RUNES OF FIRE

Excerpt

     His mother’s fair hair glistened silver in the firelight as she worked at the loom. The warm chamber smelled of the healing herbs used in her potions and the lavender scent that was hers alone.
     “She is not for you, my son."
     "She is, Mother. I know she is.”
     Ariana of the Brigantes shook her head sadly, the deft movements of her fingers on the shuttle the focus of her gaze.
     "No. You merely want her to be.”
     “She carries my child. Your grandchild.”
     Ariana’s attention never wavered from the scarlet thread she wove, Rowan knew, into a new winter cloak for his father.
     "She is not the one.”
     Frustrated, he rose from a kneeling position beside his mother’s chair and moved to the hearth, staring down at the orange-red flames.
     “What do you see?” he asked gruffly.
     "Only that,” came the calm reply.
     Whirling about, Rowan wanted to shout, to rail at her to tell him more – to tell him why – but the impulse died as it always did when faced with his mother’s gentle smile. Eyes as blue as the blooms in her garden regarded him, warm with love.
     "My Rowan – my passionate one,” Ariana murmured. “Ever demanding the answers before you even know the questions. We do not weave the web of life, my son – we only follow the threads where they would take us.”
     She laid down her shuttle and took one of his hands in both of hers. Turning it palm upward, she traced the lines there with one delicate finger.
     "The day of your rebirth into this world, I read the runes for you, as I did for your sister.”
     Rowan thought of the stone he carried with him always. His mother’s words seemed to give the runestone added weight, making its presence felt even through the leather of the pouch he wore around his waist.
     "Kenaz – the rune of fire. I knew in that moment you would never be satisfied with the answers you were given, but would always burn to find your own. It is your destiny, my son. You are a seeker, ablaze with curiosity and smouldering with questions. You must take care that such a fire does not consume you.”
     He shook his head impatiently, pulling his hand from her grasp.
     "If I burn, I burn with a desire to convince you that I know my own mind. I am two score and five – no longer a child. I do not need your permission to wed Dierdre, though I would have your blessing.”
     “My blessing you shall always have. My approval is another matter.”
     “Listen to her, Rowan.” His father’s deep voice only added to Rowan’s frustration. “Dierdre is a comely young woman. Perhaps this burn of which you speak is no more than lust - though who could blame you for taking what was so freely offered? She has followed at your heels since she was a child, and made no secret of her love for you. If you’re certain the babe is yours, we will welcome it. . . but there’s no need to wed the girl.”
     Only slightly embarrassed to speak of such before his mother, Rowan said defensively, “She was virgin when I took her, Father. She has been with no one else, for there are many who would be quick to tell the tale of it.”
     A child conceived on Samhain is special, my son – doubly so, when born to one who was conceived thusly himself.” A warm look of love passed between his mother and father. “There is no shame in this babe for Dierdre – whether you wed her or no.”
     Rowan had heard the tale many times, but had no patience for it this evening. Still, the love between Ariana of the Brigantes and Gaius Aurelius of Rome had not dimmed in the many years since that long ago Samhain eve, and Rowan doubted it ever would. It was one of the reasons why he waited so long to take a wife – he wanted what his parents had, and didn’t want to settle for less. Now, when such happiness was within easy grasp, his beloved mother and father refused to accept his choice.
     Stubbornly, he insisted, “Dierdre is the one for me.”
     Ariana rose, and his father moved from the shadows to rest his hands upon her shoulders. Together as always, they faced him.
     “You will do as you will do, Rowan – you always have.” This time, his mother’s words held a definite note of sadness. “But I fear that this time you listen not to your heart, but to another’s.”
     A stray spark from the fire landed on his foot, and Rowan shifted uncomfortably. Before he could answer, another spark leapt from the flames and seared his ankle.
     With a jerk, Rowan awoke.
     “That got your attention, didn’t it, pretty boy?”
     The man’s fetid breath washed over him, and Rowan struck out in reflex, only to have the blow brought short by a length of chain at his wrist.
     “Look at him, Jacobo – not so pretty now, is he?”
     Another man’s laughter joined the first, and Rowan’s heart sank. This chamber was not the sweet-smelling one of his dreams, but rank with the smell of blood and sweat - most of it his own.