“But you must know that this transgression,” he waved at the child, “cannot go unpunished. In order to ensure the boy’s safety, we must balance the scales of nature.”
All evidence of relief faded. “What are you saying?” asked Brenna.
“A tithe will be owed.”
Brenna froze. “And what will this tithe be?”
“You know what I ask Brenna—a life for a life.”
Her face paled as recognition dawned. The tithe would be paid by her. The baby would grow up without her.
Dagda could see the thoughts flitting across her expressive face. The recognition that the tithe was just. The understanding that it was a miracle she had survived her pregnancy in the first place, let alone the babe’s birth. He saw her resolve in the next moment. Fear would have no place in her decision.
Like Brenna, Dagda was well aware that time was of the essence. For the Druid who had delivered the child would no doubt already have shared the news with everyone in the village. Would know exactly what she had birthed and have no qualms gossiping with any and all who would listen. She and the babe would both be tortured, outcast at best, killed at worst.
Dagda watched as Brenna came to her decision, as she reached down and lifted the boy to her chest. She breathed in his new-born scent while he instinctively rooted for her breast. Dagda didn’t push her. He waited on her response to his heavy judgment.
“What of the mark of Cernunnos? Will you remove it?” she asked at last.
Dagda stilled at the question, the thought abhorrent. But then understanding dawned at what keeping those horns would do to the child. His voice was heavy as he replied, “Yes.”
She blanched, opening her mouth to argue. “But it is his birthright! He deserves to be who—”
He cut her off harshly, “No! Their presence will only ignite the mortals to kill him! I will need to shield them. Their existence will be hidden until such a time when they must be visible.”
“But what of your kin? What of the other gods?”
His lips firmed. “No amount of magical artifice will hide his true form from my siblings, not a permanent one, anyway.” He shifted, his brows pulling together. “But I can put a temporary veil in place to hide his inheritance until the time is right.”
She eagerly nodded, accepting his decision as if aware that it was more than to be expected. But her next words did not appease him. “How do I know that you will maintain your word and keep my son safe?”
Dagda snarled, angry with her for questioning his motives. “You push me too far, mortal—my brother’s woman or not!”
She bowed her head. “I’m sorry. I only want my child to survive. Grant me reprieve for my concern.”
He reigned in his temper, fists clenching by his sides, taking precious seconds to control the anger. When he felt able to respond, he bit out in a harsh voice, “I promise you his place in this life will be ensured—with the loss of yours.”
Brenna blanched but held her position. “Good. That is all I ask.”
But then she paused, as if understanding that Dagda had plans for her son, plans she wasn’t aware of. “What will become of him?”
Dagda’s voice was firm as he uttered the one word that she would understand. “Winter.”
He watched as Brenna’s eyes widened. She knew what that term endowed. It was once her lover’s mantle; she’d even shared it with him for the eighteen months they’d been together. She had heard the whispers—that winter’s mantle was passed onto one of his sisters. A goddess now feared by all, a crone of death and destruction, a goddess so abhorrent that everyone quaked under her rule.
But his decree offered a balance in nature—not only literally but also figuratively. For his sister would have a chance at happiness, and Cernunnos’s son would continue the legacy, ruling over winter as his father had.
“Come,” Dagda commanded, and there was no room for non-compliance in his tone. “It is time. If we are to cement this, we must perform the rites now before the Druids take control.”
He watched Brenna give a jerky nod, an acknowledgment that her time with her precious son had come to an end.
4
Tritus
3rd Century BC, Ancient Scotland
The book suddenly blurred into movement as Cailleach flipped the pages forward, all the way back to the very beginning. Abruptly, Tritus was back in the clearing, in the present moment, with Cailleach in front of him.
Her eyes were wide as she stared at him, her face ashen. “Your father was Cernunnos!” she cried in a disbelieving voice, arms swinging out in a slashing movement of shock and bewilderment. “I have always wondered why my older brother was sent to the Other well before his time. The reason was hushed, never spoken of.” She turned those wide eyes onto him. “And it was all because he lay with your mother—a mortal!”
He heard the accusation in her tone. Tritus knew the act was forbidden. The gods were not meant to lie with mortals; they were not to dilute their power. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He couldn’t believe it himself. He couldn’t believe that the mother, the father, and the sister he’d grown up with were not of his blood, that they weren’t his real kin at all. But after what he’d seen, locked away in his deepest memories, Tritus knew with every fiber of his being that what he’d seen was the truth.
He was the son of Cernunnos and the son of a Druid.
His head felt as if it was going to burst as he tried to encompass the truth of that.
Tritus had always known he didn’t quite fit with his people or the land in which he’d been raised. But that concern had vanished as soon as he’d set foot on this foreign land. He hadn’t questioned it, believing he was on the right path the All-Father had set for him, especially as this land called to his soul—as if he’d finally come home.
But after what he’d just seen, he understood he’d been chained by events beyond his control. Since his very birth, his path had been tugged, molded, and shaped.
He was here because the Dagda—his Druidic King and now his Uncle—had ordered it be so and had asked the Lady Cerridwen to cast a prophecy requiring him to return to the land of his birth, to become the mate to Dagda’s beloved sister—Cailleach. The goddess who stood before him.
Tritus turned his gaze back to Cailleach, wondering what she was thinking. The news would have been as much a shock to her as it was to him. Without thinking for his safety, only thinking of her, Tritus reached for Cailleach’s hand. She flinched as their fingers made contact—as if she hadn’t expected to feel his touch.
The action made him pause, and Tritus became aware that she was no longer ablaze with a powerful, blue-white light. She was as he was: simple and without artifice. Cailleach no longer looked as though she was separated from him. She no longer looked like a goddess, but a woman—as he was a man.