Muse (Tales of Silver Downs Book 1) (2 page)

"You must look forward to being married. Grainne is… nice." My words did no justice to his betrothed, who was dark-haired and rosy-cheeked and had been nothing but friendly towards me. When she and Caedmon announced their betrothal, she had kissed my cheek and called me brother. I didn't know how to respond and by the time I realised I should probably return her embrace, she had given me an odd look and moved on.

"What does a soldier know of marriage?" Caedmon said. "All I know is fighting and battles and death. Grainne is a good sort of girl: even tempered, cheerful, easy on the eye. Perhaps, blessed with enough time, we might learn to love each other. But the most important thing is to choose a wife you can stand to live with. Grainne and I will do well enough together for however long we have."

His words sounded odd, hollow. I waited, contemplating the sweet smell of the burning wood and the way it lingered at the back of my mouth. I knew Caedmon was being practical, for surely there must be more involved in selecting a wife. But what would I know about such things?
 

"She will be well provided for when I return to the campaign," Caedmon said at length. "And if she is with child before I leave, I will be satisfied with my choice."

I flushed, never comfortable with discussion about intimate matters between a man and woman. Hopefully Caedmon would assume my reddened cheeks to be caused by the fire's warmth. Of course he would want his bride to be with child before he left. Every man desired three sons: one to be heir, one to be a soldier, and one for the druids. Of course, not every man got his desire for most never produced a son suited to be a druid.

Caedmon leaned forward to put another log on the fire that didn't need any more fuel. "I'm getting old, little brother. Old for a soldier anyway. I've survived as long as any soldier might expect to."

I had never thought of Caedmon as old. I myself was nineteen and he only five years my senior. But other soldier sons I knew who had gone off to war had long since died. Some never returned after their first campaign. Others lasted two or three or four seasons. Caedmon had been a soldier for eight summers. He certainly was old, for a soldier.

"So you decided to marry." I tucked the thought of his possible death away in a remote corner of my mind. I would take it out and examine it at some other time.

"If I am ever to marry and produce an heir, it must be now. For I don't think I will return here again."

"This will always be your home. You know that even once Papa is gone, Eremon would never turn any of us out."

"That's not what I mean, little brother." Caedmon sighed, heavily. "I think I will die on the next campaign. That's why I must produce an heir now. I can't wait any longer."

"But what makes you think such a thing? You're a good soldier. Just because you've lived longer than others, doesn't mean…" My voice faltered. Ida stirred, whispering dark comments that I ignored.

"I've seen myself, in a dream. I lay in a ditch, dead, my throat slit. And I looked no older than I do now."

"That doesn't mean it was a true dream."

"I believe it was, little brother. I feel its truth in my bones. Death approaches. I have leave to be home until the rivers start to thaw and then I must return to the campaign. If Grainne is carrying my heir before I leave, I will die without regret."
 

Caedmon poured himself yet another ale. He proffered the jug to me but I shook my head. My stomach rolled and I knew that by morning I would regret the ale I had already drunk.
 

"What about you, little brother? Is there a girl you fancy? Someone special I should meet while I'm home?"

A face flashed into my mind. I had never spoken to her but I'd seen her at various celebrations. One day, perhaps, I might work up the nerve to ask her name.
 

"No, there's nobody."
 

"There must be someone. A pretty girl, maybe someone in Maker's Well?"

I shook my head, staring intently into the fire. The raven stared back.

"Grainne has several younger sisters. Or there's the girls at Three Trees; the eldest is particularly pretty. Or-"

"No, Caedmon." I spoke with as much force as I could. "I told you. There isn't anyone."

"Perhaps you prefer men then? I know several soldiers-"

"No, I don't prefer men," I snapped. "I just… I don't know how to talk to girls. They giggle and whisper and flirt and say one thing but mean another. I don't understand them."

"But you're a bard, my boy," Caedmon said, leaning over to slap me heartily on the shoulder, not even trying to conceal his grin. "You're supposed to be an expert on the human condition. You talk prettily enough when you tell your tales. Surely you can fumble your way through a conversation with a girl?"

"Telling tales is one thing. I can practise them, know how they will end. But a conversation… You never quite know what turn it will take. I can't be prepared for that. I go red and forget how to speak and they laugh at me."

Caedmon laughed then and swallowed the rest of his ale in a hearty gulp. "I have a solution for you. We need to find you a woman. Once you bed one for the first time, the rest will be easier."

My heart pounded in my ears. Such a scenario could only be a disaster. Complete humiliation. "No, I couldn't-"

"It's settled then," he said. "And I'll listen to no arguments, little brother. I'll find you a pretty girl. Next week's winter solstice would be a good time, what with all the celebrating and drinking and making merry. All you have to do is be there."

"Caedmon, really, I can't-"

"I'm not listening." He set his mug aside and rose. "I'm off to bed now but tomorrow I'll start making arrangements."

I sat up alone for some time after Caedmon went to bed, staring at the raven in the fire and nursing my ale. Finally I set my mug aside and left the fire to burn itself out.

My bedchamber was chilly and the bed even colder. I huddled under the covers, goosebumps prickling my skin as I waited for warmth. The fire was mere coals, casting little heat on my small room. I didn't bother to build it back up. Ida whispered to me but I pushed her away.

With every tale, I hoped this would be the one the audience would like. But every time, the reaction was the same. It had always been like this, ever since the day I told my first tale as my tenth summer drew to a close. At that time, Caedmon had been due to depart for the army's training grounds where he would learn to become a soldier. It would be the first time I had been separated from him for more than a few hours.
 

He and I had spent every possible moment together during those last few months. We camped under the summer stars with only each other and a fire for company. We terrified ourselves investigating an ancient barrow, half expecting the fey to punish us for trespassing on hallowed ground. We battled imaginary enemies and Caedmon taught me to defend myself. I was small for my age, and slender with it, but he made sure I knew how to wield a dagger and I became somewhat proficient with a small bow.
 

Preparing for Caedmon's first departure was difficult for I had never before said goodbye to a brother with the uncertain knowledge that he might not return. Farewelling our druid brother, Fiachra, was different, for he always had one foot in the beyond, even as a child. But Caedmon was the brother I knew best. As summer slipped away, he had become somewhat distant and disappeared alone for hours at a time. Perhaps he was trying to prepare me for his impending absence. Or perhaps he was preparing himself.
 

I said nothing about the increasing time we spent apart. In truth, I was somewhat jealous that he edged towards his destiny while I had yet to perform a single tale, for I had but recently realised that barding would be my own career. On the days Caedmon absented himself, I worked on my first tale, gently crafting it into what I thought was a thing of wonder and truth.

Caedmon had no time to wander the estate with me that last day, for he was busy making his farewells to the tenants and servants, the animals and our home. It was not until just before the evening meal that I was able to snatch a few moments alone with him.
 

The sun was sinking towards the horizon, sending fingers of deep purple across the sky as I lingered outside in the hope of spotting Caedmon. The day's warmth had faded to a slight coolness heralding winter's approach and the late afternoon air was heavy with grass and sweet heather. Finally he appeared from behind the barn and smiled when he saw me waiting there for him.
 

"Well, little brother." Caedmon wrapped an arm around my shoulders as we walked towards the house. "Tomorrow's the day."

"I know." Now that I finally had him to myself, I was tongue shy. I wanted to wish him well on his journey with all of a bard's eloquence but, in truth, I wasn't yet able to string such words together. "I wish you good luck."

"I'll be sorry to not see you grow up." Caedmon squeezed my shoulders with sudden intensity. "This is not what a big brother should do, go off to have adventures while leaving his younger brother to make his way in the world alone."

Suddenly the days yawned ahead of me, long and cold and empty without the bright spark of Caedmon's enthusiasm. It was always he who suggested we explore the fields, or camp out, or fish in the pond. He who devised some elaborate game involving the mare or a few branches. What adventure and excitement would exist for me without Caedmon?

The dinner table that night bore a splendid feast of all of Caedmon's favourite foods. Roasted hens stuffed with herbs, the last of winter's root vegetables carefully hoarded for just such an occasion, juicy salad greens from the garden our sister Eithne tended when she was well enough and, after, bowls of plump blackberries with fresh cream. We took our places at the table, my brothers jostling each other as they claimed favoured seats.
 

I picked at some chicken and nibbled on a few berries but my stomach churned. Bitterness and desertion warred with my desire to be proud of Caedmon for fulfilling his fate. And proud I was, but the prospect of how empty life would be without him loomed far nearer.
 

Our father, Fionn, beamed with pride at his soon-to-be soldier son and regularly slapped him on the back. If he felt sadness, he did not let it show. Our mother, Agata, was pale and quiet and ate almost as little as I. Caedmon had seconds and then thirds of everything.
 

Five of my six brothers were present. Eremon, the oldest son and Papa's heir. Caedmon, ever my favourite. Sitric, the first brother to not have his destiny mapped for him since birth and who spoke of becoming a scribe. Marrec and Conn, one soul split between two bodies. I was the last-born son and after me came only Eithne, our sister. Fiachra, born after Sitric, was absent but nobody expected him to come home. He was a druid and had higher matters to attend to than the small matter of a brother going off to battle.
 

The room was rowdy as my brothers joked and laughed, passing platters between them and teasing Caedmon with the horrors he might expect on the battlefield. Caedmon himself said little, too intent on filling himself with good food while he could.

When Caedmon had finally eaten his fill, he leaned back, his hands on his belly and his face calm. "An excellent meal," he said. "And certainly a fitting farewell."

Papa wrapped an arm around Caedmon's shoulders. "A tale is in order, I think. Something suitable with which to send our young soldier off to battle. Who would like to tell it?"

This was the opportunity I had awaited, for my tale was finally ready. I spoke quickly, before anyone else could volunteer.

"I will."
 

Silence greeted my announcement and I didn't miss the look that passed between my parents.

"Diarmuid," Mother said and her tone was cautious. "You have never before offered a tale. What causes this?"

At only ten summers old, I was too young to feel embarrassment. "I have created a tale and I would like to tell it."

The silence lasted longer this time and I looked around the table, wondering why nobody spoke. All eyes were on our parents. Mother and Papa looked only at each other as if an unspoken conversation passed between them.

"We wondered when this day would come," Papa said eventually. "Diarmuid, there is something you should know before you choose this path. Something about yourself and our family."

I waited, my heart suddenly beating hard. I could not even begin to guess what this secret might be. From the looks on my brothers' faces, it seemed only I was clueless. And perhaps Eithne although her face was hard to read and I could never be sure whether she didn't understand or just wasn't interested.

Our parents looked at each other again and it seemed each waited for the other to speak. It was our mother who finally did.

"Diarmuid, you know you are the seventh son of a seventh son."

I waited. There must be more for this was no secret to me. I had never met any of my uncles, for Papa's brothers all perished long before I was born, although the circumstances of their deaths were never discussed. In fact, the one time I asked was the only time I saw my father cry.

"In our family, the seventh son of a seventh son is very special." Mother spoke slowly, as if choosing her words with care.

The sweet feeling of anticipation was stealthily replaced with oozing dread. I would have fled but my legs refused to move and I could do nothing but sit and wait, looking from Mother to Papa and back again.

"Diarmuid, in our family, the seventh son of a seventh son is always a bard," Papa said, and it seemed the words pained him.
 

The dread flowed away and my heart lifted. Finally, I too had a destiny. I was one of the chosen sons who had a fate to fulfil. I might not be heir or soldier or druid, but I was a
bard
.
 

"It's a very big responsibility," Papa said. "You have no idea how much responsibility it is to be a bard, to be a teacher of truths and a weaver of words, especially…" He stopped then and it seemed another unspoken message passed between him and Mother. An almost imperceptible shake of her head meant that whatever else he had intended went unsaid.