Chapter Two
Death
Two mornings later, Aveta rose to find that clouds had moved in and rain fell from the sky. Her plans to tend to her garden would have to wait.
She settled in to work in her tiny cottage. There were herbs to be dried and several potions and poultices she had promised to villagers in a few days time.
The rain fell harder as the morning transitioned into afternoon and the wind howled outside the shutters. In the midst of the tempest, someone pounded on her door. The force of the blows shook the heavy wooden portal.
Worried, Aveta rushed over and found a man hunched in front of the doorway, a long cloak shielding his features from the cold drops that fell fast and furious.
“You are needed urgently,” he stated, his voice nearly carried away by the wind.
Aveta realized he was the servant of one of the most prosperous men in town. A man whose wife was approaching the end of a difficult pregnancy.
“Come in for a moment so I may gather my things,” she invited. As she moved to her worktable, she asked, “Is it Branwen?”
“Yes,” he answered. “The baby comes but it has been more than a day.”
Her back to the man, Aveta scowled. She warned Drust that Branwen’s labor would be difficult and that he should send for her as soon as it began. Caderyn, the village healer, had been in attendance and scoffed at her demand. No doubt the man had convinced Drust that her presence was unnecessary.
Aveta quickly placed everything she might need in a basket and covered it with a heavy cloth. Then she threw a cloak over her shoulders, pulling the hood down low to protect her face from the stinging rain.
“I’m ready,” she assured him.
The walk into the village was difficult. More than once, the servant had to hold onto her arm to prevent the wind from knocking her to her knees.
By the time they arrived at their destination, Aveta was soaked to her skin and chilled. As she entered the house, she was glad to see that it was warm, almost hot. Quickly, she removed her dripping cloak and moved into the other room.
Her heart began to race when she saw the small mound of Branwen’s figure on the bed. Even pregnant, she was tiny and delicate. The young woman’s face was pale and still and she groaned softly. Drust and Caderyn stood together near the bed and Aveta felt a surge of fury in her blood.
It was clear that Branwen was greatly weakened from her ordeal. Aveta did not greet the men aloud, afraid that she would not be able to control herself if she spoke. She rarely cast spells, preferring to use potions and poultices to solve problems for those who came to her, but she feared her rage would overwhelm her reason. If she opened her mouth, she would curse them to suffer until the end of their days for what they had done to this sweet girl. Branwen was barely more than a child and her pregnancy had been difficult.
The fear and ignorance of the men in Branwen’s life led her to this precipice, for Aveta knew that she hovered between life and death. Like many of the other villagers, Drust did not understand Aveta. The lack of comprehension led to fear and aversion.
Caderyn despised her because she saw him for what he was. It was tradition for the healers to be blessed by the god and goddess. If the deities blessed a healer, they became the vessel for their power. Caderyn was not a vessel. While he did have some knowledge of healing, he allowed pride and bias to affect his treatment of the villagers.
Nodding to the men, who stood over the bed as though their mere presence would save Branwen, Aveta got to work. When she looked beneath the blanket, placed her palm on the girl’s swollen abdomen, and allowed the healing power of the goddess to flow through her hand, her heart sank. The baby was dead.
Though her heart broke for the loss of the child, Aveta focused on now saving the mother. She managed to rouse Branwen enough to have her drink a tea made from herbs that she brought.
For hours, she worked to help the young woman give birth to a babe that no one but she knew was dead. When the baby was finally born, Aveta quickly wrapped it. She held it out to Drust first, but he shook his head, his face ashen. Caderyn would not take the child either. The servant who had fetched Aveta stepped forward and took the small, motionless bundle.
“The baby,” Branwen mumbled. “My baby.”
“The babe is fine,” Aveta lied.
Branwen reached for Drust, who moved closer but did not take his wife’s hand.
Her anger returning with a vengeance, Aveta went back to Branwen and did everything she could to save the young woman’s life.
But it was too late.
Two hours after the stillbirth, Branwen released her last breath on a sigh. Caderyn removed Drust from the room. The man allowed himself to be guided out without a word.
Aveta stared after them, hoping that Drust was merely overwhelmed by grief rather than as uncaring as he seemed.
She moved to the bed and looked down at Branwen. “I’m sorry, little one. May you be at peace.”
Slowly, she washed the blood from her hands, gathered her things, and left the silent bedroom. Drust was nowhere to be seen as she came out. Caderyn stood in front of the fire, his arms clasped behind his back. He looked up when he heard her footsteps.
Aveta knew that he wished to engage her in a conversation, but she was still too upset over all that had transpired. She moved to the chair near the fire, where her cloak had been spread to dry.
“I would like to speak to you,” he stated, looking down his long, hawkish nose at her.
“There is very little to say,” Aveta returned, settling the cloak on her shoulders and pinning the garment together at her neck.
“Perhaps for you. But I have a great deal to say.”
She looked up at him, meeting his eyes squarely and lifting a brow. “Do you? Then you should say the words to Drust.”
Caderyn frowned at her. “What nonsense are you spouting?”
“You should apologize to Drust for the death of his wife and much-longed for son,” she answered baldly.
The healer drew up in obvious affront. “It is not I who should apologize.”
Aveta took a single step toward him. Though he towered over her, the village healer paled at her advance. Despite his loathing of her, Caderyn understood exactly what Aveta was capable of accomplishing if she so wished. He had only witnessed it on a single occasion, but he had never forgotten.
“I told you that Branwen was too weak and the child too large. I explained that I should be sent for immediately when her labor began. Yet you convinced Drust to wait over a day. All to protect your pride and your station in this village.” Aveta’s eyes moved over his fine and expensive tunic and trousers. “You imply that I am the one who has reason to apologize. It is you who should be shamed.”
“You dare to speak to me this way?” he hissed.
“I dare,” she replied.
“You forget what you are, Aveta. A widow, outcast, and mere female. One well-spoken word and you will be destroyed.”
Aveta smiled at the threat and Caderyn’s jaw tightened at her unexpected reaction.
“You seem to also forget what I am, Caderyn,” she said. “Because a few well-spoken words of my own can destroy you as well.”
His mouth thinned at her response. “You dare to threaten me?”
Aveta sighed, recognizing that the situation was deteriorating. “I dare, Caderyn,” she repeated. “For those who paid the price of your loathing of me are the two dead beneath this roof.”
Her words found their mark and Caderyn flinched.
Aveta gathered her things and left, blinking at the bright sky. She had not noticed when the storm ended. The air was noticeably cooler as she wove her way through the village, intent upon returning home. She yearned for the peace of her cottage and her garden.
She needed to be alone to mourn the loss of Branwen and her son. Though it had been likely that Branwen would not survive the birth regardless, Aveta was furious that she had not had a chance to try. There was a slim chance that she could have saved both the mother and child.
If Aveta had not been so lost in her thoughts, she would have noticed Rhiannon watching her and taken measures to avoid the other woman.
“Good afternoon, Aveta.”
Surprised, Aveta lifted her eyes to her side and found Rhiannon’s cold black gaze pinned on her.
“Greetings, Rhiannon,” she replied, not breaking her stride.
“What brings you to the village today?” the other woman asked.
Aveta’s steps faltered briefly. “Branwen gave birth this afternoon.”
“I heard she was in labor. How are mother and babe?”
Aveta did not respond, only glanced at Rhiannon, which said it all.
“How sad.”
They were rapidly approaching the edge of town and Aveta was glad. She was eager to be out of the other woman’s company. Though Aveta understood that she was several years younger, the other woman unsettled her. Her words and gestures seemed to carry an underlying threat. Rhiannon rarely ventured outside the confines of the village and Aveta was immensely grateful for that.
“May I speak with you about a personal matter?” Rhiannon asked, touching Aveta’s arm.
Biting back a sigh of frustration, she stopped, turning to face Rhiannon. “Of course.” Whether she liked it or not, Aveta was a healer and she had a duty to help anyone in need.
Unfortunately, Rhiannon was not in need of help.
“I would prefer if you would turn Alaunus away should he return to your home,” Rhiannon stated. “As I am promised to him, it disturbs me that he spends time alone with you.”
Rhiannon’s words were calm and sweetly spoken. Her voice was nearly friendly. But Aveta was looking into her black eyes, and the expression in them was anything but amiable. Something fierce and hard reflected from the dark depths and Aveta felt a shiver of premonition. Rhiannon may seem young and pliable, but a core of pure rock resided within her, hard and unyielding.
“Alaunus is a man and capable of his own decisions,” Aveta replied, shifting her basket to her left hand and leaving her dominant free. “He comes to my home of his own volition.”
For a moment, the mask cracked and Aveta could see what lay beneath Rhiannon’s delicate, feminine facade. While she always sensed it was there, witnessing the rage and the hatred was enough to make her skin burn. Rhiannon was a roiling pit of darkness. As quickly as it had fallen, the mask was lifted, leaving only pale serenity in its wake.
“All I ask is that you turn him away should he come again,” Rhiannon repeated.
“Good afternoon, Rhiannon,” Aveta replied, ignoring the other woman’s words.
As she walked away, Aveta felt the gaze of the younger woman like a dagger between her shoulders.