Free The Lost Years by T. A. Barron Page B

newfound gaze. “If you cannot, or will not, tell me where I came from, then I must find out myself. Please understand! I must find my true name. I must find my true mother and father. I must find my true home.”
    “Stay,” she begged in desperation. “You are only a boy of twelve! And half blind, as well! You have no idea of the risks. Listen to me, Emrys. If you stay with me for just a few more years, you will reach manhood. Then you can choose whatever you want to be. A bard. A monk. Whatever you like.”
    Seeing my blank look, she tried a different approach. “Whatever you do, don’t decide right now. I could tell you a story, something to help you think through this madness. What about one of your favorites? The one about the wandering Druid who saved Saint Brigid from slavery?” Without waiting for me to answer, she began. “There came a day in the life of young Brigid when she—”
    “Stop.” I shook my head. “I must learn my own story.”
    Weakly, Branwen clambered to her feet. “I left behind more than you will ever know. Do you know why? So we could be safe, you and I. Is that not enough for you?”
    I said nothing.
    “Must you really do this?”
    “You could come with me.”
    She leaned against the wall for support. “No! I could not.”
    “Then tell me how to get back there.”
    “No.”
    “Or at least where to begin.”
    “No.”
    I felt a sudden urge to probe the inside of her mind, as if it were the inside of a flower. Then the flames ignited, overwhelming my thoughts. I remembered my promise—and also my fears.
    “Tell me just one thing,” I pleaded. “You told me once that you knew my grandfather. Did you also know my father?”
    She winced. “Yes. I knew him.”
    “Was he, well, not human? Was he . . . a demon?”
    Her whole body stiffened. After a long silence she spoke, in a voice that seemed a lifetime away. “I will say only this. If ever you should meet him, remember: He is not what he may seem.”
    “I will remember. But can’t you tell me anything more?”
    She shook her head.
    “My own father! I just want to know him.”
    “It is better you do not.”
    “Why?”
    Instead of answering, she just shook her head sadly. She went to the low table bearing her collection of healing herbs. Deftly, she picked a few, then ground them into a coarse powder which she poured into a leather satchel on a cord. Handing me the satchel, she said resignedly, “This might help you live a little longer.”
    I started to respond, but she spoke again.
    “And take this, from the woman who would have you call her Mother.” Slowly, she reached into her robe and pulled out her precious pendant.
    Despite my limited vision, I could see the flash of glowing green.
    “But it’s yours!”
    “You will need it more than I.”
    She removed the pendant and squeezed its jeweled center one last time before placing the leather cord around my neck. “It is called . . . the Galator .”
    I caught my breath at the word.
    “Guard it well,” she continued. “Its power is great. If it cannot keep you safe, that is only because nothing outside of Heaven can.”
    “You kept me safe. You built a good nest.”
    “For a while, perhaps. But now . . .” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “Now you must fly.”
    “Yes. Now I must fly.”
    Gently, she touched my cheek.
    I turned and left the room, my footsteps echoing down the corridor of stone.

10: T HE O LD O AK
    As I stepped through the carved wooden gates of the Church of Saint Peter, I entered the bustle and confusion of Caer Myrddin. It took some time for my dim vision to adjust to all the commotion. Carts and horses clattered along the stony streets, as did donkeys, pigs, sheep, and a few hairy dogs. Merchants bellowed about their wares, beggars clutched at the robes of passersby, spectators gathered around a man juggling balls, and people of all descriptions strode past, carrying baskets, bundles, fresh greens, and stacks of cloth.
    I glanced over my