Her shield of power has gone!
Tritus’s heart thundered at the implication, and he gripped her hand tighter. “Look at me,” he said softly, forcing her to see him for who he was. A mortal and a half-god—an equal.
Her silver gaze moved to meet his, before sliding up to stare at the dark curls on his head. “I see you,” she responded quietly, as if she’d heard his unspoken demand. “I see all of you. Your eyes—they are my brother’s.”
Her comment made Tritus think of the other physical trait of his birthright. He lifted a hand to his head and gasped when his searching fingers encountered two sharp, curved horns made of hard bone. His brows rose at the significance. “The horns—they’ve never been there before. Why now?”
“Because the veil has lifted,” replied Cailleach in a small voice. “My brother’s shield has been pierced by the truth.”
“What does that mean?”
She looked at him, and he could see the jumble of thoughts flitting across her features, testament that she was as blindsided as he by what they’d seen. “It means that your legacy—your birthright,” she corrected, “—is now visible. Mortals and Druids—they’ll only see what my brother intended them to see. But my siblings—all my brothers and sisters—they’ll see the truth, that you’re Cernunnos’s son.”
Cernunnos’s son. A god of whom he knew nothing because he’d been raised in a land that wasn’t familiar with polytheistic gods. His people—the people he’d grown up with—believed in only two deities, the All-Father and the All-Mother, the creators of life. He had so many questions, but the most important of all was who his father was. And Cailleach would know. “I was not of this land; I know next to nothing of my father. Who was Cernunnos? What kind of god was he?”
She blinked, understanding dawning. “Cernunnos was the oldest of all the gods. He was our mother’s firstborn son and was in her womb when she first created this world. As a result, Cernunnos became its first custodian, initiating the circle of life, bringing death to that which wasn’t needed, and life to new beginnings.” She paused, looking at the forest surrounding them, and added, “But my oldest brother was more than that. He was the wild god of the forest. He was gentle and kind, but also cruel and decisive, protecting the creatures of his realm with a vengeance. Particularly his namesake, the stag.”
Tritus studied her, aware that she was still holding something back. “What aren’t you telling me?”
She blinked, and there was a small silence before her lips firmed into a hard line, as if she’d come to an internal decision. “He ruled from Samhain to Beltane.”
Tritus jerked. That meant…. “He was a winter god?” Did that mean his father and Cailleach had ruled the winter together? Was she also his mate?
Tritus asked carefully, striving to keep his voice even, “You were lovers?”
“No. Only one of us can hold the mantle of winter. And when Mother and Father cast him to the Other for his misdeeds, he left a niche that had to be filled.”
Her answer released a tension he didn’t know he held. But then her other comment caught his attention. Her mother and father? Tritus paused at the term. Were they the All-Mother and the All-Father whom his people recognized? The implications were too encompassing, too overwhelming, and he couldn’t address them right now. He firmly pushed that thought away and focused on the nuances of what Cailleach had just shared. “Are you telling me you were given the mantle of winter when he left?”
She laughed sharply, but there was no pleasure in the sound. “I was never given the mantle—I was chained to it.”
Tritus asked what he already intuitively knew was the truth. “For supporting Dagda?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
And because they were baring all, because she now knew his innermost secrets, even if he’d only just found them out himself, he asked, “Why? What had Dagda done?”
She bit her lip, eyes again looking behind him to the dense forest beyond. “My brother loved another with every fiber of his being. And one day, I witnessed them together. Their love was pure, and it was greater than anything I had seen before. I could understand why Dagda went against his marriage vows with Morrígan. Their marriage was one of convenience rather than love. And that love he shared with his chosen deserved to have its time in the light.” She sobered, her features tensing at the memory. “So, when he was caught by one of Morrígan’s servants and called to atone for his crime, I lied for him in front of everyone, denying it had ever happened.” She turned her back to him, and her voice was low as she continued, “But the servant was Morrígan’s most faithful subject, and she knew I’d lied. She wouldn’t let that deed go unpunished. She knew she’d hurt Dagda just as much, if not more, if his sentence was applied to another he cared for. As such, I paid for my brother’s indiscretions in ways we didn’t foresee.”
Tritus felt the puzzle click into place, and his next words weren’t a question. “Morrígan made you fill the hole that Cernunnos left—as the Goddess of Winter.”
Cailleach nodded. “And with that mantle, she decreed that I would best serve the role by becoming a death crone, one so ugly and malformed that I personified my role as a goddess of winter, death, and darkness.”
A weighted silence fell, as if the creatures of the forest offered solemn support in the face of the injustice of the role that had been forced upon her.
Tritus wondered who Cailleach had been before winter’s mantle was laid upon her shoulders, what path she would voluntarily have taken if she hadn’t been forced into this role. Looking as she did now, in what he assumed was her natural form—breathtakingly beautiful and desirable as sin—he couldn’t imagine that she would be capable of fulfilling such a task. But he’d witnessed her in action only hours before and seen how effective Morrígan’s cloak of deception over Cailleach could be. The cloak seen by all other Druids and mortals within the world, the repulsive crone of winter.
Tritus felt a chill chase down his spine. Morrígan was a goddess he would need to watch out for. And he was certain that after witnessing his earliest memory, Dagda had not shared his machinations with his wife, or the prophecy he’d put into play.
Clearly, it had been a repayment for the favor Cailleach had done for him. But Tritus knew it was more than that—Dagda had satisfied the balance of nature by bringing everything full circle and had chosen him, Tritus, not because he was the son of the oldest god’s beloved brother, but because he was also the son of the previous God of Winter. And sharing winter’s mantle with the current Goddess of Winter created a balance that satisfied nature—two sides of a coin, male and female.
Tritus became aware that Cailleach was watching him closely, her eyes narrowed at the changes in his expression. “It scares you, doesn’t it?” she demanded. “The implications of all this.”
He didn’t deny it. “Yes. In my mind, I am still a simple blacksmith.”
“And are you aware that prophecy claims all in its path, whether or not you desire the outcome it seeks?”
He did. Tritus knew that a force stronger than his own would continue to push him toward this goddess, whether he wanted it or not. And to his surprise, he found he wasn’t unhappy about it, because if he was truthful, he’d felt called to her from the very first moment they’d met.
But what she felt was another story and one he needed to find out. “And you?” he asked, “What are your thoughts on this web that your brother has woven?”