Muse (Tales of Silver Downs Book 1) (8 page)

I yawned, wishing everyone in bed already as sleepy-eyed servants cleared away leftover food and half-filled mugs. Finally, they too departed for their own bedchambers, leaving the remainder of the cleaning until morning. Nobody noticed me sitting by the dying fire.

Floorboards creaked overhead as folk undressed and prepared for bed. Gradually the house quietened. I tiptoed to the back door. Huddled into my warmest coat, I slid back the door bolt. Frigid wind rushed in. As I eased the door closed, Fiachra already stood beside me.

He held a finger to his lips and I nodded. I followed him past the house and outbuildings, although not easily. If I didn't keep my gaze locked on his back, he disappeared right into the shadows. Tiny flakes of snow settled on my shoulders as I tried, unsuccessfully, to walk as soundlessly as Fiachra. Icy air crept under my coat and I pulled it tighter around me, fighting a swift gust that threatened to rip it from my shoulders.

The barn suddenly loomed over us. Fiachra slipped inside, immediately melting into the darkness. By the time I managed to close the door against the winds pulling at it, a lamp on a nearby shelf sent light through the barn. After the darkness outside, the sudden brightness burned my eyes. Fiachra stood with his back to the lamp and his face in shadows.

"Well, brother," Fiachra said. "That was a long evening."

"Did you not enjoy it?" Perhaps I wasn't the only one who had merely pretended.

He shrugged. "Celebrations are well and good. They are a necessary part of human life. But our lives as druids are quiet, with much silence and contemplation, and little to distract us from our studies."

"You must be free to leave now that the celebrations are over. You can go back to wherever it is you live."

I half-wished I could go with him.

"Aah, Diarmuid, there's much I can't tell you. Let me say only that events will soon occur that I have been sent to watch over. There is little I can do to aid you, but I can warn you that things may not be as they seem."

"What do you mean? I thought you were here because of Eithne?"

Fiachra shifted slightly and his face was no longer shadowed. His lips curled slightly; it might have been a smile. "Eithne too has an arduous journey ahead of her but it is not her journey to which I refer. The events about to unfold are to do with you."

"Me?" My voice squeaked in surprise. "What did I do?"

"I can say only this: a friend does not whisper. A friend will offer aid loudly and publicly."

"So why do we meet in a barn in the middle of the night?" I asked, my heart already bitter.
 

Fiachra stared into my eyes for a long moment. "The events ahead of you are dangerous and not only to yourself. As a druid, I may only observe. As a brother, I warn you to be careful."

"If you're that concerned about me as a brother, why don't you speak plainly? How am I supposed to know what you mean when you talk in riddles?"

He placed his hand on my forehead and pushed slightly. Warmth began where his fingers touched my skin and travelled all through my body, leaving a lingering fizzy trail. My body tingled.

"My blessing on you, brother."

Then Fiachra slid past me, opened the door and disappeared into the swirling snow that was fast becoming a storm.

I yawned, suddenly overwhelmingly tired. When the melancholy was bad, it always left me fatigued. I was strangely warm, given that I stood in a barn in the middle of a winter's night. I might as well spend what remained of the night here.

I found a clean pile of hay, wrapped my coat tight around me and crawled in. It was only then I remembered the lamp but it would burn out eventually and I was far too tired to get up again. The hay smelled of dust and summer. It was prickly but my coat shielded me well enough. Soft animal sounds drifted past as ox and cow settled, having been woken by our late-night arrival.
 

As I waited for sleep, I wondered what message Fiachra had intended to impart. What good were riddles and clues? If he wanted to help, he needed to speak plainly.

Ida stirred and I remembered she had given me a new tale. Tomorrow, I promised, tomorrow I would think on it. I was too tired right now.
 

If she were a real woman, how would she respond to my refusing to create her story right now? Would she be annoyed? No, Ida knew me better than I knew myself. She would accept my fatigue, and the way the melancholy made me withdraw. She would sympathise with my conflicted feelings about Caedmon and Fiachra. One a brother I had idolised my whole life, who I had thought could never disappoint me. The other almost a stranger to me. What kind of man had he grown up to be? He was a druid so he was surely knowledgeable. But was he also kind? Generous? Brave? All I really knew was he seemed quiet and ill inclined to festivities.

If only Ida were real. I would be able to talk to her, I was sure of that. For Ida wasn't like other women. She didn't simper and giggle and mean something other than she said, like the girls I encountered at various celebrations. She would be genuine and straightforward. She would help me untangle my feelings. Ida would understand me.

I finally slept and dreamed I saw Ida standing beside the haystack, watching me. As always, she was pale and fragile-looking, and her midnight blue dress seemed to whip around her legs even though there was no draft within the tightly-made barn. She smiled at me, but there was no fondness in the motion, then raised one white hand to press it to her lips. She blew a kiss towards where I slumbered in the hay and then walked away.
 

In my dream, I heard the barn door slam shut behind her. A chill breeze sent snowflakes whipping around the barn, but soon settled. I slept on, warm and comfortable and tired after such a long day.

I feed on his despair. He feeds on the tales I whisper. A symbiotic relationship of sorts. We need each other, but he needs me more. Or perhaps I need him more. I no longer remember.

As his despair grows, I strengthen. I become
more
. He sees the raven everywhere: in his dreams, in his mind, in the fire. Yet he doesn't
see
it. He doesn't recognise me in any form other than that he gave me.

My strength grows. I absorb the images and ideas in his tales, drawing them into myself, making them a part of me. I grow stronger and stronger, until, finally, I am strong enough. I think
out
and then I am. Without him. His head is his own again. Will he notice?

Now I stretch, limbs reaching for the sky. It feels good, so good. Have I ever had a physical form before?

I lean over him as he sleeps. So innocent he appears. To look at him, one would never know the darkness in his mind, the horror of his dreams. But he has served his purpose and I need him no longer. I could crush him now as he sleeps. But no, I leave him. We have occupied his head together for many years and his mind is as familiar to me as my own. He is like my own flesh, my blood, my mind. So I will not destroy him but instead leave him to his grim thoughts. I blow a kiss towards him.

Power floods my body and the barn door blows open ahead of me. I step out into a swirling eddy of snow. Soft, cool flakes melt against my skin as I tip my face up to the sky. Sensations, feelings, physicality. Warm skin, cold snow, hot breath, chill breeze. I inhale and the winter night, crisp and fresh, floods my nostrils. They tingle and my lungs burn as the cold air hits them.

I stride into the snow and, with a thought, slam the door behind me.

On the other side of the door, the boy stirs. He knows something has changed. He just doesn't know how much.

Where shall I go? It hardly matters. I am
myself
. I can go anywhere, do anything. With every step, my body feels more solid, more real. Power soaks into my bones, my organs, my blood. It seeps through every part of me until I am drenched in it.
 

I stop walking. Diarmuid once told a tale in which a druid stopped the snow from falling. I think I could do it, if I chose. I could make the snow hang still in the air but I don't, for I enjoy its light weight and the bitterness of its presence.

I watch as soft flakes drift down to settle on my bare arms. Cold, yes, but not unbearable, not to one such as I and certainly not tonight. I raise my arms higher, up above my head and stretch out my fingers. Could I touch the sky if I wanted to? I feel the muscles in my arms lengthen, the joints shift slightly. Blood drains from my upraised limbs. Slowly I lower my arms and blood rushes back down to my fingers.

I breathe deeply, noting how the cold air catches in my lungs. My ribs expand with each breath and blood flows through my body with each pump of my heart. My stomach feels strange. Hollow, empty. Is this hunger?
 

A cold breeze whistles past, teasing my skirt. I notice, finally, that I wear no shoes. My feet are covered in snow to the ankles. It feels unpleasant. Too cold. I do not like this. Time to move on, to find shelter. Time to find myself a home.

I woke buried up to my nose in hay, my heart strangely light. I had almost forgotten how much brighter the world was without a cloak of melancholy. I scrambled out of the hay and pulled off my coat. Shaking it to remove the straw was largely futile.

Outside, the storm had abated, leaving only deep drifts of snow. The air was fresh and cold enough to burn my lungs. Sunlight sparkled on ice, bright and white and cheerful. It was a perfect winter's morning.

As I ploughed through knee-deep snow, hoping I was not too late for a hot breakfast, I hummed a tune. It was nothing special, merely a cheerful ditty Mother often sang when I was a child. I could only recall the occasional phrase here and there but the tune was swift and uplifting, and I broke into a smile. I couldn't remember the last time I had felt the inclination to sing.

Only Caedmon lingered at the table by the time I arrived although the assortment of used plates and bowls indicated that the rest of the family had already eaten. A single glimpse of Caedmon's face reminded me of my humiliation and my cheerful mood dissolved. My face flamed and I kept my eyes averted as I reached for the almost empty kettle. The last of the porridge had cooled but I was hungry enough to eat it anyway.
 

I felt Caedmon watching me but I stared at my bowl as I ate, not inclined to break the silence. Eventually he sighed and cleared his throat.

"Do you intend to stay mad at me for the rest of my life, little brother?"

"Perhaps." I scraped the last of the porridge from my bowl and reached for the bread.

"I have less than a turning of the moon before I return to the campaign."

I grunted through a mouthful of bread and honey.

"If I die on campaign, perhaps then you will regret not forgiving me."

My response was another grunt, which could have passed for either assent or dissent.

Caedmon sighed. "Gods, you are the most stubborn person I know. Was it really so bad?"

"Didn't she tell you?" I fixed my gaze on a trail of breadcrumbs and licked sticky honey off my fingers.

"No, although I asked. She said it was none of my business but she would thank me to not ask her to make men of any other brothers I might have."

My grunt became a squawk of startled surprise. I finally met his eyes. They were tired, his face lined. "She told you nothing?"

"No, little brother, not a thing. I gather by the storm cloud that appears on your face every time you see me, the evening didn't go as planned. But I know nothing else."

My heart lightened and bitterness drained away. I had cringed, night after night, as I pictured Rhiwallon telling him, in explicit detail, about my failure. I had never even countenanced the possibility she might be discrete.

 
"She's a good sort of girl," I said, feeling I owed Rhiwallon at least this much for my assumption.

"She is." Caedmon looked as if he wanted to say more but then shook his head. "Well, little brother, I shall go see if Grainne is ready to leave. Today we decide where to build our home. I think a sunny position will suit her, perhaps on the top of that hill just beyond where the twin rivers merge. Grainne will have to oversee the construction when I leave. Eremon will help if she has need. He understands the situation."

"You still think you will die on the next campaign?"

He seemed reluctant to speak further. "Whether I do or not, I must be prepared. Grainne will be well provided for." Then he stood and shook a few crumbs off his shirt. "I am pleased that you have forgiven me, Diarmuid. I did not want to leave with you so mad at me."

He left before I could say anything else. It was only later I realised he had called me by name for the first time.

Over the next few days, I worked on a new tale. Or, rather, I tried to. I spent my time rambling across the snowy fields of Silver Downs as was my usual practice when creating but for the first time neither words nor images would flow. My tales had dried up, I told myself, like a stream waiting for the first of the season's rain. They would return, just as the rain always did. I simply had to be patient.

I walked day after day, from the crisp dawn of a late winter's morning until darkness or storms drove me home. I had not a single tale in my head. I tried to remember other tales, my own or someone else's, to reassure myself I could still weave a narrative, but even the old tales burrowed deep and refused to be found.

I sought out Ida. I needed her. Always before when the words would not flow, she had been there. I conjured up her image but it was merely a memory, devoid of breath or life. My inspiration was gone.

As day stretched into long day, I feared I might never tell another tale. Mother began to give me strange looks, no doubt wondering why I gulped down my meals and then bolted to my bedchamber. She asked no questions, for which I was thankful. For how could I tell anyone? I was born to be a bard. It was my destiny.

Little more than a sevennight remained before Caedmon was due to depart. Already hints of spring appeared. The nights were not quite as cold and the sun warmed the afternoon air to an almost-pleasant temperature. Soon the rivers would begin to thaw and then Caedmon must leave. He and Grainne were busy overseeing preparations for their new home. From what little I saw of him, he looked satisfied, in the way only a newly-handfasted man can. Grainne was melting the hard edges of my soldier brother.