interest in the return of Wiglaf to the locality of Glasvhail, but Conn the druid. The moment he heard of the man’s return, he might well have been expected to squawk, and to leap to his feet to march out to Corin’s home to demand the man’s immediate departure. To the great displeasure of all who hated the sorcerer (and the vast amusement of a great many others), he in place of this possible action preferred to hide in his home beneath his bed-covers, whilst praying for the man’s departure.

Unaware of this initially, the sorcerer was to in the days just before the festival have to the relief of a great many, little to do with his host’s neighbours. Corin and him, were to all but barricade themselves inside the man’s home for the better part of the day. Quite why, was a mystery to most, with the two when they emerged going straight to the smithy whereupon Corin had his daughter who was about ready to depart, to aid Kenna fetch him Cormac. This likely was one of the principal reasons, for her fury towards the sorcerer, for she had long hated the smith for his bond with her son, not that either man paid her much mind in that regard.

Daegan though, did as bidden, racing from her father’s home, keen as ever to see Cormac though she did not inform anyone quite why. A boastful girl by nature, one whom had been dubbed a number of years prior when she had become infamous throughout the locality for her braggart ways, as the ‘She-Paladin’. This title had been given to her by that eternal jester Trygve, who full of mockery for her had bestowed it upon her, without her realising it, was done in the spirit of mischief. She fancied herself a ‘She-Paladin’, and the finest woman in the whole of the lairddom of Thernkirk, possibly even Fidach and Rothien, so great was her self-belief (or conceit).

*****

In truth Kenna was by this time more preoccupied than any other, people in the whole of Glasvhail. For she was the only seamstress for a hundred leagues, of the village and the one tasked with almost three dozen dresses of varying sizes to sew. Doing so for a great variety of women and girls, of the hamlet, as this was the busiest time of the year, for her, it was also the time when she made, the majority of her wealth.

The ever-pessimistic Kenna was a handsome woman, usually easily approached. Save, during this time of the year, or when her eternally distracted son, fled his tasks to go stare at the boats, or the fish they brought in. He also had a tendency to sneak away when he forgot to return from his errands, to visit with the ‘Forlarin’ household as all the residents of Rothien tended to call, the home and kinsmen of Corin. Forlarin as he was known to some was a strange man, by the standards of the small farm-laden road-Thorpe, as he was foreign-born after all, one whom precious little, was known about.

Said to be born, from a family of minor barons, in the direct service of the High-King of Gallia, the fifth son, some supposed. Quite why, they decided upon the fifth son, and not the second or third, or even first remained something of a joke, amongst all those who lived near his home. With none laughing louder, than the man himself, save perhaps the Tigruns of the locality, for the cat-men and women often regarded him with a certain amusement. All that the locals knew was that he was from the land of Forlarin, where the current lord was the son of a mercenary-captain who had done well, in the service of Agustin the Great. The mighty Duke of Norencia and Gallusia, who had defied more than one king, and paved the way for Juste and Guillaume, his grandsons to claim the crown.  Corin was the son of the Prince of the Crown’s own tutor, was another rumour, yet all who knew the blacksmith, knew he loathed violence. Instead, he had favoured the art of languages, so that all that the locals knew, he had agreed to what was a tantamount to exile, in order to serve as a translator for a representative to Mael-Martin II’s court, from Gallia.

Regardless of his past, the brown-haired man then fell in love with the original blacksmith’s daughter, Olith and over quarter-score years, became accustomed to village life. The Gallian of course, learnt her family’s trade, and inherited her father’s business and home, upon the man’s death. So skilled had he become, by the time of this tale, he oft left for Sgain, or Inverdùnis to sell his spare-wares, which were in high demand in those parts of the kingdom.

Olith for her part, though dead fifteen years ago, continued to linger on in the spirits of those who had once known her. None sought to honour her memory more than those who had seen her grow into the woman who wed Corin, than Kenna. Though it was the anniversary of the red-haired woman’s passing, three weeks ago could only ponder her present troubles in the form of Cormac.

 What am I going to do with that lad? He has all the wits of an ass, Kenna frequently thought to herself, in frustration her fingers at work upon the lady Malvina’s dress which was in the midst of being put together upon her loom.

The lady Malvina was the wife of the local laird Badrách, and though there was a difference in rank between them, they were friendly. Given the lady’s bumbling nature, she was something of a figure of mockery, throughout Rothien. Some such as Kenna, found her more exasperating or pitiful, than humorous. The clumsy kindness on the part of the lady had long since endeared her to the seamstress, who found the woman’s incompetent husband, far less endearing though. Broken from her thoughts, whilst she was in the midst of cursing her son to the depths of the icy-realm of the Dark Queen, Kenna looked up just as the smith’s daughter burst into the shop. This was always her way, as she could not help but always burst in place of slipping inside.

“I am terribly sorry, auntie, it was my idea for Cormac to help us, with this last project before Wiglaf arrives.” Daegan said, face turning scarlet as she averted her eyes shyly.

She is lying; she always reddens and averts her gaze, whenever she lies. Kenna guessed irritably, yet with a small amount of fondness, she truly did love the girl in spite of her dislike for Corin. It had to have something to do, with how the girl was the spitting image, of her mother Olith, who had been her greatest girlhood friend. The two had been all but sisters, with Kenna having sworn as Olith lay dying, to always care for Daegan.

“Oh aright though, I know you Dae, you could never undercut anyone, so do not try to trick me, into believing that you convinced Cormac to leave, his duties half-finished.” The boy’s mother said to the sheepish young girl, who gave her a wide-eyed stare. One of pure surprise and embarrassment at how, easily she had been seen through her.

Kenna did not give the matter much more thought, too distracted by the work that was all-important to her. Life was a matter to be grappled with, and toil the only answer to all of its troubles and sorrows, with the greatest horror in the world to her mind was indolence. So that her son was something of a monster to her mind, one whom she had to exorcise of his worst habits.

Arriving hours after the apprentices had departed for their own homes, which left Cormac to suffer the wroth of his mother. This he did, his hair and cloths soaked entirely through much to the disgust of his mother, who was to scream herself hoarse that day.

“Quite what I did, to deserve a son as unfilial, indolent and worthless as you, is a mystery!” She had at last yelled in the end, shortly after she had put an end to her complaints and the throwing of several nearby light possessions of theirs.

Her son did not answer any of her cries, only shrugged and evaded what clay-plates, mugs and tools he could, before he hunkered down to sleep in the shop. As a rule, he slept there whereas she slept in the kitchen of their small home, though tonight he hung his head and appeared as sullen towards her, as she was in return.

The next day, with the scent of pine and oak-wood along with that of the sea, was everywhere, in that part of the land. Scents that always served to remind Kenna, of her late husband, Murchadh; a man whom she had adored and who unlike her, was friendly with all around him. As she awoke, she asked of herself what she was to do with her son, who resisted her best efforts, to be included in the slightest work.

A question that haunted more than one soul the next day, from the druid Conn who faced what he felt to be certain, to be a kind of doom when the time came to declare his daughter and the lad wedded, an act he already dreaded. Where they awoke in a cold sweat, full of mortal terror of a possible or real connection to Murchadh’s son, others as in the case of Daegan, Corin and Helga awoke of a different mind in regards, to the youth.

The festival of the Paragon Muireall, a Paragon who was canonised by the Temple for her great service and martyrdom centuries prior, in the name of Fufluns the lord of fertility, was but a day away. All had been put in place by this time, with the skies clear of any possible rain and sleet for the moment. Something that Caledonia lived under the constant expectation of in marked contrast to their southron neighbours.

Busy at work still in the smithy, Wiglaf was to complain at some length about the process, with many inquisitive souls desirous to peek inside or listen in, upon him and his host as they worked. The difficulty lay in just how perceptive the two of them were, with neither man the sort to miss the slightest snap of a twig with their ears or the sound of anyone’s breath upon the door so intently did they guard the secret of that which they toiled upon. The only ones invited inside, into the know being Daegan and Cormac.

One might think they would speak of what it was the sorcerer and the smith were hard at work upon, ere long they concluded their weeks-long toil, come the dawn of the festival-day. Hard at work upon the bellows, Cormac who had but rarely been seen outside of the smithy, much to his mother’s displeasure and the consternation of the likes of Helga and her younger sister Eilidh.

“Go, lad,” Said Corin to the son of his greatest friend, “I have no further work for you, and require no further aid with the bellows.”

Heeding his words, the son of Murchadh the fisherman departed forthwith, for Ciaran’s oak whereupon he fell into a deep-sleep as he was oft prone to. This was sure to garner more of his mother’s wrath though he thought not of this. All who stepped on past him, shook their heads in response, in disgust, with few of their children venturing over to speak to him distracted as they were with their games.

Full of fury, switch in hand Kenna departed from her home in search of her son, though she had herself completed her duties to her many customers desired to put her son to work regardless of this fact. She searched through all of Glasvhail only to realise that her son, must have gone to visit with Corin.

Every inch of Kenna trembled with fury, such that when she arrived she bewildered both men, and the smith-daughter who were seated at his ash-wood brown table. The men were in the midst of drinking wine brought north by the Cymran. For her part, the lass with the flame-tresses stared halting in the act of refilling the goblet of the sorcerer.

“Where is he? Where is my son?” Asked the widow of Murchadh to the wonder of those seated, who gaped at her in confusion at her words.

“We do not know,” Answered Corin earnest as always though she perceived his words to be spoken in jest, though quite why she did so was to remain a mystery for them for some time.

 “Do not jest, please,” She grunted under her breath, just before, she took his daughter by the arm to start to guide her away. “If I shan’t find him, then I shall tear thy daughter from you to prepare her for the festival and see to her fitting for a new dress? Heaven knows, how swiftly they grow.”

Where Kenna might well have objected, had it been her child, the men simply shrugged for they saw no reason to answer any further. It was true that Daegan had grown taller as of late, and was in dire need of a new dress. Agreeing to leave with her, with a quick swig of wine, and a bright smile eager to be gifted a new dress.

Disappointed though she was by Corin’s lack of interest in the matter, a sentiment worsened by the knowledge that her son was somewhere else (heaven only knew where). Kenna departed with a flounce, the young lass scowled to herself before she hurried to inform her, “I shall go find Cormac for you if you so wish auntie.”

In truth, she wished to prevaricate in regards to her visit, due entirely to the rage that still seemed to colour every millimetre of the seamstress’s being.

“Very well, but mayhap it might be better if Cormac were to join the other men for the remainder of the festival,” Kenna concluded with a reluctant sigh, letting slip forth from her much of the anger that still simmered below the surface. After-all, she told herself, she did have a dress to complete for the girl by her side.

It was not her intent to make the younger woman uncomfortable; however she could not resist a certain scorn for her son. Why by all the gods, could she not have had a daughter? One akin to Daegan in nature, who had drive, confidence and whom was a good conversationalist?

Their differences stemmed from the fact that he had no great dreams, or desires to do much more than idle away, his time. Resolute by nature, Kenna had far greater dreams than her son, Daegan; or even her own father, who had thrived on the battlefield if nowhere else. Nor did she intend to beg she had as a child before she had been all but sold, to the local weaver. He had treated Kenna well, after she had attempted to rob him, and later left her his shop, upon his death just before her marriage to Murchadh. The shop was well-off enough, but she intended to still sell it to young Indulf, her former teacher’s nephew, who was but three years older than her son.

In a contemplative mood, she thought at some length about her hopes to move her shop, from Glasvhail to Sgain where she hoped to gain in wealth enough to possibly move along in rank. There were tales of artisans if skilled enough, succeeding in gaining the attention of the High-King and being taken with him, to his private keep of Dunsfathaigh, or Inverdùnis.

Inside her home, they found the looms, just as she had left them with Indulf, who was still bent over his loom, a warm yet shy smile gracing his handsome face when he saw them. A kindly if easily daunted youth, Indulf was in a unique position as his brothers were certain to inherit a large herd of sheep, enough wealth saved up over the years, to set all at ease for a number of years. With little left over for the three youngest sons, little choice open to him other than to pursue his own trade, and fortune outside of his kin-group. As a third-son he was remarkably unfortunate, in spite of the great affection his family held for him.

Dismissing him, Kenna turned her attention in its entirety to the lass with her, beckoning her to the kitchen after she had locked the doors. Her earlier anger towards her son forgotten, she saw to fetching a dress she had hidden some time ago, for this very day.

Her hope was to do a kindness for she whom she hoped to take in as her good-daughter, though she was of a mind that the red-haired lass deserved far better a man than her slothful son.

The vivid green dress she had secretly woven flew about, with her duo of assistants awe-struck by the beauty of the dress. It was long, with a flowery pattern embroidered into the hem of the skirt and sleeves, with many an Érian symbols interwoven where mentioned, with fine, gold embroidery. The symbols were all identical with Daegan recognising them at once, for being the ‘Bowen’s Knot’, an ancient symbol that was sacred to the goddess Turan. The goddess of love herself, is said to have given it to the women of Ériu millennia ago, as part of the sacred pact between herself and the daughters of Lyr. Turan being one of the three goddesses said to have formed the first pact of gods and men, in regards to both the Emerald and Lairdly-Isle. The other two being; Meret the goddess of music, whom some believed to have sung alongside Scota and Turan the isles into being.

Such was the force of the passion for which the Caleds, Érians and Cymrans felt for the trio of goddesses that they built more temples to them, than all the other gods. They were also noteworthy for having to their names, three festivals a year apiece, where the rest of the gods had but one, or two in the case of Orcus (white god of the dead and renewal) and Ziu, the red god of war.

The dress as Daegan soon discovered was a silken thing of the highest quality she had ever felt or seen in all her life. It matched her eyes perfectly, being every bit as green as the rolling fields that stretched west and northwards with the hem both at the top, bottom and along the sleeves as said; filled with golden patterns. What was more was the girdle that was used to synch together the waist, this was tied together in the most recent Continental style, notably in the kingdom of Gallia, and was a golden and emerald thing also trimmed with ‘Bowen’s Knot’. So that it appeared as though the knot itself was what kept the dress in place, and had been woven around the solar-haired maiden.

The mirror that lay to the right-hand side of the room was oft-used for those ladies who came to wear for themselves the work of Kenna, and wished to see themselves dressed in it. In this way they oft paid homage to the work of her nimble fingers in this way, though not all knew this. Daegan though, was cut from altogether different clothe and knew well, what it was that she did the moment she turned to face her reflection, when she donned the dress which as she was shocked to learn was made of silk.

It truly was a magnificent dress, the likes of which made her appear all the more beautiful than even she had imagined in her vainest dreams. Awed by the lady who gazed back upon her, from deep within her reflection that which had a dress greener and more majestic, than her eyes and which complimented her red-mane so magnificently that all men were sure to ask themselves if this was not Turan made flesh.

“Do not simply stand there lass, do try it on!” Kenna urged her with such excitement that Daegan felt suddenly timid. Not at all a sentiment she was accustomed to, she stumbled for words at that moment.

 “A-aye but-” She stammered weakly, overwhelmed by the beauty of the gold-trimmed dress which felt just as it appeared, richer than any other thing she had ever seen before.

Kenna was visibly pleased with the result she saw, only to hem and haw over this detail or that, such as the stance of her charge. “Do raise your chin lass, oh and do also raise your hand- ah yes, I should mayhaps lend you one of the few rings I have, it was a memento of Murchadh and would go nicely with your dress and hair!”

“You do not have to,” Daegan demurred moved and humbled by the richness of her dress and unsure if she should continue, to take advantage of her friend’s generosity.

“Nonsense, nonsense what am I to do with it? It is not as though I wear it most days,” Kenna insisted before she hurried up the stairs to fetch the possession of which she spoke so highly of.

It was a prized possession as the girl well knew, being a gift from Murchadh and was a bronze ring of mediocre make with a small sliver of a ruby embedded into it. Quite how the fisherman had succeeded in the buying of it was a mystery, with Daegan suspicious that he had borrowed some of the expenses necessary from her own father though she said nothing of this. Still, it was forced upon her left middle-finger (for her others save her thumb were too slender for it), and she was also to have the pleasure of seeing her hair done up in an intricate braid. This though was done in the same manner that many of the local women oft did their own hair, during festivals and special occasions. This form of braid being favoured amongst the ladies of the High-King’s court it was said, with the braid being a pair of tails of hair that were draped over either side of the woman’s shoulders. In Daegan’s case her hair came down to almost her stomach, with both tails being braided multiple times in delicate yellow cloth.

This practice pleased her and was entirely new to her, with Kenna arranging all very carefully for her so very gently that one might well have mistaken her for a nobleman’s daughter. A rank that had never truly attracted her, for being a lady might well have meant that she was out of reach from Cormac something that was intolerable to her mind. After-all they entered the world within the same month, and had nigh-well grown to adulthood together with the young woman determined that they would live in it and depart from it together one day. Though a part of her hoped he might outlive her, if only so that she would never be made to endure his absence.

“I look like a proper lady!” She breathed sincerely moved, by the kindness of the seamstress she felt certain then, was to one day be her good-mother.

Kenna beamed in response, as pleased by her joy as she was by her own appearance. The woman’s proud mien the sort she well-imagined her own mother might have worn, had she lived to see her standing there in silk, her hairs braided in the manner of a noblewoman.

They swiftly undid all the work if only to keep it a secret, after-all Kenna had no great desire to flaunt the silk dress she had bought the cloth for, nigh on two years prior from a group of travelling Brittian merchants. Daegan wished to go find Cormac, to ensure that he did not forget about the festival, as he had two years previous.

Pleased by her promise to return, and to return with her son, Kenna turned away from her to concentrate her attention upon the final touches for the dress. The dress was a tad long, and the last thing she needed was for the excitable daughter of Olith to do as her mother had done dozens of times; trip over herself. It had been the source of enough tears, for the poor lass so that her friend was determined to spare the daughter from such a humiliating fate.

In the end, Daegan found no trace of her friend, not near the quay though she did find Indulf’s younger brother. From there she had inspected Ciaran’s oak, only to find no trace of her friend, much to her disappointment. She might well have complained at some length; however she was reminded of the descent of the suns, by Trygve rather abrasively.

Many a grumbles and complaints were torn from her lips, on the route back to Kenna’s home, who at her return, set to work at once. Determined to ensure that she appear as comely as possible, Kenna was to once her work completed push her out the door, with a frenzied, “Hurry! Hurry, we must appear before some of the men arrive from the swimming-contest!”

*****

The customs involved in the Autumn Festival of Fufluns were long though not particularly complex. They involved a series of games ranging from spear-throwing, boxing, races, great leaping contests, archery, wrestling and of course, swimming. Women were not forbidden from the races or the swimming contests, they were however kept away from participating in the others, not that this greatly worried Daegan. She had no interest in them to begin with, with only swimming as with all people in that region of Rothien being a great passion.

After the physical contests, came the singing and poetry and story-telling demonstrations around the great-fire. The fire was to be lit, shortly after the last sheaf of wheat was cut to be cooked, with there being much dancing amongst the local people. All of whom celebrated the end of the harvest season with a splendid feast involving a great deal of mutton, corn, bread, oyster, other fishes and pork along with many fruits such as apples, bananas and grapes. Much wine and mead was drunk during all parts of the festivities, with the last of the barley wheat used to make the beer for the festival. All while the local carpenters set to work carving an effigy of Scota. Some years the effigy used was Scota in her form as the crone, with this image utilised in lean times, which was to be placed upon the altar in the local temple of the Golden Goddess. Whereas the maiden-effigy was utilised to represent her in good times, and placed in the temple in question. The festival also included a couple being selected to be wed, of course in more heathen times they were considered ‘temporarily’ married. A practice the Temple had frowned upon and had ordered that it either be dismissed entirely from the festival, or that it be modified into a proper marriage of sorts. Of course, many were the couple wed under such circumstances who came to regret the decision, with others such as Daegan’s own parents enjoying several years of bliss together. Often it was said that parents of the couple, offered a private bribe or offering for their son to be selected with so and so or such and such’s daughter. More often though, the couple were selected based in how close the local druid had observed them to be, with four witnesses unrelated to them, called hither to inform him of how close the couple were.

The more sceptical of the two, was Indulf’s younger brother, who was but two months younger than Cormac and her, was of a far more practical disposition, commenting as he did so. “Bah, a marriage is a marriage. What difference when it is held so long as it is not convened during some tragedy it makes no difference, now does it?”

He spoke after hearing of the concerns the seamstress expressed, regarding what the auguries that were to be undertaken by Conn might presage for the coming year. The augurs were taken just before the feast; they involved a reading of oracle-stones decorated with the symbols of the twelve gods. Depending on how they fell, in what positions and which seemed the most dominant, much of the future could be told, or so it was said.

Daegan was not alone, in having her doubts about the veracity of Conn’s ability to read the stones, as Trygve complained, “Ah yes, we must now read stones- which the good brother of the faith likely could not discern the difference from blades of grass, or his own fingers!”

“Tush, some respect Trygve,” Kenna scolded sharply, just as the druid cast the stones upon his plate, which he bent over to read.

The announcement was a positive one, with the druid proclaiming that the gods had promised another fertile year. This winter was to be one of moderate length, with the next harvest likely to be long, fruitful and to last as long as the last four had. In all it was the same prediction that had been uttered since the fall of the wicked king Donnchad, at the hands of good king Mael Bethad.

Pleased by this prophecy, a great many of those gathered about them cheered, applauded and shouted great cries of ‘hurray, hurray for Conn!’ wherefore they began the feast. All were invited to the great feast regardless of how poor or rich they were. It was said that at one time, the laird of Thernkirk, the father of the present one was in the habit of joining the festivals. However, since his death twenty-five years ago, his heir Badrách had refused to participate in it. Not that it removed from the festivities or from the people’s enjoyment of their meals. Meals that consisted of meats, vegetables and fruits, with the meats consisting primarily of salmon, trout sunfish, bass and catfish, there was also mutton, pork, or beef. There was that famous recipe of the Caleds of course, the haggis made from derived from sheep’s liver, heart and lungs. There was also some lynx and deer meat, courtesy of Corin with many suspicious of how he had gotten them. Though the local laird had forbidden the hunt, they preferred to turn a blind eye. Thinking it his own fault for not paying closer attention, to his forests, as to the fruits there were apples, peaches and pomegranates. The last of the trio of fruits having been taken from Salmon’s daughter’s garden, this left the vegetables, which consisted of carrots, tomatoes, onions, turnips, beans, peas and broccoli. This last one was not particularly popular among some of the children as you can imagine, though when mixed with trout there were those who enjoyed it. In all, there was food a-plenty for all, which was more in that time, than one could say for most villages on Bretwealda. With even the village of Glasvhail having suffered a lack of plenty in prior years, notably during the reign of Donnchad the Foul, yet since the rise of High-King Mael Bethad, the harvests had become incomparable.

As they ate, Indulf picked up once more the discussion of marriage, to add his own voice to the arguments in support of Dae and Kenna. The women picking at their food with considerable care, with the bowl of water that sat upon the lower table that they sat before, to the left of the principal one reserved for Conn and his family, where the two men to the right of the seamstress being less careful. They were dressed in the same cloth they had worn to work that day, rather than the silk dress of the crimson-haired lass, or the fine brown wool one the dark-haired weaver wore.

“Aye, though Inga claims the spring is the most auspicious time, whereas the autumn festival presages a poor union.” Indulf said offering a middle-ground between the two of them, evidently hoping to mollify his younger brother, whilst still placating Dae.

“That is precisely the issue I have, we should not speak of such nonsense as ‘auspicious’,” Trygve complained loudly, far more so than any of them might well have liked.

His older sibling glanced about them in distress, embarrassed by all the glowers the younger boy had drawn from a great contingent of women, elders and the odd young man present. Most of the men were preoccupied elsewhere, with either their meals, or a great number of them had yet to arrive, due to their participation in the spear-throwing contest, which as always was held nearer to the forest out of certainty that the sound of men throwing javelins, and exerting themselves might frighten away the fey. What few people, wondered was how tossing the weapons away from the forest might well terrify the local woodland fairies, with Daegan only pondering it due to Cormac having once pointed out this absurdity. The only time she had asked him if he was willing to participate alongside the other men, he had remarked that he would prefer to meet a fairy than to frighten it away, if only out of curiosity.

They were not to wait overlong before the swimming contest had begun; this caused her to bite her lower lip for she wished she could have participated. The seas was to her a friend and joy itself, where it was little more than a source of misery for Trygve, who grumbled a little for he could barely swim (this in spite of his work as a fisherman).

This caused much teasing, by his brother as the two departed to join those wrestling nearer to the home of the Salmon. The most ancient man in the locality, who had presided for the past twenty eight years, over all such events he it was who decided the rules and victors. With the previous several years won by Freygil, father of the two men with whom, Daegan presently ate next to.

This left the women to prepare the feast, to see to the races and to see who could leap the highest and the farthest, though in the case of Daegan who typically participated in such events yet was hardly dressed for such things, could only grumble. This she did with considerable vigour, until Kenna scolded her, advising she cease her continuous stream of mumbling and murmuring. “-‘Tis your own fault Dae, for it was you who forgot about those contests and came to my door, therefore you have none to blame save thyself.”

Daegan would well have liked to snap back, in some grand fashion however, she preferred to preserve her own dignity by grumbling beneath her breath, for a moment longer before she fell into a sullen silence. All too aware that the truth of the matter, was that she had indeed proven herself to be at fault that day, the young lass waited out the contest in question, which ended near to the end of the feast. Wherefore the vast majority of those who had participated in the yearly contest joined those already seated together for the feast which lasted for another several hours.

To the surprise of a great many, it had not been Simidh father of Inga, or Solamh the eldest brother of Indulf and Trygve who had won the competition as all had expected. But rather, it was Corin who had won the day. According to Solamh, who was a muscular twenty-three year old youth with the same curly blonde hair of Indulf and the large frame that all those of the house of Freygil possessed, this victory was in part Cormac’s fault.

Hearing this Kenna cast an exasperated glance towards her son, who ignored it from where he sat to the right of the third of the sons of Freygil. The tale as it was told by Freygil (who sat to the left hand side of the seamstress), involved the blonde son of Murchadh gaining an early advantage. Only for him to be distracted, and to swim off in some other direction which served to distract several of the men in turn, thereupon Corin swam past them one and all, reaching the shore from the boat he had dived from ahead of the rest of those about him. This had earned for a great many of the men a small amount of resentment towards the lad in question. Others, such as Salmon grumbled about how the boy was far, in a way worse than his sire, who had won year after year at one time, every contest of swimming and spear-throwing.

The comparisons between father and son hardly appeared to touch Cormac, whom Daegan noticed was more interested in discussing quietly with Wiglaf, who had arrived with him. As fond of the old man, as her friend was she nonetheless suddenly wished him gone at that moment. For it appeared to her that she was in contest with him for the youth’s attention.

Where Wiglaf was old, bent and leant towards plumpness, Cormac was the opposite of the sorcerer. Healthy though not strong as Trygve was, he was however much akin to the Freygilsons blonde though his hair was brighter, and far more curled. Teal-eyed, he had the strong jaw that Murchadh had had, with a similar tall physique that he had not yet grown into. He stood a little lankily, with the boy in possession of a mole just below to the left of his left eye, along the corner of his jaw. It was not in appearance that Cormac stood out from all those about him, but in spirit. Absent-minded, eternally distracted, he was in possession of the finest memory Daegan had ever observed in all her life, a virtue she earnestly admired.

That was the nature of their relationship. He was as the sea to her mind; at first glance shallow yet at his core in possession of greater depth than any other living man.

This caused frustrated tears to spring to her eyes. A sensation that she despised with all her heart and soul, due to how unused she was to feeling such weakness. Her heart had sunk to far below her feet whereupon the lady Ainsley, Conn’s wife declared that it was time now, for song, dance and poetry.

A great cheer swept through the crowd, with the Salmon crying out, “Here, here! Thank the fertile-god that we shall not have to hear, Conn’s endless speeches!”

Conn’s words though, were delivered in the most pompous manner the man could summon much to the bemused exasperation of his listeners: “It is with considerable joy that I stand here before you to officiate over yet another Samhain festival. This festival of plenty that has offered us so very, very much since the accession of our right and proper High-King Mael Bethad,” There were a few ‘here, heres’ and a kick from the man’s wife ere he added hurriedly. “And his good Queen Gruach! Though never let us forget that the plenty we enjoy hereon earth, is but a temporary thing in comparison to the greater glory of the gods and Father Temple.” It was at this time that most began to become drowsy. Conn may have had a gift for choosing his words well at times, and may have been an infinitely loyal headman of the village, but he had the sort of sonorous voice that served only to put folks to sleep. As it was, even Salmon’s dogs Siomon and Artuir were beginning to yawn. It was at this time the speech continued, “We should also remember that greater treasure than food and material wealth, um which can be found in people. I have found it in my dear wife Ainsley,” Here he paused to collect his accolades, which were few. “Just as my noble father Dand the Auburn found it with my mother, Deirdre, and his father, my esteemed grandfather Dubghall discovered this truth in Donella, my dearest grandmother.” He continued on for some time about his ancestors, with a great snore heard from the crowd, and some unknown person (Salmon) shouted at him to get on with it. Irritated and unable to locate the person, he went on, “In turn though, my daughters and their men-folk have discovered this truth; that greatest joy comes from those around you, in sharing it with he or she you love most. I have been pleased to note the same bond growing between my daughter Helga, the apple of my eye and easily the fairest of the newly blossomed flowers these past few years.” Here he gave a defiant look to his people, many of whom either went on snoring, or snorted (as in the case of Corin and Salmon, both proud fathers and grandfather respectively). “She has discovered this in the eyes I am told of a golden-youth, one who has always been er- humble in his desires, and respectable in his ancestry, and of the goodliest of intentions. Or so I am told, with this youth I imagine finding the same love and hope for good, and joy in her dark eyes.” This caught the attention of some, as this sounded so utterly vague as to get a great many boys hopeful, and their parents curious. Helga was indeed the most eligible maiden in Glasvhail, by virtue of her dowry being the headmanship and temple of Fufluns. “I am told that this youth, Cormac MacMurchadh MacWaltigon, is of the noblest sort of character, with the noblest sort of ancestry. His own bond, his ancient friendship with my daughters is one I have long treasured,” Here he lied with some seeing through it, and sniggering, “and long encouraged. I have long held him in the highest esteem, and hoped that he might flourish as a man, as surely as his ancestors have, and he has not disappointed.” Here there were a few polite coughs and snort heard this latter one from the lad’s own mother, with a few looking doubtful. Still Conn went on, “He has long upheld that most sacred of virtues passed down by the Temple; piety, and it is for this reason I hold him up as worthy to stand by my daughter Helga, who has never disappointed, never failed and could never fail me, so long as she draws breath.” Here there were some who had tears speckle their gaze, and others who clapped politely, moved by the bond not of man and woman, but of father and daughter. The girl herself gripped her mother’s hand, a mother who beamed at her husband, pleased by his words. “I pray she finds the same joy that my Ainsley, has brought me every day since I have known her.” Here Ainsley and him embraced, and thus ended his long speech to the immense relief of all his listeners.

*****

It was just as Conn was finishing his long-winded speech praising Helga, her supposed bond with Cormac that people first began to notice the lad’s disappearance. At first most simply shrugged, and either muttered about how the druid had it wrong once again, due to their view that the boy already spent far too much time with Daegan for their bond to be an innocent one. Others took the view that the boy had simply taken to momentary shyness, not that a great many were too troubled by what he was up to at that moment. They were distracted as it was, by other complaints and issues; namely the disappearance of Wiglaf, accompanied by the over-long length of the druid’s pompous speech.

“Finish for the love, of the harvest-god and his paragon!” Salmon growled from somewhere to the back of the crowd of people gathered, about the courtyard of the temple.

“Aye, I want to eat more,” Another man added.

“And I wish to dance more,” Supported none other than Ida with a fond glance to her husband Freygil, who flushed red with pleasure at her enthusiasm.

“Hmph,” Harrumphed the old druid irritably, though not terribly fond of the union he had just attempted to propose if only for the festival, he was noteworthy for his pompous and despised interruptions. With a quick cough he sought out some more dignity, in some distant place within himself standing taller and more rigidly than before (if such a thing was possible), as he repeated in his most sonorous voice. “As the representative of Muireall, the sweet paragon’s husband will Cormac MacMurchadh please step hither, and consent to lay his hand over that of my daughter, Helga nic Conn?”

A long silence followed.

People glanced at one another in confusion slowly a great deal of murmuring went up and down throughout the crowd. Such was the bewilderments when not only did the proposed youth not materialise, but he was discovered to no longer be by Daegan’s side. Jealousy overcame her, along with anger at the blow to her pride which had its roots in her view that none were closest to Cormac than her. The glower she sent the other girl who appeared as lost as all those about her were.

The only satisfaction that she drew from that moment lay in the tears that sprang to Helga’s eyes. A sentiment that she was irritated to discover was hardly shared by Kenna and Indulf, who gazed upon the young girl with considerable pity. Only Trygve appeared to possess an unreadable expression, one which none who glanced his way, properly grasped.

“Where is he?” Some asked.

“I do not know.”

“Find him!”

“Why must he always do this?”

“Better question would be; how dare he do this on such a day?” This last query came from Kenna’s own lips, as she as always demonstrated so little comprehension towards her own child.

This was the first time in living memory that the call for representatives to play at the wedding of Muireall and her husband Marcas, before the temple of Fufluns had had an absentee. This thus produced considerable fury amongst those present and considerable unease even amongst those who were present.

None more so than the druidic family, who pondered and consulted with one another at length, and complained all the more as to what to do, whereupon Conn declared to the people, “If not Cormac the Imbecilic, who else shall come hither to embody the paragon’s noble husband?”

Helga was hardly pleased by this, to which Daegan felt now a great swell of pity come over her, when she wondered what might have happened had it been she who stood by the door of the temple. The volunteer was to prove to be Trygve who all but shoved his way through the crowd, to the bemusement of a great many. His enthusiasm marked him out in the minds of many, in combination with his diligent disposition, as someone worthy of approval.

Wherefore he was ‘wed’ in a ceremony which required the druid to bind the wrists of the two volunteers together with a garland of flowers which were green, red and yellow. Once bound to one another, they were to embrace, exchange a kiss and beg for the god Fufluns to bless the next harvest. The unhappiness of Helga soon proved infectious, when the very apparently smitten youngest son of Freygil and Ida noticed her misery.

In all, the rite which ought to have been the merriest of all festivals (after Yule of course), proved itself a melancholic affair, one that drew forth a great many complaints from all peoples, none more vocal than Kenna, “Poor Helga.”

“Poor Trygve,” Said her great friend Ida, rather archly.

“Bah, they are children, what do they know of love?” Freygil retorted to them both, exasperated.

The feasts and dancing along with the recitation and singing of poetry continued, though not with the same easy atmosphere. The sense of disharmony in the world worried all presents thereupon the hill by the temple.

There they might have remained were it not for the fatigue that came over a great many of those present for the festival. It was Indulf who was first to desire to leave. Swept away by concern for Inga he informed his kinsmen, “I am worried about Inga, she wandered off to return the Salmon’s extra clogs home. This was some time ago, and I wonder if she has not had an accident or other.”

“I shall accompany you,” Daegan volunteered at once, amongst those whom he confided in.

As her desire to remain had waned, with the departure of Cormac she thus became weary. This fused with the knowledge that her father was likely to require her aid tomorrow in the smithy, with his newest project. The two departed forthwith, neither spake to one another both still filled with pity for Trygve who had wandered away after Helga had rebuffed his request to dance with her. Nor did they speak of the great hope that rested in Indulf’s breast, to marry Inga in the spring when the snows melted.

It was naught until they reached the proximity of her home that they uttered their first word to one another, whereupon they took notice of the sounds that drifted from the smithy, those of Corin’s hammer upon the iron he was in the midst of beating into shape. Certain that Cormac had returned home, Daegan turned to her friend to bid him a good night. He returned the favour, and without further ado they went their separate ways.

“Father,” Greeted the red-haired lass, once inside the smithy only to repeat herself, thrice more before he took notice of her presence behind him.

Where Kenna might well have expressed dismay to hear of either child she all but considered her own, to spend time with Corin, the sentiment was far from returned. A kindly if tough man by nature, the Gallian hardly returned her rancour. To the contrary, he actively encouraged her to spend as much time with the seamstress, whensoever his daughter was not preoccupied with assisting him with household tasks and his work.

Therefore it gave her no small amount of joy, to see the surprise and warmth that set his dark gaze so unlike her own ablaze the moment he set eyes upon her new dress. “Kenna gave you that dress?”

“Aye, it was a gift, father,” Murmured his daughter, with a bright smile that reminded him of his long departed wife.

“A gift,” Corin’s brows knitted together in an expression of consternation, as gifts was never things he had much love for. Quite why, was never something, she had succeeded in piecing together; she knew only that it never failed to displease him. “I shall have to see to repay Kenna for the dress.”

Daegan opened her mouth to object to this, when at that moment a great cry arose that cut through the night as a scythe through the wheat in the fields. At once the blood of all throughout Glasvhail who heard the scream was chilled.

For it was in the very words that rebounded throughout the land, from house to house- from the great oak of Ciaran to the high hill upon which the temple of the paragon Muireall and her lord Fufluns that all soon knew what had befallen some unfortunate soul.

“Murder! Murder! To me people of Glasvhail, Inga- Inga has- murder!” It was a credit to Indulf that he had managed to cry out as he had, most especially because of the depth of his feelings for the lass in question.

*****

As one, father and daughter were to disregard and forget the subject of their conversation they raced thither into the night at the sound of their friend’s cry. They crossed the distance between the two houses in minutes where it might have ordinarily taken a full score of them. Corin arrived first, due in no small part to his greater vigour and his daughter still being dressed in her silken dress, which she had all but forgotten she still wore.

They were however second upon the scene of the foul crime that had just been committed. First after Indulf were Cormac followed by the elderly Wiglaf who by the time the smith and his daughter reached the home of Freygil, was still red-faced from his own rushed pace to the home of the fisherman.

“What has happened?” Shouted Daegan whereon her advent to the entrance of her friend’s home.

They all surrounded the corpse of Inga, who stared up at the heavens with her honey-coloured eyes wide, never to again truly see the heavens that lay above all of them. Still dressed in her green dress sewn by Cormac’s own hand, with nary a mark on her flesh which disturbed all who gazed upon her. Wiglaf included. Kneeling, Indulf held her close to him as he swallowed, wept, wailed and cried out ‘murder!’ still, regardless of how they now stood before him. It was as though, he was no more capable of awareness of their presence than the unseeing Inga was.

Grief untold was engraved into the very fabric of the man’s face. There was not a man or woman, who did not feel pity for him. Holding the fallen woman to him, with his head bent over her breast, shoulders quaking as a terrible wail of anguish tore through him. By his side, Corin searched about the area in pursuit of the murderer or the cause of it, Cormac knelt by the side of his friend to place a hand full of compassion on his shoulder.

It was Wiglaf though who did the most good, where they were full of bewilderment and grief, sobbing in lesser or greater measure. His left-hand fingers were pressed to Inga’s throat to inspect for a pulse, wherefore he inspected the contents of her mouth with a keen eye.

“What could have done this?” Asked the blacksmith, utterly confused by what had taken place. A well-traveled man, he had however never seen such a peculiar case that involved no visible wounds, nor any footprints or hoof-prints of a mount in the immediate area near the home of Freygil, where she had been very apparently awaiting Indulf’s arrival.

“I do not know,” The sorcerer answered tartly, before he withdrew into himself with a shudder, the same hand that had touched Inga’s throat now stroked his beard.

The kinsmen of the deceased girl and of her intended arrived in due course, as someone had heard Indulf’s scream for aid, and brought it to the attention of the revellers. Shaken, the boy’s family were to either brood or take him into their arms, pawing and claiming to be concerned with him. The family of Inga at once attempted to seize her from he who had loved her most, as was the case of the lass’s mother, only to be pulled away herself by her husband, who wept bitter tears himself. The victim’s sisters were taken up and escorted home by Kenna, who acted with admirable poise despite being shaken herself, as she began to bark out orders for someone to alert Conn, to begin funerary proceedings and for the gathered crowd to disperse.

When she departed whither with the sisters of the deceased, to put them to bed, the Salmon rounded upon Cormac with such fury that all not otherwise distracted by grief gaped at him. Jabbing a finger through the air as the ancient Romalian Centurions might have their ferocious gladiuses, he accused the lad with a bellow, “You! This was your doing! You were the only one not within sight of any of us, at the moment of her death!”

“You cannot be serious!” Daegan objected at once, shocked by the accusation as much by the accusatory gazes that befell her equally startled friend, who gaped. Evidently stunned into silence, at the swiftness with which his neighbours and once-friends had turned upon him. Even loyal Indulf, who had just that morn’ considered the other youth his closest friend, turned a suspicious gaze upon him, so that their friend was uncertain if she were trying to mollify his or the old man’s suspicions. “Cormac could never commit such a crime!”

“But he was the only person along with your father, who was absent!” Countered Raonull heatedly, the paternal-uncle of Inga.

“Silence!” Interrupted Wiglaf in a loud voice, as he rose to his full-height from where he had previously been bent. Though not a particularly tall man, at that moment though he appeared to be of a far greater stature than all those present, from the Salmon, to Corin to even Cormac. Red-faced, beneath his thick beard and brows, his grey-eyes flashed with fury himself. “Cormac was with me, the whole of the time Inga had hurried home for.”

“And where were you sorcerer?” Demanded the father of Inga, Simidh the Salmon’s good-son in a strained voice, the accusation in his eyes just as it was in his father’s.

“By the seashore,” The sorcerer retorted evenly, though not without compassion only for him to command the seamstress’s son, “Now as to the children they must be getting home, as all must still work on the morrow. Now away with a great many of you, whilst Corin and I attempt to see if we can discern who committed this heinous crime.”

Most appeared as though they might argue, not least of which was Dae herself, due to her desire to know what had become of her friend. However, a warning glare from her father put paid to that thought; therefore she departed though not without one last sob and glance towards her friend. She might have liked Cormac to guide her home, if only for him to offer comfort, yet shaken he did little more than grasp her hand briefly before he left for his own home.

*****

There was little that Wiglaf reported to those who were kith and kin to Inga or Indulf. After that night, he appeared more stooped than before, with some such as Ida hurrying to apologise to him, for all knew he had borne a special fondness for the girl. For it was known by everyone, that she had long been fascinated by magic, and his many tales of the wonders that existed outside of Rothien.

All had adored the girl with the bright smile, eyes aglow with eternal enthusiasm for love, joy and all about her. It was with considerable rancour that old Widow Dolag, who lived on the very edge of the locality, declared the murder a most foul misdeed and complained about, “-Her murderer being allowed to prance about as he pleased still!”

Her sentiments directed against Cormac were as he was to discover, were shared by a great deal of those who lived there. A number of whom the day prior had rolled their eyes and muttered good-naturedly at his quirks now growled and spoke in anger, of his suspicious ways. Much as they now despised him though, they could not quite bring themselves to suspect his mother, as she was one of their own in their eyes.

“But there is just something unnatural about Cormac, and wee Dae’s father also,” Grumbled a great many men and women down at the Trouncing Salmon, the local pub to the south of the seamstress’s home. It sat by the sea and was owned by old Seumas who was an old friend of Salmon.

If most had abandoned Cormac at this time, Daegan certainly had not and had taken to growling at all those she crossed whom spoke poorly of him, or she suspected had. “Bah, what would you know of Cormac? Why should I not suspect you of the crime?”

Affronted by her accusations, most had taken to shunning her also, much to Kenna’s distress. Pulling her aside part of the way through the day, she hissed at her, “Have some sense lass, I’faith why turn all against you?”

“They are the ones who are in the wrong,” Said Olith’s daughter at her most heated, this hardly served to appease the older woman.

“Aye,” Sighed the seamstress a great deal of sorrow in her voice, “Though, it does none any good to make enemies where there previously were none.”

The exchange changed little between mother and son, as the former clung to her unhappiness with his attachment to the sorcerer. Whom Kenna firmly believed, to have committed the murder of which her son had been accused, with Cormac’s mother likely to have preferred if he were to simply avoid everything to do with Wiglaf. Her frustration was such that she was hardly, to forget in the days to come, the fact that Olith’s daughter had disagreed with her.

Daegan had no argument to counter her words with at that moment, nor was she alone in her sentiments vis-à-vis the condemnation of Cormac. In this matter, she was to discover that her father had received his share of foul looks, for loudly stating that he was of a mind that the boy was innocent. In this he was countered by Conn, and his kin who felt very evidently relieved to have not linked their fate during the festival in any manner to the lad in question. The sole exception much to Daegan’s displeasure was to be Helga who still sought out the boy as she discovered three days after her disagreement with Kenna.

In the midst on that day of wandering about, in search of the boy she bore so much affection for on behalf of her father. “Go find Cormac, I shall have need of him and yourself in the forge, Dae,” He had ordered shortly after he had awoken that morn’ to prepare food for the two of them and their guest. This took place shortly after she had dressed for the day, her silken dress safely tucked away in a box her father had gifted her long ago. That day she wore a worn crimson wool dress with a simple grey girdle, and her hair free.

Trygve informed her at which time she stopped by the quay that Cormac had not been sighted there, whereupon he informed her the moment she grumbled about the tart looks she drew, for asking them after her friend. With a glance to the other fishermen who had yet, to pull out their boats to sea to begin the long hours of fishing, “Nay he has not been by, I might recommend over yonder by his oak, and never mind these fellows, they as we all do miss Inga.”

His melancholy made her swallow her hot-words, offered up clumsy condolences and fighting back her own tears hurried away to where she was directed. The oak loomed high as always, its leaves orange, red and even yellow in some cases. Such was the eye-catching beauty of the contents of the branches that she could not but halt briefly, to eye them rather more thoroughly than she might otherwise have.

It was this temporary halt that allowed her the opportunity to listen in upon the discussion that Cormac and Helga were in the midst of, on the other side of the oak. Or to be more exact, the young woman spake and the boy simply listened from where he sat by the side of Ciaran’s tree.

“-I shan’t believe you could do such a thing to me, all simply because some cracked wizard had called you out for some discussion-“ Said she just before he interrupted with rather more impatience than even Daegan might have otherwise predicted him capable of.

“Wizard is rather strong language, Helga,” He snapped testily, with all the vigour and heat that all Caleds possessed somewhere deep within their blood and souls.

All too aware of her lapse with her slur against the wizened sorcerer who was absent, the daughter of the local druid hesitated before she spoke once more. She had many a false-starts, evidently distressed that she had somehow upset the boy on whom she held the same sort of affection. For her own part, Dae was full of joy at this error not because of any hard feelings, but due to her sense of possessiveness towards Cormac.

This she felt at the same moment that she debated with herself over what to do, if briefly so. At that moment, she longed to hide and hear more of what was to pass between them.

And yet, that same sense of self-importance, of herself as the finest woman in all of Thernkirk after Kenna filled the young woman with the view she should not hide. This being the first real moment of arrogance since the death of her friend Inga to overtake her, she was thus wholly unprepared to resist it.

“Cormac, you still ought to have thought of my feelings over the matter, of your departure with Wiglaf,” Helga persisted never one to lose sight of what it was that she desired.

Quite what the soft-spoken youth might have otherwise thought was immaterial at that moment, as it was then that his friend strode forth a tune upon her lips, and a gleam in her eyes.

“This be Cormac’s tale,

Quiet in birth in that far vale,

Black shores welcom’d Elves,

Dark wore the foul ones,

Slack found they the lordly-isle,

Hark sayeth they the most vile,

Years uncount’d pass’d whilst war ruled,

Corpses untold heap’d wither they annex’d,

Flowers withered in all fields,

Amongst both the corps and the reeds,

Paint’d all scarlet didst they with steel,

Vale to vale was red seen,

Wails wert shed by clean and unclean,

Short ran the plenty until famish’d,

More cry’d all who bled,

Vast travel’d was Neithan Oak-manstle,

Father to he who never didst rankle,”

The moment she heard Daegan’s voice and the crack of her deer-skin boots strike the earth, raven-haired Helga leapt what must have been no less than a hundred leagues into the air. The thought that she had frightened her sent a thrill, to the scarlet-haired girl’s belly. The feeling tripled, when she saw the annoyed glance that Conn’s daughter threw in her direction. Her gloating words died upon her lips in the next second though, when she saw to her own profound irritation the wearily tense glance from Cormac. A frown climbed up to her full-lips.

“Daegan Fire-Mane, why did you follow us here?” Demanded the shorter girl, a knowing if angry glitter in her dark eyes. She had, her rival noticed at once, dressed rather more properly than she for the day, by donning a bright blue wool dress of finer quality than her own, and wore a silver girdle, with her hair properly braided into two braids that reached her breasts. “Cormac and I were in the middle of a discussion.”

“Dae,” Cormac greeted politely with visible relief, if the girls had put some thought into their dresses, he had hardly considered the matter, as he still wore the same wool-grey tunic and breeches that he had worn yesterday.  “Is mother in need of assistance again?”

“Nay, it is father and Wiglaf who desire your aid,” Replied Daegan with rather more disdain for the other girl than anyone else might otherwise have at that moment.

A reprimand behind his gaze, Cormac nonetheless clambered up to his feet with a sigh; his displeasure with his oldest friend confused her. Too proud to see why the other girl’s feelings, was of the slightest concern. A part of her at once thought of turning about to march whither to the Salmon’s home, to complain at some length about Cormac’s thoughtlessness into Inga’s ear. Only for her to remember rather bleakly that her friend had passed recently, so that she felt tears mar her green eyes.

Above them there was a clatter of noise, much to the consternation of the blonde youth, who pressed them to return home before the skies which had slowly darkened above them even more. Just before their departure, he turned to speak to Helga; Cormac stopped eyes upon the forest which pulled Corin’s daughter to a sudden stop herself.

“Cormac, hurry,” She pressed which pulled him from his staring at the Dyrkwoods and after her.

Helga departed with a harrumph, displeased by his snubbing of her a second time. Daegan for her own part, felt little to no pleasure the reminder of Inga’s death though it was by her own mind, had removed all joy from her life that day. The two returned to her home in silence, both entrapped by their own respective gloomy thoughts.

Wiglaf welcomed them there, morbidly so, “Hail to the both of you, hurry lest I leave for Brunstheilm before either of you reach the smithy.”

At the sight of him, Cormac who had walked a short distance behind Daegan with his head bowed in thought, spoke up suddenly, “Wiglaf, I have something I must speak to you about, before your departure.”

“I am sure it is important if you deem it so, Cormac however I must be away to report the matter of Inga’s death.” Interrupted Wiglaf rather more distractedly than either of the two new arrivals might have expected, when prompted on the matter, he explained. “It is the manner in which she died that bedevils me therefore as I have failed to divine the slightest truth on the matter, I must consult with other magii.”

“I shall pray for your safe departure and return, old friend,” Corin bade from where he stood a short distance behind the sorcerer who stood in the doorway to the house.

“You understand what must be done, on how to care for the sword?” The sorcerer asked worriedly of the blacksmith who gave him a quiet nod.

Without further ado, though Cormac was very clearly keen to speak with the magii, he allowed the old man to depart from the smith’s home, in the direction of the south. Unmindful of the darkening skies above his head, Wiglaf had it appeared none of the wisdom of other men, who might well have worried about the dark clouds above his head. His hat swayed from side to side as he walked staff well in hand and head bowed with sorrow, until he was out of sight.

Reluctantly Corin, hurried them into the smithy, where he set them to work cleaning the black hunk of metal that lay upon the table. Daegan halted, her shock could hardly be faulted, for last she saw it, it had been a large chunk of black metal, the size of a man.
“Father is that-” She began amazed by the sight of the long piece of black-steel, with it now her turn to leap several leagues into the air. “Who is that at the door? Wiglaf?”

“Likely he forgot some handkerchief or ring of his,” Guessed Corin with a snort, determined to ignore the desperate knock that broke the silence of the smithy. He might well have done so, were it not for the second, third and fourth knocks. “Oh blast it, if it is Salmon or Kenna here again to shriek at me over Inga’s death, they will hear of it themselves.”

The mention of Inga’s name darkened the mood in the smithy considerably, with neither youth glancing at one another. The wound dealt by her death, was still fresh in their minds and hearts. The greatest shock was yet to come; neither of them could have predicted quite what it was about. Not if they had had a thousand, thousand years of preparation or been told some time before that day what it was that awaited them.

Corin gasped, only to exclaim in a yelping high-voice that was completely unlike him, with both the children by his side as quick as thunder itself, due to the name he shouted and the haggard man who had fallen panting weakly into his arms. “Murchadh!”