Latest Post: Ebbe’s Worries
Ebbe the augur sat by her fire. Sibyl, mystic, witch woman. She’d been called them all, but the title she’d always joyed in was grandmother.
She stared at the flames, seeking truth. Her rheumy eyes blurred the light and allowed her see half-patterns and images where sharper eyes would see none. It was always out of such chaos that she divined surety. A paradox for some. Yet truth ever has blurred edges. There are no straight lines.
Her inner sight had grown clearer over the years even as her eyes had started to fail her. Yet she knew what she sought even back in younger days.
‘Ah Bronwen,’ the crone said to the flames. ‘I guess we are all born to be used in one way or another.’
The scryer had used all her powers to aid her granddaughter’s difficult birth; had even sacrificed her own daughter in the effort.
The complications of birth were not natural. The reach of the Otherworld would have denied Bronwen life and instead had to settle for taking that of her mother. Ebbe had never doubted the choice she’d made that day, however painful the scars.
The old crone shook her head. The truth of the flames flickered and danced. She could not see what was coming, but her gut told her that time drew nigh.
Thoughts of the boy Immin Grada came to her then as they often did at such times. She had tried so hard to steer Bronwen from him, could taste the bad future he hurtled towards. And yet they kept coming back together. Perhaps the old ones would have called it fate.
She tried to bury her anxiety. It does me only ill. The Old Sorrows shaped her flames as much as truth did. Eald Cearo must surely rise. And all we can do is oppose them.
Aye, and die.
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© 2020 Lee Donoghue
Books set in the world of Eald Cearo
© 2012 Lee Donoghue