Hidden by the Rose (Twilight of Magic 2)

By Erin O'Quinn

Caylith, young, self-centered and spoiled, returns home from her trip to Auntie Marrie’s (RUNNING OVER RAINBOWS). She finds her ancestral villa destroyed and her mother missing. In a state of shock, she and her best friend Brindl are taken to a most unlikely refuge—the land of Faerie, a place she had thought existed only in bedtime stories.

In that marvelous new land, she meets a fearsome relative and a host of new friends. She begins to train in the martial arts. Just as important, she begins to learn her own personal magic. She becomes a thorn hidden by the rose, in a sense, for she finds that she has certain powers she could never suspect.

While in Faerie, Caylith finds herself growing and changing in many subtle ways. Through her magic and the special talents of her friends, Caylith returns at last to Britannia, trying to bring evil men to justice.

Ths is the second in the four-saga series "The Twilight of Magic."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erin O'Quinn
• Release date: Mar 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370329601

Erin O'Quinn

Erin O’Quinn sprang from the high desert hills of Nevada, from a tiny town which no longer exists. A truant officer dragged her kicking and screaming to grade school, too late to attend kindergarten; and since that time her best education has come from the ground she’s walked and the people she's met.Erin has her own publishing venue, New Dawn Press. Her works cover the genres of M/M and M/F romance and also historical fantasy for all ages.

Book preview

Book Two in The Twilight of Magic Sagas

Hidden by the Rose

Erin O’Quinn

Copyright © 2017 Erin O ’ Quinn

New Dawn Press

ISBN: 9781370329601

Published in the United States of America with international distribution.

Cover Design by Erin O’Quinn

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author ’ s imagination or are used fictitiously; and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Hidden by the Rose is a YA-adult crossover novel, meant for readers from 13 to 113…and beyond..

Introduction

Caylith—sixteen, self-centered and spoiled—returns from a trip to find her ancestral villa destroyed and her mother missing. In a state of shock, she and her best friend Brindl are taken to an unlikely refuge, a land she had thought existed only in fairy-stories.

She meets a fearsome relative and begins to train in the martial arts. Just as important, she begins to shape her own personal magic. Caylith becomes a thorn hidden by the rose, in a sense, for she finds that she has certain powers no one could ever suspect…

Fantasy for all ages (13+). The second in a series tracing the demise of magic in a new world being shaped by powerful forces, in the person of chubby-cheeked St. Patrick and in the improbable guise of Caylith herself.

Book 2 of The Twilight of Magic (following Running Over Rainbows ).

Dedication

To Bil, who inspired not just the series, but who inspires everything in my life, every day. And to the spirit of Patrick:  his wisdom, his love, his simple joy in life.

Foreword

I wrote The Twilight of Magic sagas not to glorify Patrick, nor the rightness of religion, but to explore the place of myth, magic and belief at a time in our history when Western civilization seemed to be losing its center.

Ah, yes, there are many players in this world. Readers will find a short list of characters at the end of this novel, and all that follow.

Part One

Escape into Darkness

Chapter One

Caylith and Big Bear

Almost home.

My heart felt as if would burst through my traveler’s cloak. Every clump of moor grass, every outcropping, seemed like old friends. In my imagination, I leapt on the back of my trusty horse, spurring him into a gallop and leaving behind a whirlwind of dust as we flew down the road.

I poked the side of my noble steed. Fletcher noticed my little act of impatience.

Go easy, milady. That little pack horse is carrying six months’ worth of our goods. And the finery from your Aunt Marrie.

How much longer? I struggled to keep from whining. My belly was starting to grumble. I chose to ignore the fact that I had asked the same question nearly every day for the last week.

Fletcher’s mouth twisted at the corners. I thought he might be holding back a smile, but he managed to sound grave. We can encamp now and start fresh in the morning. If we make good time, we should be home in about five more days. Fletcher was approaching forty years old, and at times, he sounded like someone’s sour old grandfather.

Five days! My irritability increased. I wished to be home now, this very second. What is for supper tonight?

Fletcher leveled me a look that I knew was best not to challenge.

All right, Armsman. Brindl and I will fetch us a little supper while you and Kian set up camp.

If Fletcher noticed my surly attitude, he did not reveal it. Very good, Princess. He turned to the groom and said quietly, "We will gather a bit of firewood. And tonight, we will cook up the soup."

I stomped off, dragging Brindl by her sleeve. To the hunt!

Brindl tore away from my grasp and ran toward a copse a few hundred feet from the road.

I was breathless by the time we reached the trees. My feet snapped a dry branch with a loud crrack .

We will be fortunate indeed to surprise a deer, my best-friend noted drily. She was not breathing hard.

My fit of petulance had caused an interesting reversal. Always before, Fletcher had gone off and never failed to return without food. Brindl and I had been the kindling-gatherers, fire starters, and soup makers. Of course, I knew how to hunt, but everyone thought I should stay back and gather herbs. I seemed to have an inborn ability to pick just the right plants, in the proper combinations, to create delicious broths and garnishes for our meals.

Oh, Brindie, I just cannot wait to see Mama and catch up on all the news. I almost forgot my hunger and frustration in the excitement of planning my homecoming festivities.

Shush, Pea. We must try to flush out our supper.

I grimaced but obediently sized up my surroundings. I slowed my breathing, just like Fletcher had taught me, until it felt just like the slight breeze rustling the new birch leaves. We crept through the underbrush, stopping often to listen for the sound of game.

After walking in a crab-like crouch for what seemed an hour—probably ten minutes—I felt Brindl’s fingers on my calf. Stop. We were almost flattened on the twisted roots of an aged oak tree. She gestured right, so I moved around the tree. I flushed a small furry animal that moved too fast for me to recognize it. She had already drawn a sling from her belt and quickly fitted a roundish pebble in the pouch. She hardly took aim. Moments later, we were kneeling beside our quarry—a wall-eyed ground squirrel.

Brindl deftly skinned and dressed the squirrel. She seemed to be taking altogether too much satisfaction from our little adventure. I should have been thrilled, too, but instead I was annoyed. What a grand hunter I was! By all the runes, I would find the next supper morsel. Brindl was now sidling through the underbrush, and I slipped away.

My ill-brewed hunting instincts— a pox on Latin and needlepoint— told me to strike off into a small clearing. My back against the trunk of a spindly young oak, I breathed slow and deep and looked around. At its widest, the clearing was perhaps twenty feet, carpeted in a stubble of dry brown grass. Most of the trees were old and thick-trunked. There was a slight rustling behind a rough-bark pine. My hunting bow was already in hand, and with trembling fingers, I drew an arrow from my quiver. The rustling grew louder. I began to revel in the heady excitement of the hunt.

A glimpse of something brown and shaggy. A whistling arrow. Thwacck . My arrow killed a tree trunk but saved the bear. When I thought about it later, I realized I was lucky to miss the brute. He was startled and curious, not crazed with pain.

Run, Princess! Brindl must have followed me, and her voice penetrated my stupefied brain. So I ran. We fled the clearing, smashing noisily through the bracken, the Hel-spawned bear crashing along right behind us.

We scurried like terrified field mice fleeing a cat, right into camp. Fletcher leapt from his crouch beside the campfire. He seized a branch still crackling with flames and advanced toward the bear. Toward the bear.

I screamed at him. No! Run away!

I watched, transfixed, as the bear recoiled from the flaming branch. In his confusion, he stood and then came back to earth with a crash, landing right on our soup pot, spilling the hot liquid all over the ground. I cringed as our faithful—and only—pot twisted into a lump of metal.

The bear turned and w huffled over toward the packhorse, where Kian was apparently about to unload the animal. My fiery steed was not in the mood to stand around. He reared, screaming a high-pitched sound of terror, and ran toward home almost as fast as my earlier fantasy had invented. Kian sat on the ground with his legs splayed, shaking his head and glaring at me.

By now, the bear was clearly tired of all the activity. He turned again, this time back toward the trees, and shuffled away.

The four of us stood glumly around the campfire. No horse. No gear. No food. Almost apologetically, Brindl slipped the squirrel from her hunting belt. Supper, anyone? she ventured.

After a stringy and skimpy dinner, Fletcher moved away to prepare for the night while Brindl busied herself braiding my long hair. Pea, she said from behind me, "it was wrong to sneak away from me in the woods. We must stay together. We need to learn a bit more about killing bears. The next time we are out hunting a bear, we will get one for sure—if there is a next time." Her voice sounded strained.

I started to turn my head to look at her, but she held it firmly in place with a handful of red hair pushed against my scalp. Ouch!

I pulled away as soon as she knotted the end of my braid and almost ran to the other end of the clearing. Pretending to search for herbs at the edge of camp, I breathed in the lush scent of wildflowers and purple moor grass, its spikes just beginning to darken.

Back home, whenever my mind was in turmoil, or when I needed to puzzle out a problem, I always went to the abbey herb garden. I would walk, sit in grass, or linger near a flower patch, or near the brambly dog roses that skirted our villa and the abbey in the little village of Vilton.

Now, for the first time in days, I was alone—even if it was only some one hundred feet from our encampment. I dearly loved Brindie, and Fletcher too, but it always seemed they were right on top of me, watching every move.

The nights were coming on a bit later, now that winter was almost turned to spring. We had been fortunate to miss the usual winter rains on this trip from Lindum. But the nights were bitter cold, and I had been forced to sleep in my travel-cloak on top of my eider-down cover.

I still wondered why Mama wished me to make this long journey at the foulest time of year.

Because, little Princess, you are of an age to go now.

Whatever did she mean? I was fifteen—within days of being sixteen. To me, that meant I had come to the age of grace and refinement—I was becoming a lady of the manor. Why, then, had I been forced to make a fortnight’s trek just to visit an old aunt on the other side of nowhere?

I sat in the wild grass and thought about it. Mama was very traditional in her ways, and I knew our trip was important to her. She wanted Aunt Marrie to teach me the ways of villa management. I shuddered. What was wrong with paying someone else to do it? I could still play, have festive gatherings, dress up in pretty frocks, and still supervise someone else to oversee the villa! I had learned from my old auntie, all right. But I had learned to love my outdoors world even more after a six-month confinement in her stone villa.

Mama had promised me a surprise for my sixteenth Feast Day, my most special day of the year. That day was coming soon. But I had been on the road for days on end with no mother to fuss over me, so the passage of time had become a blur. That was why I asked Fletcher every day, Are we close to home?

The lure of a big surprise was my reason for traveling to Lindum and enduring six months of imprisonment with Auntie Marrie. Even though the old lady and I had finally come to an unspoken understanding, I still resented having to stay penned in a large linen closet all those months.

Twilight came on so gradually that one minute I was gazing at buff-and-green moorland, and the next only patches of twinkling white were visible here and there. I knew by their distinctive perfume they were road lilies. Their delicate white petals were always the last to wink out when darkness fell.

Those little beauties were my favorites. How could a plant so intricate and dainty grow almost out of gravel? Except for the toughest clump-grass, my lilies were the only plants growing in the cracks of the crumbling Roman roads.

Princess! It was Fletcher’s voice.

I decided to ignore him. Leaning back in the undergrowth, I threw my head back and inhaled the fragrance of almost-home.

Pea! Story time! came Brindie’s cheerful call.

As much as I loved Fletcher’s stories, I turned back only reluctantly and took some time rejoining my companions.

We sat close for warmth around the fire. Without a horse to tend, Kian fed the flames from time to time with handfuls of peat. I glared at the stone-jawed groom across the fire. It was his fault the horse had not been unpacked. If he had done his job, we would not have lost all our gear.

I regarded Fletcher. Not a handsome man, to be sure, but not one to pass notice either. He was a full foot and a half taller than I, and few men had to bend their heads down when talking to him. He wore his almost-grey hair and beard short, Roman style. In spite of the chill, tonight he wore no cloak, and I could see his lean muscles flex as he stretched in preparation for his story.

Fletcher leaned nearer to the fire, his eyes half closed. Flames seemed almost to lick at his cheeks as he began to speak. Long, long ago, when Caylith the warrior was just a pine sprout, she decided it was time to explore the Wailing Forest on the foggy edge of Asgard…

I could never be sure whether Fletcher was telling an old tale or making it up as he went along.

The Wailing Forest was feared even by the gods, for anyone who penetrated the darkness of the woods would immediately be deafened by a dread keening—Big Bear sorrowing for his lost mate. In those days, bears, boars, wolves, and many other wild creatures could talk as well as you and I.

When Caylith approached the edge of the forest, she spotted a sharp-eyed crow sitting on a branch above her head. Greetings, Cowath. I feel like strolling in the woods. Can you see Big Bear?

Now Cowath was a bird of great guile and cunning. He regarded Caylith with his head cocked and his eyes a-glitter. He looked at her gleaming bow and her quiver of silver arrows. I will fly over the trees and look, he said. This would be a chance, thought Cowath, to finish off that annoying bear. So he flew above the woods, far enough away to be unaffected by the bear’s wailing. Soon, he spotted the bear approaching a bee-filled log, the bear’s keening momentarily forgotten in favor of filling his stomach. He quickly flew back to Caylith. If you hurry, he said, you will find Big Bear stalking his supper. He will not see you until it is too late. I will guide you—just keep one eye overhead for my signal.

Caylith nodded and struck into the thick forest, all the while watching Cowath dipping and soaring through the trees. She had one silver arrow already notched in her bow as she skillfully melted into the trees.

At once, she saw Cowath dip up and down and around and around. She crept to the place where the crow’s antics pointed. Sure enough, Big Bear approached a rotted log and was starting to poke his enormous snout into a honey hole. She took careful aim and let one silver arrow fly.

The next thing you know, Big Bear was lying on the ground with an arrow sticking out of his rump. He started to blubber in pain. Caylith ambled up to him. Shush, bear, or you will wake the very gods.

Big Bear looked up at Caylith in great astonishment. Before he could take in a deep breath and start to keen, the warrior girl shook her finger at his honey-smeared muzzle. Do you want to get that arrow out of your hind end?

Oh, yes, my dear. It hurts very much.

Caylith said, "Then I must exact a promise from you.

Anything, whined the bear.

You must promise to stop keening. You have paid your respects to your departed mate. Now it is time to get on with your life.

I promise, said Big Bear immediately.

So Caylith leaned over the bear and, with one swift movement, extracted the silver arrow. She told the bear to lie quietly while she left to seek a healing herb. She returned shortly with a handful of plant matter. Without further ado, she rubbed the green stuff into his wound.

His pain disappeared almost instantly. Big Bear jumped up and shouted, Thank you, little hunter. I pledge to be your friend and never harm a red hair on your head as long as you live.

I accept, Big Bear. And I, on my part, promise I will never again try to harm you or your kin.

Caylith turned and walked into the woods, while a loud black crow circled and danced overhead.

~∞~

When I awoke the next morning, I found Brindl tending the fire, but Fletcher and the groomsman were gone. Brindl was not very talkative. Went to find a bit of food, she told me.

From the moment I had awakened, guilt was nagging at my conscience. We were in this predicament partly because of me and my half-hatched plan to shoot at anything that moved. I woke up cold, missing my eider-down, and at once began to feel quite sorry for myself—and of course, for my companions as well. No one had scolded me, but since last night, Brindle found many ways to avoid looking me in the eye.

In spite of my resolution to be haughty and strong, tears welled up and started to drip off my nose. I flung myself down beside the fire.

Oh, oh, Brindie what if it rains? We have no gear. Where will we get water to drink or a bowl to cook our soup in? What about the fine silk cloth Aunt Marrie gave me to make my pretty new wardrobe? I am so sorry. I was gulping and hiccupping my words like a baby.

All right, Pea, all right. Brindl stroked my hair and patted my arm, just like Mama used to do when I was young. We will sip from our wineskins and try to drink sparingly until we find a stream. Our hunters will bring back the makings for a hearty breakfast.

The way she said our hunters made me laugh, and then we giggled like always.

We will be home soon, just a little later than we had planned. Who needs an old horse, anyway? He will be waiting for us when we get there.

Her reasoning made sense to me. I cheered up. What should we do when we get home? We could dress up and have a celebration! We will invite everyone and tell them all about our amazing adventures in Lindum. In my mind, I had already begun to color our drab daily routine with a series of amazing exploits.

Brindl looked away. Her face suddenly seemed all grown up. If you will allow, Princess, as soon as we get back, I will arrange a marriage contract with Bert Cooper.

Marriage? My Brindie? I was too dumbfounded to speak. She could not do this to me. Not my personal tutor. Not my friend. What about me?

Robert and his father lived right there at the villa. He had taken over the cooperage after a bout of brain fever crippled both his father’s arms. Almost eighteen, Bert was tall and broad-shouldered, quiet and competent.

I finally sputtered, Bu-but d-does he know about this?

Not quite yet, she confessed, but I have it all planned out. I am almost fifteen. I need to get on with my future, like your Auntie Marrie was telling you to do.

I had forgotten Brindl had listened to my father’s aunt blathering on about my future life. All that nonsense must have started her thinking about her own plans.

Annoyed, I could not help but argue. "Just because Auntie Marrie said I have to get a head start before all the good ones are gone, that does not mean you have to get betrothed right now. And how is it I am the last to know?"

Brindl fixed me with that special look of hers that always silenced me. This is not, she said firmly, about you. She stood. Ah, here come your armsman and your groom. Her tone made me bite my lip to stay quiet. I decided to let it go for now.

We ate a meager breakfast. Fletcher had managed to spear a small rabbit, but I was so preoccupied with my sorrows and with Brindl’s bad news, I forgot to gather our customary herbs. We no longer had a pot to make soup, but maybe I could have found a wild onion or two as a garnish.

Brindl should have reminded me. I started to scold her but something held me back.

After eating, Fletcher tied up our few belongings into a knapsack made from his own cloak, the one I slept on last night, and the groom slung it over one shoulder.

Watch your step on this rough road, lass, said the armsman, more kindly than I expected. Or deserved . I had to admit that, if only to myself.

I needed some time to think about my own emotions, about Brindl, about all the things I was learning and still needed to learn. That will take days, I thought with despair.

So I joined my companions on the old Roman road. We walked along for a mile or so, wrapped in a travel cloak of mutual silence.

Chapter Two

At the Rooster and Hen

Finally Fletcher spoke. Up ahead, as I recall, there should be a crossroads where one fork leads to a small village. I know the town. We will not be too far from home, and in a slightly better place to sleep than a boulder. He winked at me.

I caught his hint: our travels would take at least one extra day. The gear on the pack horse—cooking utensils, bedding, most of our weapons—had up to now saved us hours of time and trouble.

I realized the armsman must have used his six-foot spear to kill one humble rabbit. That could not have been easy. All he would have needed was a hunting bow. Like the one I carried, or the one that galloped away on our packhorse.

Last night’s accommodations had been a trifle Spartan. We did not sleep on boulders, really, for Fletcher had smoothed a large patch of ground close to the fire as a makeshift bedroom for Brindl and me. We used the armsman’s travel cloak as a pallet and our own cloaks as blankets.

Head down, thinking furiously, I hardly noticed one mile melting into the next as we walked along. I reckoned I had learned a small lesson, anyway, because I never once asked, Are we there yet?

Brindl was striding along cheerfully, stooping now and again to inspect some small patch of wildflowers, or to pick up an interesting rock. I could have hugged her right there and then. She was my rock these days.

I had known Brindie all of my life. Her mother, Chessie, had been my nurse. After she delivered Brindl, she would lay the baby on a pile of soft rugs near her feet while she fed me or played with me. When my companion was five, her father died from a fever. Brindl and her mother moved into the villa with Father, Mama, and me. And then Father died in a hunting accident a few years later.

As we grew up, in spite of our one-year age difference, Brindl and I did everything together. She would tag along when I went to the abbey to learn my letters and arithmetic from the priest. While I was picking up Latin in a rather offhand way, Brindie was learning rapidly. She would beg the old priest for more scrolls to read, until she had absorbed nearly everything in the library.

Chessie remarried when her daughter was about eight years old, but Mama and she decided Brindie knew enough to be my tutor. So she just kept on living with us. Even when Chessie’s new husband pulled up stakes and moved to the coast southwest of us, Brindie stayed. By then, she had picked up needlework, crafts, music, and dance from any artisan or seamstress she met. Her knowledge became mine—at least as much as I was willing to learn. Then, as now, I was impatient and perhaps…sometimes…a little impudent in the face of authority.

Small groves of trees came into view from time to time as we walked along, and I tried to imagine the bears and wolves and other fierce animals that might lurk there. My mind drifted to Fletcher’s story of Big Bear. What a magical place and time! I sorely wished I were that very same Caylith, stalking wild game with my silver bow and arrows!

Where was Asgard, that it held such spell-binding animals? And how did the legendary Caylith end up in a land of make-believe? The answer was simple: Fletcher was a master story-teller. He could put Caylith the Great in the village tannery and make it seem believable. He had woven fairy tales for me since I was a baby—until I began to take on a secret persona, as airy and insubstantial as an elf or fairy.

From time to time, the old Abbot Paul would deliver a stern talk on the evils of folk-magic. He and the abbey monks, it seemed, were dedicated to erasing every trace of the old beliefs. Their admonishments, and my guilt, made me hide my special identity even from Brindl. But I dearly loved to be called Princess, for it meant that I was truly a kind of enchanted being, as in Fletcher’s fairy tales.

I looked at my armsman, striding along with his easy gait, just slow enough so Brindl and I did not have to run to keep up with him. His gaze seemed far away. Was he, too, thinking of home? I had never thought much about Fletcher having a home. He lived in the villa, along with several other people retained by my mother. But he had no wife, no children. I rarely saw him with anyone outside of the coopers, tanners, smiths, and other craftsmen who lived at or around our villa. Did he have friends? If not, did he have friends before he became armsman to my mother?

About an hour before sunset, we saw a signpost: WROXETER. Our rough Roman road started to become a bit more even. Ditches and ruts were more frequently patched over with a mixture of flint and chalk as we grew closer to civilization. The town itself was not large, but it was clearly the next best thing to the villa itself.

We found the town’s only inn right away. The words Rooster and Hen were freshly painted in ghastly mustard yellow above the wooden door. Once inside, I saw that the tavern keeper was a large, burly fellow wearing a soiled cloth around his belly. But his face seemed kind, and his beard and eyebrows were half-heartedly trimmed—unlike his patrons, I thought as I looked around the room.

After a few coppers changed hands, we examined our quarters—two tiny windowless rooms with two straw pallets on the floor of each. Both rooms also contained a cracked washing bowl and a partially melted candle on a wooden crate, a ewer of water, a slop jar, and one makeshift chair.

Up to now, I had known only the plush bed at my own villa, Auntie Marrie’s finely embroidered guest bed, and my eider-down bedding along the road to home. A day ago, I would have thrown a well-managed tantrum and demanded a real bed. Now all I said was, Look, Brindie! At last! We have a place to wash up!

Brindl smiled widely. Your mother would say we have just entered civilization.

Fletcher said, Let us meet for supper in half an hour. He and the groom left for their own room. Brindl closed the door firmly behind them and slid the bolt into place. I accosted the wash-stand.

~∞~

Not even half an hour later, we were both as ready as possible—hair washed and combed, our faces scrubbed pink, the dust shaken from our travel skirts and boots.

How do I look? I asked Brindl.

Like a princess, she said simply. She had fanned my hair up into a fiery