The Lost Years by T. A. Barron Read Free Book Online Page B

. . . wherever I came from, over the sea.”
    Her hands tensed. “I did. But before I went there, I lived here, in Gwynedd. Not in this village but in Caer Myrddin, which was not so crowded as it is today. Now let me continue.”
    I nodded obediently, feeling buoyed by what she had said. It wasn’t much, but it was the first time she had ever told me anything about her childhood.
    She resumed both her work and her story. “Dagda is one of those Apollos. He is one of the most powerful Celtic spirits, the god of complete knowledge.”
    “What does Dagda look like? In the stories, I mean.”
    Branwen took the last of the paste from the bowl. “Ah, that’s a good question. A very good question. For some reason known only to him, Dagda’s true face is never seen. He assumes various forms at various times.”
    “Like what?”
    “Once, in a famous battle with his supreme enemy, an evil spirit named Rhita Gawr, both of them took the forms of powerful beasts. Rhita Gawr became a huge boar, with terrible tusks and eyes the color of blood.” She paused, trying to remember. “Oh, yes. And a scar that ran all the way down one of its forelegs.”
    I stiffened. The scar under my eye, where the boar’s tusk had ripped me five years ago, started to sting. On many a dark night since that day, the same boar had appeared again, and attacked again, in my dreams.
    “And in that battle, Dagda became—”
    “A great stag,” I completed. “Bronze in color, except for the white boots. Seven points on each side of its rack. And eyes as deep as the spaces between the stars.”
    Surprised, she nodded. “So you have heard the story?”
    “No,” I confessed.
    “Then how could you know?”
    I exhaled long and slow. “I have seen those eyes.”
    She froze. “You have?”
    “I have seen the stag. And the boar as well.”
    “When?”
    “On the day we washed ashore.”
    She studied me closely. “Did they fight?”
    “Yes! The boar wanted to kill us. Especially you, I would guess, if it really was some kind of evil spirit.”
    “Whatever makes you say that?”
    “Well, because you were . . . you! And I was just a scrawny little boy then.” I cast an eye over myself and grinned. “As opposed to the scrawny big boy I am now. Anyway, that boar would surely have killed us. But then the stag appeared and drove it off.” I touched the spot under my eye. “That’s how I got this.”
    “You never told me.”
    I glanced at her sharply. “There is much you have never told me.”
    “You’re right,” she said ruefully. “We may have shared a few stories about others, but very few about ourselves. It’s my fault, really.”
    I said nothing.
    “But I will share this much with you now. If that boar—Rhita Gawr—could have killed just one of us, it would not have been me. It would have been you .”
    “What? That’s absurd! It’s you who has such knowledge, such powers to heal.”
    “And you have powers more vast by far!” Her gaze locked into mine. “Have you begun to feel them yet? Your grandfather told me once that his came in his twelfth year.” She caught her breath. “I did not mean to mention him.”
    “But you did! Now can you tell me more?”
    Grimly, she shook her head. “Let’s not talk about it.”
    “Please, oh please! Tell me something, at least. What was he like?”
    “I can’t.”
    My cheeks grew hot. “You must! Why did you mention him at all unless there was something about him I should know?”
    She ran a hand through her yellow locks. “He was a wizard, a formidable one. But I will tell you only what he said about you. Before you were born. He told me that powers such as he possessed often skipped a generation. And that I would have a son who . . .”
    “Who what?”
    “Who would have powers even greater than his own. Whose magic would spring from the very deepest sources. So deep that, if you learned to master them, you could change the course of the world forever.”
    My jaw fell open.