In truth Kenna was by this time more preoccupied than any other, people in the whole of Glasvhail. For she was the only seamstress for a hundred leagues, of the village and the one tasked with almost three dozen dresses of varying sizes to sew. Doing so for a great variety of women and lasses, of the hamlet, as this was the busiest time of the year, for her, it was also the time when she made, the majority of her wealth.

  The ever-pessimistic Kenna was a handsome woman, usually easily approached. Save, during this time of the year, or when her eternally distracted son, fled his tasks to go stare at the boats, or the fish they brought in. He also had a tendency to sneak away when he forgot to return from his errands, to visit with the ‘Forlarin’ household as all the residents of Rothien tended to call, the home and kinsmen of Corin. Forlarin as he was known to some was a strange man, by the standards of the small farm-laden road-Thorpe, as he was foreign-born after all, one whom precious little, was known about.

  Said to be born, from a family of minor barons, in the direct service of the High-King of Gallia, the fifth son, some supposed. Quite why, they decided upon the fifth son, and not the second or third, or even first remained something of a joke, amongst all those who lived near his home. With none laughing louder, than the man himself, save perhaps the Tigruns of the locality, for the cat-men and women often regarded him with a certain amusement. All that the locals knew was that he was from the land of Forlarin, where the current lord was the son of a mercenary-captain who had done well, in the service of Agustin the Great. The mighty Duke of Norencia and Gallusia, who had defied more than one king, and paved the way for Juste and Guillaume, his grandsons to claim the crown. Corin was the son of the Prince of the Crown’s own tutor, was another rumour, yet all who knew the blacksmith, knew he loathed violence. Instead, he had favoured the art of languages, so that all that the locals knew, he had agreed to what was a tantamount to exile, in order to serve as a translator for a representative to Mael-Martin II’s court, from Gallia.

  Regardless of his past, the brown-haired man then fell in love with the original blacksmith’s daughter, Olith and over quarter-score years, became accustomed to village life. The Gallian of course, learnt her family’s trade, and inherited her father’s business and home, upon the man’s death. So skilled had he become, by the time of this tale, he oft left for Sgain, or Inverdùnis to sell his spare-wares, which were in high demand in those parts of the kingdom.

  Olith for her part, despite being dead since fifteen years ago, continued to linger on in the spirits of those who had once known her. None sought to honour her memory more than those who had seen her grow into the woman who wed Corin, than Kenna. It was the anniversary of the red-haired woman’s passing three weeks ago could only ponder her present troubles in the form of Cormac.

  What am I going to do with that lad? He has all the wits of an ass, Kenna frequently thought to herself, in frustration her fingers at work upon the lady Malvina’s dress which was in the midst of being put together upon her loom.

  The lady Malvina was the wife of the local laird Badrách, and there was a difference in rank between them, they were friendly. Given the lady’s bumbling nature, she was something of a figure of mockery, throughout Rothien. Some such as Kenna, found her more exasperating or pitiful, than humorous. The clumsy kindness on the part of the lady had long since endeared her to the seamstress, who found the woman’s incompetent husband, far less endearing. Broken from her thoughts, whilst she was in the midst of cursing her son to the depths of the icy-realm of the Dark Queen, Kenna looked up just as the smith’s daughter burst into the shop. This was always her way, as she could not help but always burst in place of slipping inside.

  “I am terribly sorry, auntie, it was my idea for Cormac to help us, with this last project before Wiglaf arrives.” Daegan said, face turning scarlet as she averted her eyes shyly.

  She is lying; she always reddens and averts her gaze, whenever she lies. Kenna guessed irritably, yet with a small amount of fondness, she truly did love the lass in spite of her dislike for Corin. It had to have something to do, with how the lass was the spitting image, of her mother Olith, who had been her greatest girlhood friend. The two had been all but sisters, with Kenna having sworn as Olith lay dying, to always care for Daegan.

  “Oh aright, I know you Dae, you could never undercut anyone, so do not try to trick me, into believing that you convinced Cormac to leave, his duties half-finished.” The lad’s mother said to the sheepish young lass, who gave her a wide-eyed stare. One of pure surprise and embarrassment at how, easily she had been seen through her.

  Kenna did not give the matter much more thought, too distracted by the work that was all-important to her. Life was a matter to be grappled with, and toil the only answer to all of its troubles and sorrows, with the greatest horror in the world to her mind was indolence. So that her son was something of a monster to her mind, one whom she had to exorcise of his worst habits.

  Arriving hours after the apprentices had departed for their own homes, which left Cormac to suffer the wroth of his mother. This he did, his hair and cloths soaked entirely through much to the disgust of his mother, who was to scream herself hoarse that day.

  “Quite what I did, to deserve a son as unfilial, indolent and worthless as you, is a mystery!” She had at last yelled in the end, shortly after she had put an end to her complaints and the throwing of several nearby light possessions of theirs.

  Her son did not answer any of her cries, only shrugged and evaded what clay-plates, mugs and tools he could, before he hunkered down to sleep in the shop. As a rule, he slept there whereas she slept in the kitchen of their small home, to-night he hung his head and appeared as sullen towards her, as she was in return.

  The next day, with the scent of pine and oak-wood along with that of the sea, was everywhere, in that part of the land. Scents that always served to remind Kenna, of her late husband, Murchadh; a man whom she had adored and who unlike her, was friendly with all around him. As she awoke, she asked of herself what she was to do with her son, who resisted her best efforts, to be included in the slightest work.

  A question that haunted more than one soul the next day, from the druid Conn who faced what he felt to be certain, to be a kind of doom when the time came to declare his daughter and the lad wedded, an act he already dreaded. Where they awoke in a cold sweat, full of mortal terror of a possible or real connection to Murchadh’s son, others as in the case of Daegan, Corin and Helga awoke of a different mind in regards, to the youth.

  The festival of the Paragon Muireall, a Paragon who was canonised by the Temple for her great service and martyrdom centuries prior, in the name of Fufluns the lord of fertility, was but a day away. All had been put in place by this time, with the skies clear of any possible rain and sleet for the moment. Something that Caledonia lived under the constant expectation of in marked contrast to their southron neighbours.

  Busy at work still in the smithy, Wiglaf was to complain at some length about the process, with many inquisitive souls desirous to peek inside or listen in, upon him and his host as they worked. The difficulty lay in just how perceptive the two of them were, with neither man the sort to miss the slightest snap of a twig with their ears or the sound of anyone’s breath upon the door so intently did they guard the secret of that which they toiled upon. The only ones invited inside, into the know being Daegan and Cormac.

  One might think they would speak of what it was the sorcerer and the smith were hard at work upon, ere long they concluded their weeks-long toil, come the dawn of the festival-day. Hard at work upon the bellows, Cormac who had but rarely been seen outside of the smithy, much to his mother’s displeasure and the consternation of the likes of Helga and her younger sister Eillidh.

  “Go, lad,” Said Corin to the son of his greatest friend, “I have no further work for you, and require no further aid with the bellows.”

  Heeding his words, the son of Murchadh the fisherman departed forthwith, for Ciaran’s oak whereupon he fell into a deep-sleep as he was oft prone to. This was sure to garner more of his mother’s wrath yet he thought not of this. All who stepped on past him, shook their heads in response, in disgust, with few of their children venturing over to speak to him distracted as they were with their games.

  Full of fury, switch in hand Kenna departed from her home in search of her son, she had herself completed her duties to her many customers desired to put her son to work regardless of this fact. She searched through all of Glasvhail only to realize that her son must have gone to visit with Corin.

  Every inch of Kenna trembled with fury, such that when she arrived she bewildered both men, and the smith-daughter who were seated at his ash-wood brown table. The men were in the midst of drinking wine brought north by the Cymran. For her part, the lass with the flame-tresses stared halting in the act of refilling the goblet of the sorcerer.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  “Where is he? Where is my son?” Asked the widow of Murchadh to the wonder of those seated, who gaped at her in confusion at her words.

  “We do not know,” Answered Corin earnest as always she perceived his words to be spoken in jest, quite why she did so was to remain a mystery for them for some time.

  “Do not jest, please,” She grunted under her breath, just before, she took his daughter by the arm to start to guide her away. “If I shan’t find him, then I shall tear thy daughter from you to prepare her for the festival and see to her fitting for a new dress? Heaven knows, how swiftly they grow.”

  Where Kenna might well have objected, had it been her child, the men simply shrugged for they saw no reason to answer any further. It was true that Daegan had grown taller as of late, and was in dire need of a new dress. Agreeing to leave with her, with a quick swig of wine, and a bright smile eager to be gifted a new dress.

  Disappointed as she was by Corin’s lack of interest in the matter, a sentiment worsened by the knowledge that her son was somewhere else (heaven only knew where). Kenna departed with a flounce, the young lass scowled to herself before she hurried to inform her, “I shall go find Cormac for you if you so wish auntie.”

  In truth, she wished to prevaricate in regards to her visit, due entirely to the rage that still seemed to colour every millimetre of the seamstress’s being.

  “Very well, but mayhap it might be better if Cormac were to join the other men for the remainder of the festival,” Kenna concluded with a reluctant sigh, letting slip forth from her much of the anger that still simmered below the surface. After-all, she told herself, she did have a dress to complete for the lass by her side.

  It was not her intent to make the younger woman uncomfortable; however she could not resist a certain scorn for her son. Why by all the gods, could she not have had a daughter? One akin to Daegan in nature, who had drive, confidence and whom was a good conversationalist?

  Their differences stemmed from the fact that he had no great dreams, or desires to do much more than idle away, his time. Resolute by nature, Kenna had far greater dreams than her son, Daegan; or even her own father, who had thrived on the battlefield if nowhere else. Nor did she intend to beg she had as a child before she had been all but sold, to the local weaver. He had treated Kenna well, after she had attempted to rob him, and later left her his shop, upon his death just before her marriage to Murchadh. The shop was well-off enough, but she intended to still sell it to young Indulf, her former teacher’s nephew, who was but three years older than her son.

  In a contemplative mood, she thought at some length about her hopes to move her shop, from Glasvhail to Sgain where she hoped to gain in wealth enough to possibly move along in rank. There were tales of artisans if skilled enough, succeeding in gaining the attention of the High-King and being taken with him, to his private keep of Dunsfathaigh, or Inverdùnis.

  Inside her home, they found the looms, just as she had left them with Indulf, who was still bent over his loom, a warm yet shy smile gracing his handsome face when he saw them. A kindly if easily daunted youth, Indulf was in a unique position as his brothers were certain to inherit a large herd of sheep, enough wealth saved up over the years, to set all at ease for a number of years. With little left over for the three youngest sons, little choice open to him other than to pursue his own trade, and fortune outside of his kin-group. As a third-son he was remarkably unfortunate, in spite of the great affection his family held for him.

  Dismissing him, Kenna turned her attention in its entirety to the lass with her, beckoning her to the kitchen after she had locked the doors. Her earlier anger towards her son forgotten, she saw to fetching a dress she had hidden some time ago, for this very day.

  Her hope was to do a kindness for she whom she hoped to take in as her good-daughter, since she was of a mind that the red-haired lass deserved far better a man than her slothful son.

  The vivid green dress she had secretly woven flew about, with her duo of assistants awe-struck by the beauty of the dress. It was long, with a flowery pattern embroidered into the hem of the skirt and sleeves, with many an érian symbols interwoven where mentioned, with fine, gold embroidery. The symbols were all identical with Daegan recognising them at once, for being the ‘Bowen’s Knot’, an ancient symbol that was sacred to the goddess Turan. The goddess of love herself, is said to have given it to the women of ériu millennia ago, as part of the sacred pact between herself and the daughters of Lyr. Turan being one of the three goddesses said to have formed the first pact of gods and men, in regards to both the Emerald and Lairdly-Isle. The other two being; Meret the goddess of music, whom some believed to have sung alongside Scota and Turan the isles into being.

  Such was the force of the passion for which the Caleds, érians and Cymrans felt for the trio of goddesses that they built more temples to them, than all the other gods. They were also noteworthy for having to their names, three festivals a year apiece, where the rest of the gods had but one, or two in the case of Orcus (white god of the dead and renewal) and Ziu, the red god of war.

  The dress as Daegan soon discovered was a silken thing of the highest quality she had ever felt or seen in all her life. It matched her eyes perfectly, being every bit as green as the rolling fields that stretched west and northwards with the hem both at the top, bottom and along the sleeves as said; filled with golden patterns. What was more was the girdle that was used to synch together the waist, this was tied together in the most recent Continental style, notably in the kingdom of Gallia, and was a golden and emerald thing also trimmed with ‘Bowen’s Knot’. So that the knot itself was what kept the dress in place, and had been woven around the solar-haired maiden.

  The mirror that lay to the right-hand side of the room was oft-used for those ladies who came to wear for themselves the work of Kenna, and wished to see themselves dressed in it. In this way they oft paid homage to the work of her nimble fingers in this way, not all knew this. Daegan, was cut from altogether different clothe and knew well, what it was that she did the moment she turned to face her reflection, when she donned the dress which as she was shocked to learn was made of silk.

  It truly was a magnificent dress, the likes of which made her appear all the more beautiful than even she had imagined in her vainest dreams. Awed by the lady who gazed back upon her, from deep within her reflection that which had a dress greener and more majestic, than her eyes and which complimented her red-mane so magnificently that all men were sure to ask themselves if this was not Turan made flesh.

  “Do not simply stand there lass, do try it on!” Kenna urged her with such excitement that Daegan felt suddenly timid. Not at all a sentiment she was accustomed to, she stumbled for words at that moment.

  “A-aye but-” She stammered weakly, overwhelmed by the beauty of the gold-trimmed dress which felt just as it appeared, richer than any other thing she had ever seen before.

  Kenna was visibly pleased with the result she saw, only to hem and haw over this detail or that, such as the stance of her charge. “Do raise your chin lass, oh and do also raise your hand- ah yes, I should mayhaps lend you one of the few rings I have, it was a memento of Murchadh and would go nicely with your dress and hair!”

  “You do not have to,” Daegan demurred moved and humbled by the richness of her dress and unsure if she should continue, to take advantage of her friend’s generosity.

  “Nonsense, nonsense what am I to do with it? It is not as though I wear it most days,” Kenna insisted before she hurried up the stairs to fetch the possession of which she spoke so highly of.

  It was a prized possession as the lass well knew, being a gift from Murchadh and was a bronze ring of mediocre make with a small sliver of a ruby embedded into it. Quite how the fisherman had succeeded in the buying of it was a mystery, with Daegan suspicious that he had borrowed some of the expenses necessary from her own father though she said nothing of this. Still, it was forced upon her left middle-finger (for her others save her thumb were too slender for it), and she was also to have the pleasure of seeing her hair done up in an intricate braid. This was done in the same manner that many of the local women oft did their own hair, during festivals and special occasions. This form of braid being favoured amongst the ladies of the High-King’s court it was said, with the braid being a pair of tails of hair that were draped over either side of the woman’s shoulders. In Daegan’s case her hair came down to almost her stomach, with both tails being braided multiple times in delicate yellow cloth.

  This practice pleased her and was entirely new to her, with Kenna arranging all very carefully for her so very gently that one might well have mistaken her for a nobleman’s daughter. A rank that had never truly attracted her, for being a lady might well have meant that she was out of reach from Cormac something that was intolerable to her mind. After-all they entered the world within the same month, and had nigh-well grown to adulthood together with the young woman determined that they would live in it and depart from it together one day. A part of her hoped he might outlive her, if only so that she would never be made to endure his absence.

  “I look like a proper lady!” She breathed sincerely moved, by the kindness of the seamstress she felt certain then, was to one day be her good-mother.

  Kenna beamed in response, as pleased by her joy as she was by her own appearance. The woman’s proud mien the sort she well-imagined her own mother might have worn, had she lived to see her standing there in silk, her hairs braided in the manner of a noblewoman.

  They swiftly undid all the work if only to keep it a secret, after-all Kenna had no great desire to flaunt the silk dress she had bought the cloth for, nigh on two years prior from a group of travelling Brittian merchants. Daegan wished to go find Cormac, to ensure that he did not forget about the festival, as he had two years previous.

  Pleased by her promise to return, and to return with her son, Kenna turned away from her to concentrate her attention upon the final touches for the dress. The dress was a tad long, and the last thing she needed was for the excitable daughter of Olith to do as her mother had done dozens of times; trip over herself. It had been the source of enough tears, for the poor lass so that her friend was determined to spare the daughter from such a humiliating fate.

  In the end, Daegan found no trace of her friend, not near the quay though she did find Indulf’s younger brother. From there she had inspected Ciaran’s oak, only to find no trace of her friend, much to her disappointment. She might well have complained at some length; however she was reminded of the descent of the suns, by Trygve rather abrasively.

  Many a grumbles and complaints were torn from her lips, on the route back to Kenna’s home, who at her return, set to work at once. Determined to ensure that she appear as comely as possible, Kenna was to once her work completed push her out the door, with a frenzied, “Hurry! Hurry, we must appear before some of the men arrive from the swimming-contest!”

  https://ko-fi.com/the_brothers_krynn you can decide the donation if you should want to give one.

  https://www.patreon.com/c/thebrotherskrynn