Chapter 11: Chapter II: The Shadow Across the Sea 1.3

The nature of truth is one that oft-eludes men, and often it eludes women far, far more. This was something that her father often grumbled. Though she knew that her own lies exasperated him, she could not help it. Thrice to four times a week she had the habit of recounting lies, or boasting to the other lasses that lived throughout Rothien. She knew herself to be gifted, to be fierce in arms, freer than they and that her natural exuberance was hardly a trait that appealed to the other girls her age. Where some fancied themselves as fierce as men, or as cunning as the old High-King, Mael-Martin II, who had been dubbed the ‘Destroyer’, for the many deaths he had wrought amongst his own kinsmen. In his terrible thirst to weed out the other royal lines, this terrible desire for his own line to be all that remained of the blood royal, had turned him into a figure of fear throughout all the lands of the Caleds. It was said that something of his spirit remained; that he sought the deaths of all those who had contravened or he imagined wished to contradict his final testament.

Such tales frightened most, even Daegan. Though in her case it oft-amused her to see others faint shrivel up and squirm. The discomfort she caused everywhere, with her ghost-stories, with her many a jests and the exasperation many felt at her boasts, were all what she enjoyed most in life. She loved to assist her father in his forge, or to aid Kenna, who believed her every word but the most enjoyable part of her days was whenever and wherever she had the chance to take on tests of courage.

When young- or mayhaps one should say when she and Cormac, and all those their age were six years younger than they were now, it was Daegan who had boasted she was unafraid of the Dyrkwoods to the south-west of Rothien. 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 the local druid 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.

Most preferred to never go near the oak, with Daegan herself having never had the courage until she found Cormac there once, ten years prior asleep with his back against it. Inspired by this, she had six years prior to when this tale takes place, begun to dance about the tree, only to later boast of it. This had sparked much consternation amongst several of the parents and lasses, with the lads for their own part amazed and pleased by this act of bravery on her part. Corin upon learning of her deed of daring became suddenly stern, so that he had scolded her at some length for quite some time.

Though she had sworn to Kenna, to never go there again, she could not resist it as the feeling and knowledge of being courageous was one that never failed to make her giddy. What was more was that it allowed her, to share something with Cormac. Though he visited there often to the knowledge of all, was still regarded as too foolish to truly be aware of the legends of Ciaran’s Oak (he was aware of them). It was their place, their secret location where she had him to herself and need not share him, with the likes of Ida and her sisters, or Helga the daughter of Conn, or any of the other local lasses. Many of whom fancied Cormac for his fair-locks, though they oft grew frustrated with his absent-minded disposition (much as Kenna and even Daegan did).

It was in this spirit that the flame-haired daughter of Corin of Forlarin raced whither to Ciaran, three days after Wiglaf’s departure. Her spirit as dark as that of the Dark Queen who opposed the Golden-Goddess, Scota, Daegan felt certain that just as the suns were upon the horizon in the east, in the midst of the beginning of their great ascent and the land was green, the sea deep-blue that her friend lay in wait for her by Ciaran.

“I have thrice the courage of all the men of Rothien,” She often told the rest of the lasses and lads of the land, regardless how angry it made her father to hear her boast in such a manner, or how it made the local household warriors of Bádrach.

“Aye, none may deny the great valour of Daegan the Bold, victor of the battle of the Smith’s forge or the joust of the seamstress’s hall.” Indulf had said in a voice without any inclination towards seriousness, not that this was noticed at the time by the smith’s daughter.

“But of course,” She had sniffed in response, full of her own importance though Daegan could hardly recall quite where or when this conversation had taken place. Only that there had been exchanges similar to that one so very many a times that she had lost count of the times Indulf mocked her or (falsely) praised her.

Not that this incident and conversation are in any way important, or ought to be mentioned save to further clarify the nature of Dae. For she truly in some ways at this time, was brimful with pride and convinced that the day began the moment ‘Dae’ arose from her slumber. She was the most pompous of all the people of Rothien, and though he was a timid man by nature, Indulf and his brother Trygve both preferred to mock her, than to revere her. For which they were oft thanked by those around them, as there were many who felt that the lass could use some humbling. This was originally the case, before the death of Inga, with the two since then preferring to, just as the rest of Inga and Freygil’s families had, keep to themselves.

The red-haired lass had an ego, one that was incomparable in all of Rothien, and was something of a local jest and legend amongst the children equal to her in age, and those lesser. Many of whom were wont to say; ‘there was never a finer lady than Daegan’, others tended to proclaim ‘Caledonia was as the darkest night before the birth of the Dae.’ Some spoke these little proverbs mockingly, as her ego had made her without realizing it the butt of many a jests, whereas others truly meant it. For there was no one as charismatic, as charming and as grandiose as she, when and wherever she applied herself to. The young ‘lady’ currently applied herself to the task of tracking down her friend, whom she knew to either be by the quay where the fishermen tied their boats in the evenings. Or he had to be by Ciaran’s oak, just near the Dyrkwoods, as unmindful as she was of the ‘fairies’ that lived nearby and that could threaten any and all who happened too near their homes.

She was endlessly worried for him and had fretted about him all day, so that she had proven herself useless to all those around her and had won herself a number of reprimands by her father and Kenna. The return of Murchardh had shaken her, with the young woman full of sorrow at his passing. In her earliest girlhood she still remembered how he had cooked acorns and fish for her, and how he had taken her aboard his ship even though her father and Kenna had forbidden it. It was this same sweetness, if she was ever to be honest that she adored most about him and that she also saw in Cormac. It was for this reason she was resolved that it would be she who comforted him, and not Helga or any of the other lasses in the village, she told herself. It was her duty, she told herself as Cormac’s future wife.

The oak of Ciaran though, upon her arrival was barren of all people, regardless how much she had hoped to see Cormac. The disappointment she felt was immeasurable, though she soon compensated for it by circling about it three times, before offering up a prayer, as was believed to be the popular method of warding off any evil spirits that inhabited an object or location. Quite why people had to circle a thing thrice before offering a prayer was a mystery to her. She knew only that this was the way of things with the Érian branch of the Quirinan faith, as the traditional Quirinian had its own way of going about things, or so her father had taught her. Being from Gallia, where they followed the Quirinian faith, just as almost the whole of the rest of North-Agenor did, she was as familiar with the Quirinian branch of the faith as she was the Érian one.

Daegan raced about in search of her friend, who had taken more than ever to hiding away from the rest of Glasvhail, whom had more than once been chased away from the Scarlet-Wyrm tavern or the temple. The former was visited by him the day prior, whereas the temple he oft went to every week to pray for his father. In the past he had sought to pray for the fisherman’s safe return, now though he prayed for him to rest in peace, as any pious son ought to for their fathers. Though he had not spoken of what had happened, she knew him to be upset to have been chased away from the temple by Conn and the Salmon’s family. Discovering this only after, she had recalled that it was the first day of the week, Didomhnaich and therefore, the day upon which he always prayed and joined in the psalms of the golden-goddess. Angered by this she very near denounced Salmon in public, were it not for the timely intervention of Ida who still had the sense to regard the temple as a holy place, where all squabbles were to be left outside of.

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She found him, in her father’s smithy, aiding the older male with caring for the sword this after she had been sent to find him. Frustrated as she was, Daegan complained at some length over his having inadvertently avoided her. “Shan’t believe you had me run about, as though I were some fool lass like Helga.”

“Sorry Dae,” Cormac apologised at once, if in a weary tone which made her lower her gaze guiltily.

“Nay, I am sorry Cormac, I meant only that with the death of Uncle Murchadh that-” She began only to be interrupted by her father.

“Enough of your complaining Dae now help me in the cleaning of this weapon, as we must soon slide complete the pommel.” Ordered her father tensely, anxious to complete the process of putting together the sword that was to be his magnum opus.

This they did, with the pommel a slighter corner of the blade with it also far less sharpened than the rest of the weapon, having been prepared days before for just such an occasion. This done, the time soon came to clean the blade and for them to pray over it, as instructed by Wiglaf. He had stressed at some length the foul nature of the metals used in the forging of the blade, and the black nature of the original ‘owner’ of these metals (the word ‘owner’ having been used rather quizzically by the Cymran).

It was then that the marks, the maker’s ones were engraved into the blade and into the hilt before the silk and Lyonessian cloth-hilt was wrapped about the ‘hilt’ proper. These marks were imprinted into the blade using the tools lent to them by Wiglaf, for they were the only things that could help in the shaping and forging of this blade.

The maker’s mark set in was in the shape of a simple little flower. A lily to be exact, a flower which ended in a thistle, so that it looked as though the lily were sprouting from the thistle as both symbols were very dear to Olith. This was Corin’s mark ever since her passing. As to the other marks, there were Caled marks such as the Tree of Life along with that of Triquetra. These represented respectively a tree reaching for the heavens, with the said tree representative of wisdom and strength, and the roots of all Érian-Caled peoples. The Triquetra for its part was representative of family, divinity and eternity.

It was always important to Corin to set his mark into his every piece of work, from the smallest of pikes or shovels, or horseshoes to the most glimmering of armours or gleaming blades. It was what had garnered him a reputation that had spread from the fields of Triqueletarias, to the lands of Fidach, to the high mountains of the Highlands, to the distant lands of Norwend and even the Emerald-Isle across the south-western waves. All who were familiar with arms and armours, knew the worth of his works, with the maker’s seal also important to the smith at that moment as he knew that were this sword to be mixed with a similar one, that all be able to distinguish his from the rival weapon.

The pride with which his eyes shone with, at the sight of the finished blade when he at last shaped the pommel and burnished it and the cross-guard with the emerald gemstones Wiglaf had provided, proved itself infectious. Her own face radiating with pride, Daegan felt a small smile make its way to her face, this being her first real smile she thought, since Inga and Murchadh had perished.

“This is the finest work, I have ever done,” Breathed Corin in an awed voice, unable to keep his eyes from shimmering with unshed tears. “I doubt I shall ever craft her equal, ever again.”

The blade gleamed it seemed to the green eyes of the curly-haired lass, so that it shone with what appeared to her to be a purple shimmer. She was awed, by this sight and all of a sudden wished that it was she who was to be given this weapon, rather than some distant laird or king. It was his finest work, his pride and joy, and it united them in the work that they had both along with Cormac poured into its forging. For that reason, she longed for it as a man dying of drought in a desert might crave water.

“It is the finest work I have ever borne witness to,” Dae murmured in the same breathless tone that he had utilised.

“It is not wholly completed; we must still have it sanctified by brother Wulfnoth upon his arrival just before Yule.” Corin decided announcing for the first time to her knowledge, of his expectation to see the most popular holy-man in all of Caledonia’s arrival in their locality.

Trusted by the High-King, Wulfnoth was originally as his name demonstrated a born Brittian, though from the Norlion region, he had learnt both the Caled tongue and that of the Brittian kingdom in his youth. Shortly after his thirteenth season, he had ventured first south then north, and become a druid famous for his knowledge of scripture, of law and great friendship with a number of figures of high-standing in both realms. From Wulfric, to the Cymran prince Colwyn, to that of the High-King to also it was said some laird, over in the lands of Carreyrn. Where he had lived for the previous dozen years, and performed it was said many a holy-deeds.

Aware of him only by dint of his reputation, Daegan hoped he was indeed en route for the local tavern, in the hopes to meet someone who could acknowledge her father’s work. Maybe once he did, he would bring word of it back to the High-King and other great men of the realm, and her father could enrich himself further.

Mayhaps once he does, he could take Cormac on as an apprentice, after all this sorry gemstone business is done with, and Kenna will give her blessings. It was a fantasy that she remained determined to maintain for as long as possible, where her father adopted a grimmer mien.

“Until his arrival, we shall have to keep the sword here, letting none touch it until then.” He stated gravely, a rough-callused hand combed through his thick mane of hair, “Not a word until that time, about the sword, is that understood?”

“Aye,” They both said, with Cormac the first to question inquisitively, “What of the stone? Will we speak to this brother Wulfnoth, whoever he is of it?”

“How is it you attend temple-sessions once a week, yet know nothing of the great paragons of our own age?” Daegan asked him exasperated by his ignorance.

“Because I attend temple to pray, not to be seen in prayer,” Snapped the fair-haired lad with more bite than she had otherwise expected of him.

Wounded by his words, her temper flared and she might well have abused him in turn, were it not for the timely intervention of her father who explained who Wulfnoth was. “He is a notable clergyman, who has attended upon kings and is wise in the ways of the gods. None alive hereon the Lairdly-Isle is closer to the divine than he.”

“Save for Wiglaf,” Corrected Cormac sharply.

“More than he, for he is a sorcerer, fool and not a holy-man.”

“Do they both not worship gods and perform miracles?” He inquired naïvely.

This appeared to her a foolish statement, due in no small part to the nature of the difference between sorcery and the holiness of holy Father-Temple, as explained in the Canticle. Or so Conn had always said, with a voice in the back of her mind whispering that if Conn said that scripture said one thing, then the truth had to be the opposite. However, other holy figures had happened by Glasvhail to speak out against the nature of sorcery.

This confusion between the two different schools of thought remained for entire days, with Wulfnoth sending hither a messenger from Carreyrn stating, that he was delayed by the Queen’s pregnancy. She had requested he join her and her husband near Thernkirk, to check her condition before he came south to inspect and consecrate the sword, as Wiglaf had requested. News that the messenger was in no way silent about, when he visited the Scarlet-Wyrm, with this drawing considerable joy from the people of Glasvhail, with Conn (who was a frequent patron there) swift to the next day pray for another prince. The Queen had already from her first marriage delivered Lulech, and with the High-King had two more sons, with many feeling the throne more secured than in previous generations, though another prince could only help, said the elders of the locality.

“Old King Cináed III had six children, as did Sìomon before him, yet it availed them little,” Grumbled old Salmon bitterly, “Just as it appears to have availed many of us little.”

None spake back against him, as all knew that his recent loss had deeply affected him. Only the messenger wondered about his ill-mood for which he was swiftly pulled aside, to be informed of the recent tragedy that had befallen the Salmon and his kinsmen. The messenger properly chastened did not stay long, though he did enjoy the local beer before his departure.

Present towards the back, having enjoyed a full day of work with Kenna, Cormac and Indulf. The last of the aforementioned folk, remained silent. Moreso than any of them might otherwise have predicted, given his timid nature. One that had never precluded on his part, any witty commentary or criticism of those he was closest to.

As he was not of a wealthy family, his mourning period had to be spent working regardless of the visible exhaustion and grief that had overtaken him. His eyes were haunted, with dark rings beneath them that made each of their hearts ache with pity for him.

“I must work,” Was all that he had said when Kenna had attempted to convince him to return home and accept payment.

“Indulf, you must be wearied from the loss you have endured!” She attempted to insist.

“I am not wealthy, therefore let me work,” He retorted none too gently.

A sigh followed, one that was as much an admission of defeat as any act could have been. Taking his usual seat, to throw himself into the work that he had performed for more than a decade, after he had exchanged a silent glance with Cormac, who for his own part remained every bit as melancholic as he. Due in no small part, Daegan suspected, to the loss of Murchadh, who now haunted the son of Kenna, so that he bore a similarly saddened mien to that of Indulf.

Sharp as ever, with her son the middle-aged woman snarled at her son to hurry with his work, and to; “-cease loafing about!”

Biting his lip as always, the eternally patient youth nodded his head, ignoring the blow she delivered to his leg by virtue of her own foot. Seeing this, Daegan threw a sympathetic glance in his direction, from where she sat a short distance away.

The work-day passed slowly that day, with the maiden heading to the pub on her father’s orders to find him mead, as they had none left. Full of sorrow for Inga’s passing, she grumbled beneath her breath at the Salmon, and might well have thrown a mug at him had Eanraig; the tavern-keep not cast a warning glance in her direction. A friend of her father’s, he knew of her terrible temper and had no desire to see it flare to life.