2. Brennen
brENNEN
It takes six hundred and ninety-seven steps to reach the dead.
Each Samhain, I count them.
Every time I make the ascent—cursing the village elders for choosing a hilltop in the sky to bury those we’ve lost—I wonder, o’ all places, why here?
The first few climbs, I thought we must bury our dead on these hills to bring their souls closer to Solas, but that cannae be it.
The only goddesses that care for them now are below.
My muscles burn with exertion as I continue upward, the need for vengeance that has made a home inside my ribcage the only thing carrying me forward.
The trek is harder than any training exercise, and each time I make it, I wonder about those who do not have the youth or stamina to take the journey.
It’s the real reason the cemetery rests in this place, I think. You must earn your mourning here, and then one day, as time passes and your body tires, you’re forced to let it go.
Except, even when my body fails me, I will not.
Not in this life, or the next.
Grief is all I have left, and I willnae surrender it.
The fog grows thicker the higher I go, but my dàn of sight warms on my shoulder, cutting through the thick mist and darkness as I crest the dreary hilltop. Smirr chills my bones, and the wind blows my hair into my eyes, but I dinnae bother to push it back as I reach out to touch the gate.
It’s cold beneath my fingers, but it does nothing to cool the white-hot rage that burns through my blood each time I set my eyes on the stones within it.
“Sìth dhaibhsan a tha a’ gabhail fois an seo,” I whisper. Peace to those who rest here.
My voice is hard, my heart racing as I wrap my fingers around the iron with a bone-breaking grip.
The metal joints shriek like the wail of a banshee as I push it open, echoing through the plot of land that holds nearly seventy graves; some so old, they’re crumbling to dust, and others so new, they shine even in the barest moonlight.
The smell of peat rises from beneath my boots as I make my way toward the back of the cemetery, stepping over uneven patches of earth and lichen-covered stones.
Cold stings my nose, and white puffs of air float from my lungs as I turn toward the grave of the woman I make this journey for.
Marsaili Lennox.
My vision tunnels as I read the name of my geallta—my betrothed—the memory of her gasping for air as blood gurgled from her throat drowning out my pounding heartbeat.
I will never forget that sound.
I crouch and, using my sleeve, wipe away the dirt clinging to the sides of the gravestone until it's unblemished. The tightness in my chest grows as I open my sporran and unpack the contents within.
The ritual is familiar now, but I dinnae find comfort in it. Not when five Samhains have passed, and the goddess of death has refused to hear my plea.
With shaking hands, I stack six smooth rocks into a cairn—one for each year since Marsaili’s throat was slit in the dead of night.
In front of it, I place the other items: yew, juniper, heather, rowan bark, and a thick white ribbon that once adorned my love’s long blonde hair.
My breaths go shallow as I push my fingers into the cold ground above her grave, grab a handful of dirt, and sprinkle it on top.
The last of the sun disappears beneath the rolling hills, and I place my hand upon the pile, drawing magic from my dàn of warmth and concentrating it into my palm.
I swallow. “As the veil thins on this blessed night of Samhain, A’ Bhan-dia a’ Bhàis, goddess of death, hear my plea,” I pray. The desperation lacing every syllable sounds like begging, but I dinnae care.
If begging gets me the revenge I crave—no, the revenge I demand—then so be it. If I must tear the world apart stone by stone, root by root, clawing my way below until I am banging at Ban-dia a’ Bhàis’s gate, then that is what I will do.
Smoke drifts from beneath my fingers as the heat in my hand grows almost unbearable, and the pile ignites, orange flames licking at my skin.
Closing my eyes, I picture Marsaili’s face.
I drop my voice low, the darkness in my tone demanding the goddess listen.
“A’ Bhan-dia a’ Bhàis, hear me. I have searched loch and moor, but the monster who killed my geallta remains hidden.
” A wave of fury surges through my blood, and I pause, taking a deep breath to steady myself.
“She lurks in the shadows, out of reach of my vengeance. Vengeance that is owed to me. Set me on the path to find her. Allow me to give Marsaili the justice she is due.”
The fire crackles, sparks flying into the sky and disappearing among the stars as I wait for the goddess to answer. I dinnae ken what I wait for—a pull, showing me where to go, the knowledge of where to search—but nothing happens.
“èist rium!” Listen to me! I shout, wondering if I’m too high in the sky for the goddess to hear me down below, and I stand. “A’ Bhan-dia a’ Bhàis!”
The name echoes out into the night, soaring in every direction, my roar rumbling through the vast hills. “Hear my plea! I will have my vengeance. Set me on the right path! Send me to the one who killed my Marsaili!”
I stand there, arms wide, chest heaving. A curlew calls in the distance, and a cloud passes over the moon.
I hold my breath, but there are no whispers. No signs. And for a moment, I wonder if once again, I have come here for nothing. If another year will pass and leave me no closer to finding the monster I hunt.
But before I can even exhale, wind crashes through the cemetery, a gust so violent it throws me to my knees.
It’s cool against my skin, but the hope it ignites in my chest is hotter than flames, evaporating the chill in an instant.
The fire goes out, smoke curling from a pool of burning embers as the wind ceases as suddenly as it appeared.
There’s a long moment when the hillside seems to hold its breath alongside me. The stars do not wink, and the curlews halt their cries. A soft, silver glow rises within the ash, glinting in the night, beckoning to me like a will-o’-the-wisp.
With shaking hands, I reach out and grab it. The heat of it blisters my skin, but I dinnae let go. The magic from my dàn of healing will remedy the burns quickly enough.
Holding my breath, I turn the item over—a dagger, ancient as the earth I kneel upon.
I wipe away the soot and ash, examining the iridescent blade.
My heart pounds as the magic inside it prickles against my skin, and I realize the blade isn’t metal at all, but forged from dragon scales, and the brass hilt is carved into the shape of a raven.
I almost drop the weapon. One spoken of, but never seen.
Ban-dia a’ Bhàis’s own dagger.
The blade of binding.
The wind and cold and smir fade as my fingers wrap around the ornate handle.
I lift the blade into the moonlight, examining it. My eyes reflect back at me from the metal, the same green I share with each of my brothers and sisters. With little Saoirse, only five years old, who I practically raised after my parents died in a wagon accident only weeks after her birth.
The thought of her bright eyes and dimples makes me hesitate—possibly the only thing that could do so. She’s the reason I’m still alive. Born only months after I lost Marsaili, she’s the reason I didnae choose to follow my love into the After when she was taken from me.
She needed me then, but does she still? I picture my siblings’ faces. Their hands, dirty from digging in the soil outside our home, from harvesting wheat and potatoes.
If I should make this bargain, this unbreakable vow with the goddess of death, and fail, it wouldnae only cost me my life, but my verra soul, along with any chance of ever being reunited with my family in the After.
I would belong to Ban-dia a’ Bhàis for eternity, never able to go to peace, trapped as her servant of death.
But as I twist the dagger in the moonlight, determination builds inside me, steadying my resolve.
I vowed long ago I would have justice for Marsaili. That promise was already unbreakable to me. Let it be written in my blood and bound in a vow with Ban-dia a’ Bhàis’s blade.
I am not afraid, because I willnae fail.
As I once caressed Marsaili’s cheek, I trace the letters of her name on her grave, then drag the dagger across my skin, carving straight through the skin that I’m certain, had Marsaili not been taken from me, would have one day been stained with the dàn of the Anam-Cara.
A symbol that would have confirmed what I already knew. That on the Beltane when the moon stills—the night lovers hold their breath to learn if their hearts were woven as one—matching dàn would have appeared on our palms, marking us as soul-fated, a binding chosen by the goddess of love herself.
I look down at that skin, bright red blood welling from the deep cut, and I cannae help but think about how fitting it is. Let my flesh be as marred as my heart. If I cannae have my Anam-Cara, let this be the mark that honors her.
The pool of blood in my palm grows until it drips from my fingers, and I drop the dagger, placing my weeping hand on Marsaili’s tombstone. Deep green vines erupt from the earth as I begin to speak, wrapping around the weapon.
“Chan eil thu air do dhìochuimhneachadh.” You are not forgotten.
Blood trickles across the arched top, and I watch as a single line drips down the front of the stone, trailing over her name until it reaches the earth.
“Air mo bheatha, nì mi dìoghaltas dhut.” On my life, I will avenge you.
The blood begins to steam, then bubble, the grave growing as hot as a glowing coal, and I know with complete certainty that this is it.
That there will be no going back from the next words that leave my mouth.
“A’ Bhan-dìa a’ Bhàis, gabh ri mo gheall.
Ron ath Shamhain, sgriosaidh mi ge bith cò a ghoid bhuam thu—no leig m’anam a bhith air a chall.
” A’ Bhan-dia a’ Bhàis, accept my bargain.
By Samhain next, I will destroy the one who stole you from me—or let my soul be lost.
There’s a snap in my chest. A hum that settles inside my lungs and squeezes my heart as my bargain is offered and accepted in blood and intention.
The vines surrounding the dagger twist, pulling it down into the soft ground as the cut on my palm erupts with agony, traveling through skin and muscle and sinew to settle into my bones.
For a moment, I cannae breathe. I nearly retch, the intensity of the magic changing my verra marrow intolerable, but I grit my teeth, refusing to cower to it.
Instead, I welcome it, bask in it, because this pain means something.
Finally, I will have my revenge.
I picture Marsaili’s face in my mind—soft lips, brown eyes and blonde hair, a narrow nose—until the pain finally fades.
Only then do I pull my hand back to examine the wound.
The cut still bleeds, but the skin around it has turned darker than the night, and faint black lines snake through my palm like poison in my veins.
“Thank you,” I whisper to the goddess, standing to leave. I dinnae wish to linger, now that my vow is finished. This may be where Marsaili’s body rests, a plot of land she will never again leave, but it’s no where her spirit lives.
Nor is it where my vengeance will be wrought.
“Your death will be repaid, mo rùn,” I promise into the wind, wondering how long I will have to wait for Ban-dia a’ Bhàis to show me the way to find my revenge as I walk through the cold iron gate.
Hot blood drips from my fingertips, but I dinnae wipe it away.
Let it mark each of the six hundred and ninety-seven steps back down to the living.
Let the earth hold my promise until I return.
“Brennen,” a voice breaks through the night as I reach the final steps that lead to Vengach. To my family.
Adrenaline surges through my veins, and my head snaps up, my hand automatically reaching toward the long blade at my hip. I squint into the darkness, my dàn of sight warming.
“It’s only me.”
I still my hand. “Garrick? What are you doing here?”
I should feel relief when I recognize my oldest friend, but instead, my skin prickles with unease. I do not like that I didnae hear him approach. That I allowed myself to be so distracted, I was caught unaware.
I lift my chin, forcing my hand to lower as I wonder why he’s returned home.
Garrick matches me in his Dìdeanair uniform—a black and red tartan with a broadsword strapped to his back.
Of all the guardians I’ve served with, he and I are the closest. He’s from my village, a friend who always has a jovial smile and a joke in his front pocket, which is why my chest tightens when I notice the grim line of his mouth and tense set of his shoulders.
“What is it?” I ask, panic trickling into my blood. Has something happened to my family? To Saoirse? I cannae bear the thought.
He meets my eye, then delivers his message without preamble, as clean as the slice of Ban-dia a’ Bhàis’s blade through my palm.
“The Cutter has called for you.”