Read The Weaver of Mist free: the opening chapter

Shadows of the Wall

The rain tasted of iron and woodsmoke. Rhiannon wiped a smear of mud from her cheek, the grit scratching against her skin. She knelt beside the makeshift lean-to, the damp wool of her Roman-style tunic clinging uncomfortably. Inside, Old Man Eamon lay still, his breathing shallow and ragged. A Roman patrol had found him gathering firewood near the wall, a clear violation of the new regulations. They hadn’t killed him, not outright. Just…persuaded him to learn his lesson.

Rhiannon pressed two fingers to Eamon's wrist, her own pulse a frantic drum against the chill. The faint thrum she sought was there, thankfully, though weak. She’d seen worse. Much worse, tending to the wounded after skirmishes along the wall. But those were Roman soldiers. Eamon was…different. He was of the Brythonic people, the ones the Romans called Britons, though they called themselves something older, something lost in the mist. And Eamon, she knew, carried within him a lineage that whispered of something even older than that.

Her mother, Aurelia, had been a Roman administrator’s daughter, sent north with her father to “civilize” the province. Her father, however, had been different. He'd learned the local ways, married a woman of the Brythonic people, a woman whispered to be a ban-drui, a woman of power. Rhiannon was the result: a child caught between two worlds, belonging fully to neither.

She smoothed a poultice of crushed herbs and willow bark onto Eamon’s bruised ribs. The scent, earthy and bitter, mingled with the rain-soaked smell of the forest. Her fingers, guided by instinct and the teachings of her mother, moved with a practiced grace. It wasn’t simply knowledge of herbs, though she had that too, gleaned from the Roman army’s medicus and the old woman’s whispered lore. It was…something else. A warmth that flowed from her hands, a tingling energy that seemed to accelerate the healing process.

She hadn’t spoken of it to anyone. Not even Aurelia, before she’d passed. It was a secret, a dangerous one. The Romans prized practicality, order. They tolerated healers, but they wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t allow, something that felt so…unnatural. And the Brythonic people, while they might accept it, might also fear it. They held onto their old beliefs fiercely, and a power that blurred the lines between worlds might be seen as a threat.

---

A twig snapped nearby. Rhiannon’s head shot up, her hand instinctively reaching for the small knife hidden beneath her tunic. Lucius Valerius, a centurion with the Second Augusta Legion, emerged from the trees, his armor gleaming even in the grey light. He was a man of imposing stature, with a stern face and eyes that missed little.

“What are you doing here, Rhiannon?” His voice was clipped, demanding.

She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Visiting a sick man, Centurion.”

“A sick man who happens to be a Briton found trespassing on Roman land?” He gestured with his chin towards the lean-to. “You have a habit of associating with those who defy the law.”

Rhiannon bristled. “I am a healer. It is my duty to ease suffering, regardless of who the patient is.” She kept her voice carefully neutral, masking the turmoil within. She’d worked alongside Lucius for months now, assisting the legion’s medicus. He was a fair man, for a Roman. He followed the rules, but he wasn’t cruel. Still, she couldn't reveal the extent of her abilities, not to him.

“Duty, you say?” Lucius’s lips thinned. “Your duty is to the Empire, to uphold Roman law. Not to coddle lawbreakers.” He paused, his eyes scanning the area. “You were warned about aiding those who harbor resentment towards Rome.”

“He was injured, Centurion. He needed help.”

“He needed to learn a lesson.”

Rhiannon bit back a sharp retort. Arguing with Lucius was pointless. He was a soldier, trained to see the world in black and white. She lowered her gaze, focusing on her work. “I’ve done what I can. I’ll leave him with enough supplies to last a few days.”

Lucius remained silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on her. She could feel his scrutiny, weighing her words, assessing her motives. Finally, he sighed. “See that you do. And Rhiannon…”

“Centurion?”

“Be careful. The mood is sour among the Brythonic people. They whisper of rebellion, of seeking aid from the tribes further west. It would be…unwise to become entangled in their affairs.”

He turned and walked back towards the wall, his footsteps heavy on the damp earth. Rhiannon watched him go, a knot of anxiety tightening in her chest. He was right. Tensions were rising. The Roman presence, meant to bring order, had only served to inflame old wounds. The Brythonic people resented the taxes, the restrictions on their land, the disregard for their customs.

---

Once Lucius was out of sight, Rhiannon closed her eyes, focusing on the warmth in her hands. She reached out, not to Eamon’s physical wounds, but to something deeper, something within him. It was like touching a fragile thread, a shimmering strand of energy that connected him to the land, to the spirits that dwelled within it. The Tuatha Dé Danann, her mother had called them. The old gods, fading with the rise of Rome, but not entirely gone.

She hadn’t actively sought this connection, not since she was a child. It frightened her. It felt…wrong, somehow. As if she were reaching into a realm she didn’t belong to. But sometimes, when she was treating the sick, it happened automatically, a surge of power that flowed through her, amplifying her healing abilities.

Tonight, though, it was different. The connection to Eamon was stronger, clearer. She could feel his pain, his fear, but also something else: a faint echo of ancient power, a whisper of forgotten magic. And within that echo, a warning.

A darkness was stirring, something that threatened not only the Brythonic people but the balance between worlds. Something that reached even to the fading gods.

She gasped, pulling back her hand, her heart pounding. Sweat beaded on her forehead. She hadn't intended to seek it out, to listen. She'd only been trying to mend a broken bone. But she'd heard, felt... something.

“What’s happening?” A weak voice rasped from the lean-to.

Rhiannon blinked, shaking off the disorientation. Eamon was looking at her, his eyes filled with confusion.

“Just…a bad dream,” she said, forcing a smile. “The poultice is working. You’ll be feeling much better soon.”

But she knew it wasn’t a dream. It was a glimpse of something real, something terrifying. And she, a woman caught between two worlds, was somehow at the center of it.

As she gathered her herbs, a shadow fell across the entrance to the lean-to. Not Lucius. This figure was taller, cloaked, and moved with a grace that spoke of the forest itself. A woman.

The figure stopped, her face hidden in the shadows of her hood. "You have a gift, child of the two bloods. A gift that is needed."

Rhiannon’s hand froze. She knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that this woman was not Roman. And she wasn’t just Brythonic either. She was something…more.

“Who are you?” Rhiannon asked, her voice barely a whisper.

The woman slowly raised her head, revealing a face etched with wisdom and sorrow. Her eyes, the color of moss and stone, met Rhiannon’s gaze.

“I am Branwen,” she said, her voice a low murmur. “And I believe it is time you learned the truth about who you are.”

“Who are you?” Rhiannon asked, her voice barely a whisper.

The woman slowly raised her head, revealing a face etched with wisdom and sorrow. Her eyes, the color of moss and stone, met Rhiannon’s gaze.

“I am Branwen,” she said, her voice a low murmur. “And I believe it is time you learned the truth about who you are.”

Rhiannon glanced at Eamon, still pale and drifting in and out of consciousness. He was too weak to be a threat, but Branwen’s arrival felt like a violation, a tearing of the careful veil she’d constructed around her life. Lucius would be furious if he knew she was harboring a wounded Brythonic man, let alone speaking with a stranger in the dead of night.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, attempting a dismissive tone, but her voice trembled.

Branwen’s lips curved in a sad smile. “Don’t play the innocent, child. I felt the surge of power when you touched him. It’s a beacon, a song that echoes through the land. You are bendith blessed, Rhiannon. Touched by the old ways.”

Rhiannon’s heart hammered against her ribs. Blessed? Touched? Her mother’s whispered stories, dismissed as fanciful tales to soothe a restless child, suddenly felt shockingly real. Stories of healers and seers, women who walked between worlds, drawing strength from the earth and the spirits within it.

“My mother…she spoke of such things,” Rhiannon admitted, her voice barely audible. “But I thought they were just stories.”

“Stories are often born of truth, carefully preserved through generations,” Branwen said, stepping fully into the lean-to, her cloak swirling around her like mist. “Your mother knew. She carried the knowledge, the lineage, and she passed it to you, whether you realized it or not.”

Branwen’s gaze swept over Rhiannon, assessing, knowing. It felt like being stripped bare, her carefully constructed facade crumbling under the weight of the woman’s scrutiny.

“You are a glédr,” Branwen continued, using the ancient Brythonic word for ‘seer’. “A weaver of mist. You can see the threads that connect all things, the patterns of fate, and, with training, you can influence them.”

Rhiannon shook her head, trying to dismiss the impossible. “No. I’m just a healer. I use herbs and bandages. That’s all.”

“That is what you believe,” Branwen countered softly. “But your skills extend beyond the mundane. The speed with which you set his bone, the calming effect you have on his fever…it’s more than just knowledge of herbs. It’s the power within you, flowing through you, guiding your hands.”

Rhiannon looked down at her hands, calloused from gathering plants and mixing poultices. They felt…different now. Tingling, almost vibrating with an energy she hadn’t noticed before.

“I…I felt something when I touched him,” she confessed. “A connection. Like I could feel his pain, his fear. And…a warning. About darkness.”

Branwen nodded. “The darkness is coming, Rhiannon. It’s been gathering for years, fueled by the Roman ambition and the weakening of the old ways. And you, with your gift, are destined to play a part in the coming conflict.”

“Conflict?” Rhiannon’s voice was filled with dread. “I don’t want any part of conflict. I just want to heal people.”

“Healing is a form of resistance,” Branwen said, her eyes unwavering. “But sometimes, healing isn’t enough. Sometimes, you must fight to protect what you cherish.”

“But I’m torn,” Rhiannon said, her voice choked with emotion. “I live among the Romans. I’ve…I’ve made a life for myself. Lucius…he’s kind. He doesn’t know about my mother, about…this.”

Branwen’s expression softened. “I understand. You are a child of two worlds, bound by loyalty to both. It is a difficult path.”

“A dangerous one,” Rhiannon added, thinking of Lucius’s unwavering dedication to Rome, his disdain for the Brythonic ways. If he ever discovered her true nature, her mother’s heritage…

“Indeed,” Branwen acknowledged. “But it is a path you must walk. The balance is fragile, and the fate of this land, perhaps even of the old gods themselves, rests on your shoulders.”

Rhiannon stared at Branwen, overwhelmed by the weight of her words. She was just a woman, a healer, caught between two cultures, two loyalties. How could she possibly be responsible for the fate of anything, let alone a land and its gods?

“What do you want from me?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“I want to help you understand your gift,” Branwen said. “To teach you how to control it, how to harness its power. To prepare you for what is to come.”

“Prepare me for what?”

“For the war that is brewing,” Branwen said, her voice grim. “For the resurgence of ancient forces. For the battle between the old ways and the new.”

Rhiannon glanced at Eamon, still unconscious. He was a symbol of everything she was struggling with, a reminder of the conflict tearing her apart. She couldn’t abandon him. She wouldn’t. But how could she protect him, and herself, from the storm that was gathering?

“I need time to think,” she said, her voice firm despite her fear. “I need to consider what you’ve said.”

Branwen nodded. “Of course. But time is a luxury we may not have. The shadows are lengthening, and the darkness grows stronger with each passing day.”

“Give me until the next moonrise,” Rhiannon said. “I will give you my answer then.”

Branwen’s eyes held a flicker of approval. “Very well. But know this, Rhiannon. The choice you make will not only shape your own destiny but the destiny of all those around you.”

With a final, lingering look, Branwen turned and disappeared into the forest, melting into the shadows as if she were a part of them.

Rhiannon stood there, trembling, staring at the spot where Branwen had stood. The air still hummed with energy, a residue of the woman’s presence. She turned back to Eamon, his face pale in the dim light of the oil lamp.

She finished tending to his wound, her hands moving with a practiced skill that felt strangely disconnected from the turmoil within her. As she smoothed the final layer of the poultice, she allowed herself to reach out again, tentatively, cautiously.

The connection was still there, but it was different now. Branwen’s words had awakened something within her, a deeper awareness of the energy that flowed through Eamon, through the land, through everything. It was a vast, complex network of power, and she was somehow connected to it, a single thread in a tapestry woven over centuries.

She closed her eyes, focusing on the feeling, trying to understand it. She could sense Eamon’s pain, yes, but also his resilience, his connection to his people, to the land they called home. And she could feel something else, something ancient and powerful, stirring within him, a faint echo of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

It was intoxicating, terrifying, and utterly overwhelming. She quickly withdrew, gasping for breath.

“What are you doing?” a voice rasped from the lean-to.

Eamon’s eyes were open, and he was looking at her with a mixture of confusion and pain.

“Just checking on your wound,” Rhiannon said, forcing a smile. “You’re doing much better.”

He tried to sit up, but winced in pain. “The Romans…they were brutal.”

Rhiannon helped him settle back against the straw. “You were lucky to escape.”

“Lucky?” He scoffed. “I lost my brothers. My village…it’s gone.”

Rhiannon’s heart ached for him. She knew what it was like to lose everything, to feel adrift and alone. She’d built a life for herself, but it felt hollow, incomplete.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I wish I could have done more.”

“You saved my life,” Eamon said, his voice weak. “That’s enough.”

Rhiannon looked at him, and she knew she couldn’t just walk away. She couldn’t pretend that she was just a healer, that she didn’t have a role to play in the coming conflict.

She was a glédr, a weaver of mist, a child of two worlds. And she had a choice to make. A choice that would determine not only her own fate but the fate of everyone she cared about.

“I’m going to need your help,” she said, her voice filled with a newfound determination. “I’m going to learn what I am, what I can do. And I’m going to need someone I can trust.”

Eamon looked at her, his eyes filled with curiosity. “What are you talking about?”

Rhiannon took a deep breath. It was time to reveal a part of herself she had kept hidden for so long.

“I’m not just a healer, Eamon,” she said. “There’s…more to me than you know.” And as she began to tell him about her mother, about the stories she had dismissed as fanciful tales, about the power that flowed within her, she knew that her life would never be the same again. The healing hand was also a hand that might soon wield something far more potent, and she was stepping into a destiny she hadn’t chosen, but could no longer avoid.

The sample ends here.