Chalice 2 - Dream Stone Page 6
She knew the legends of this place above the Irish Sea, the stories born there and the stories brought from Eire. Mychael, named for the archangel of the Christian God, Rhiannon’s unforetold son who had come into the world by sharing the womb with his sister. He should not be, except for some strange grace of fate and the magic arts of a woman long lost in time. Ailfinn would know the truth of it. One look would reveal the boy’s forbidden origins to the mage.
Rhiannon must have been mad, or too far under the Christian yoke of her faithless husband, to have let a son be born from her womb. ’Twas what came from allowing love to make a match. With one set of ill-fated vows, Carn Merioneth had lost its firm hold on the past and been laid bare before the temporal world, a world that had destroyed what time had held inviolate.
Nay, Madron thought, Mychael ab Arawn should not be, but he was, and she would not lose him, not to Rhuddlan, not to Ailfinn Mapp, and not to the wildness reaching up for him from the depths of the earth. Without him she could not open the doors between the worlds and look beyond her time. Without him she could not take her father’s place and be a watcher of the gates.
Chapter 3
Mychael returned to Carn Merioneth well after dark, flashing his dreamstone blade to make himself known to the guard at the postern gate. No other light shone the same clear blue. ’Twas as different from lantern flame or torchlight as crystal was from fire, and impossible for the Welsh, or the English, or any man to duplicate.
He had spent the rest of the day in Riverwood with Owain, a Welshman who had fought with the Quicken-tree and who had not left for Gwynedd after the battle for Balor, choosing instead to stay in Merioneth. They had found a trail of wolves and men running together in the northern woods and followed it as far as the Bredd, where the hunters had crossed the water. ’Twasn’t the first time the strange mix of tracks had been found. Rhuddlan had long since doubled the scouts in Riverwood.
Owain had headed back to the keep hours earlier, yet Mychael had stayed out, letting the night come to him in the forest. He’d been restless since the morn and would have slept in the woods as well, wolves or nay, if not for the necessity of preparing for the coming journey into the caverns. Aye, that and mayhaps one other thing had brought him back inside the wall, a teller of tales with forest green eyes and shimmering curves.
Passing through the gate, he greeted the guard in the elfin tongue and resheathed his blade. Lanterns flickered throughout the upper bailey, casting amber light and shadows on the trees and the willow huts built by the Quicken-tree, the only structures left inside the wall. A few women were gathered about the hearthfire, serving the evening pottage, a not unpleasant stew of grains and berries. He and Owain had roasted squirrels over a campfire in the woods for their supper. ’Twas an act of barbarism to the Quicken-tree, but one he and the Welshman indulged in regularly.
Owain had served Morgan ab Kynan, a Welsh prince, and had been the captain of Morgan’s warband during the battle of Balor. When the Boar of Balor had vanquished the prince into the abyss of the great wormhole, a saddened Owain had pledged his sword to Merioneth. A telling choice, for he’d picked no man—or Quicken-tree—to follow, but the land. ’Twas what Mychael had pledged himself to as well, including the land below Merioneth, where he knew his destiny lay.
Of the women at the hearthfire, ’twas Moira stirring the cooking cauldron. She mended his clothes when they needed it, and was the one he and most of the Quicken-tree went to when they were ailing. Her brown hair was plaited in a crown around her head, framing a face of gentle curves and rosy cheeks, but in her own quiet way, Moira wielded nearly as much power as Rhuddlan. Elen, next to her, was younger with darker hair, and was growing heavy with a child conceived during the Quicken-tree’s Beltaine celebration. Three little girls sat by the fire, giggling over a game played with seashells and sticks, and Fand, a Liosalfar of the Ebiurrane clan from the north, lean and blond like the elder warrior she was, stood talking with Moira and Elen. The one he sought was not near, though he looked all around.
On his way to the lower bailey, he passed more Quicken-tree and Ebiurrane, some in groups, some not. He greeted a few, mainly the Liosalfar at the portcullis, and avoided others, keeping to the shadows. Still he did not let any go unnoticed, and the maid was not to be found. Nor was Shay.
Well, there was his answer then, and he supposed they made a fine enough pair, though he doubted if Shay had much more experience with women than he did himself. Still, if that morn’s adventure was anything to judge by, Shay was eager to learn, and the boy was a quick study. ’Twas no concern of his either way, he told himself, but Shay was to the deep dark on the morrow as well, and Mychael would as soon not have the boy mooning overmuch while they were below.
He passed through an open gate in the inner curtain between the baileys, heading toward the southwall on the other side of the great apple orchard. He kept a room in the tower on one of the lower floors. In spring, he’d awakened one morning to a shower of fragrant petals falling outside his window and known he’d truly come home. The orchard was as old as the demesne and made up of trees as mighty as any oak grove.
A stone chapel nestled against the seaside wall of the lower bailey, between the orchard and the fields of grass planted by the Quicken-tree, but Mychael had not had the courage to enter it. ’Twas a pagan life he led now, searching for his mother’s gods among the wreckage of the ancient glory of Merioneth, and ’twas to this end that he devoted himself. Falling back upon the God he’d forsaken could do him no good.
Upon reaching the tower, he slipped inside and took to the stairs. ’Twas a matter of course that a man’s weapons were sharpened before going into the caverns. Mychael would gather up his iron dagger and his leaf-bladed short sword and go work with the others bound for the journey ahead.
~ ~ ~
Llynya held her breath as she stretched out over the battlements, craning her neck to keep Mychael ab Arawn in view until he stepped inside the tower at the far end of the orchard. Even with moonlight and lanterns to see him by, and with her vantage point on top of the inner wall-walk, he’d been difficult to track across the wards. He moved like a flicker of shadow and light through the darkness, providing only an elusive silhouette. She’d lost him a time or two when he’d seemed to disappear into thin air, but now she knew exactly where he was.
She released her breath and dropped back down onto her feet. Aye, she knew exactly where he was. She’d waited for his return the whole afternoon long, but again had missed her chance to speak to him by hesitating.
Or had she? No other had approached the southwall tower. He was alone.
The truth of that gave her pause. ’Twould be a simple thing to present herself at the door to his chamber, and she would have the privacy she needed for all she would say. Rhuddlan would banish her farther north to the Ebiurrane or south again to Deri if he divined even a hint of what she was about. To breach a wormhole was dangerous beyond reckoning and forbidden to all. To breach the time weir itself was tantamount to death.
Tantamount—but not death itself, and therein lay the nature of its terror. To pass through the Weir Gate and find no purchase on the other side was to spend eternity falling through the ages. If Morgan had survived the cutting blow that had sent him over the edge, she feared such had been his fate.
A chill rippled through her at the thought. She’d seen the flash of the Boar of Balor’s blade and watched in horror as it had sunk into the Thief. She’d seen the blood fill Morgan’s mouth—too much blood—and she’d been too late, too late to save him.
Sticks! She caught her lower lip with her teeth. Her hand came up to rub at a spot above her left breast. Damnable ache. Her place had been at his side. She’d been sworn to such not just once, but twice by Rhuddlan. Yet during battle she’d thought only of Ceridwen’s safety, and for that mistake, Morgan had paid.
And so did she still pay.
She looked to the tower beyond the orchard, its walled rampart silhouetted against
the moonlit sky. Mychael ab Arawn had walked the tenuous line between the tantamount and death. If she would do the same, she must deal with him. She’d known that from the beginning.
So what had stayed her? she wondered. She had no fear of men, but then neither had she ever had need of one—until him. Edmee, Madron’s daughter, was not so wary of Mychael, but she was the granddaughter of Nemeton himself and like Mychael had her own share of Druid blood running in her veins. Edmee had confided earlier that day that Mychael tended to keep to himself, being even more of an outcast than others would make him. Yet Llynya had spoken with some at Carn Merioneth who were not at all comfortable with a man who had spent so much time alone in the deep dark; and others whose discomfort edged toward open hostility, like Bedwyr, blade-master of the Liosalfar. No Quicken-tree could have survived the isolation endured by Mychael, not for the months he’d spent in the caverns, but—Bedwyr had been quick to say—it had not been so long since the Dockalfar, the Dark-elves, had lived in the deep dark, and wasn’t there trouble in Riverwood?
The blade-master’s accusations had fallen just short of naming Mychael ab Arawn consort of the ancient enemy. More foolishness, she’d told herself, yet twice her own instincts had warned her off her chosen course.
The Liosalfar tolerated him, for he was skilled with a bow and proving out with a blade, according to Wei, Trig’s second in command. He had even mastered the art of the iron stars, throwing disks with sharp points like the rays of a star. They were an ancient weapon, not much in use since the Wars, but the Druid boy had taken to them. Shay called Mychael friend. Madron had use of him, dire use that it seemed she could not convince him of—this learned in another confidence from Edmee—and Rhuddlan would rule him, if he could. As for herself, she knew exactly what she would have from him; he knew the dark. She needed no other reason to search him out.
So what had stayed her? ’Twas not bodily harm she feared, yet twice she’d sensed danger in his presence.
Unexpectedly, he came back out of the tower, and a wash of relief ran through her. Her hand, still absently rubbing the strange ache in her chest dropped to her side. He was not yet for sleep and dreams, and she would have no more hesitation from herself.
His long strides quickly brought him abreast of the gatestones in the inner wall. He passed through just below where she stood on top, heading toward the portcullis by the looks of the weapons hanging off his belt. She’d seen the Liosalfar there, grinding their blades to a keen edge for the morrow. On his current path, Mychael would pass by the keep’s well. If she was quick, she could intercept him there.
In a twinkling, she was up and gone, before another warning had the chance to sound in her head and keep her from her fate.
~ ~ ~
Mychael strode across the ward, listening to the night wind sough through the tall grass, the mainstay of Quicken-tree meals. The sounds of laughter and shared conversations drifted to him on the breeze, coming from the hearthfire and the portcullis at the far end of the bailey. All of the Quicken-tree had voices like cool running water, and to hear them mixed together whether in speech or song was to hear the sweet babbling of brooks and the rushing tumble of rivers down mountainsides. He had no place among them, and he oft wondered if they would stay when he claimed the land as his own. His fight was truly not with them, nor even with Madron or Rhuddlan, but with a nameless, faceless enemy he’d sensed only once the night he’d walked the cloisters of Strata Florida and been beset by the vision. Heresy, to be sure, what he’d seen of the pagan deeds threatening to damn his soul, yet the whole of it had drawn him in and with every passing day tightened its hold.
All men fought the demons inside themselves, and the night of his vision he’d thought the battle he saw was of a spiritual nature, and—more blasphemy—that he’d be sainted in four hundred years for having had it.
But the pull of the damn thing had been relentless and real, dragging him hack to Merioneth where he’d found dragon sign and remembered dragon tales of old, things learned at his mother’s knee, long forgotten yet always known. ’Twas not sainthood awaiting him, he’d realized, for if the dragons were real and the vision not a metaphor for man’s struggle with sin, he would become that for which he had no heart, a warlord like his father, though far worse. In the vision he’d seen himself wading through a river of blood that poured from the bodies of his slain enemies, a sword in his hand dripping the same blood, and above the destruction, the dragons screaming their victory across a night sky rent by white light and sundering dark flame.
Aye, the dragons had called him home aright, not for sainthood, but to fight. He who had been raised a man of peace in a religion that relegated the beasts to myth was to fight as lord of a land he had not claimed, against an enemy he did not know—or so he prayed.
What if ’twas the Quicken-tree he must purge from Merioneth? The question came to him now and again. Could it be that they had betrayed his parents and then found the new rulers not to their liking? Doubtful, but possible. After the rout of Balor, no one else was clamoring for the demesne, leaving a dearth of enemies.
To their favor, Madron abided the Quicken-tree, and her father had died in the same battle as Mychael’s mother and father fifteen years past. Like him, she must have heard of Gwrnach’s unholy death by his son’s hand and felt avenged. The son, Caradoc, the Boar of Balor, had disappeared into the weir with Morgan ab Kynan, ending the Balor line. The other men of Balor had indeed been slaughtered, but not all by his hand. He’d killed only three and those with his bow, not a sword—and he’d killed them to save the maid, not for blood.
So ’twas not the battle behind him, but mayhaps one he yet faced that could make him a butcher. ’Twas what he feared more than death, this blood-drenched thing he could become, for therein lay the loss of God’s will and the true heart of madness, should he live his life as a ravening beast.
As restless as his thoughts, the wind changed, slipping over the seaward wall and causing the fields of grass to sway to the east. He followed the rippling stalks, watching them crest in dark, golden waves across the bailey, until his gaze came to the keep’s well.
His steps slowed.
She was there, the elfin maid, standing alone in a pool of light cast by a small lantern, drawing a bucket of water. He’d never seen a creature so fair, nor even imagined one—the dark tumble of her hair, more knotted than tangled, deliberately tied in a thousand intricate twists and braids and laced through with leaves; skin that shimmered, begging a touch; and a face that defied him to remain unmoved. Flowers were pressed into the Quicken-tree cloth of her tunic and leggings, bright stars of meadowsweet and rose petals as softly pink as her mouth. Woad tattoos encircled her wrist and twined upward around her arm in a pattern of runes and leaves, marking her as a warrior of the tylwyth teg, a Liosalfar, utterly pagan. And utterly amazing that one so seemingly delicate could fight. Yet he’d seen her wield a blade.
Five months he’d lived with the Quicken-tree and met many a pretty maiden, and he’d known that whatever he took from any of them, he would have to give like in return. So he had taken nothing. He would have none make a claim on him, however slight, be it for a kiss or more—until now. In Riverwood, at dawn, this sprite had held his gaze no longer than one moment, but it had been enough to ensnare him, for he’d seen a single truth in the verdant depths of her eyes: she was as wild as he, mayhaps even more so.
Reason enough to steer clear of her, he told himself, though he slowed his steps just the same. He needed no more wildness in his life. If he would take a woman, the commonest of sense and his heritage dictated that she would not be an untamed elf-maid. Rhuddlan needed no more suzerainty over him.
Aye, she was a complication he did not need, except for the kiss Shay had taken and he had not. He’d envied the boy that one brief touch of lips to fair cheek. He envied him still, but for himself he would have taken more, much more. He knew the way of a kiss well enough, the melding of mouths and the sharing of breath and where it c
ould lead. Yet there was no quick tumble to be had with the elfin maid.
As he watched, she dipped a cup into the bucket and turned away from the well, unconsciously bringing herself into silhouette against the luminescence cast by the lantern, and he faltered to a stop. For an instant she looked as a dark flame cleaving the light, until the graceful continuation of her movement clarified the outline of her body—the limned rise of her breast flowing into her torso and the gentle curve of her hip, the slender length of her legs. There was naught of darkness about her, he told himself, disgusted at his wayward thoughts. The only darkness lay in his own black heart, for like the perilous dragon vision, she quickened his blood, though with a far different result. He was in truth a boy that he could be aroused so easily.
He had only to follow his course and the shift in the wind to arrive at her side. Instead he turned his feet to the north to skirt the well. He had come back to the keep to find her, and he had. He had wanted one more look, and it had been given. ’Twould have to suffice.
~ ~ ~
Llynya pulled the bucket up onto the rim of the well and balanced it there, glancing toward the field from whence Mychael ab Arawn would come. A not-so-chance meeting left a few things up to chance nonetheless, and a little care was not misplaced. She did not want him to pass by unnoticed.
She picked up a silver cup and dipped it into the bucket for a drink. The night breeze off the Irish Sea wafted over the outer curtain wall, caressing her cheeks and tangling through her hair, and setting the grass aflutter. She smelled the salt tang of it, so unlike the verdured winds that came down out of the mountains. Turning her face a bare degree, she happened upon another scent and stilled.