Chalice 2 - Dream Stone (26 page)

’Twas a rare pleasure to hold the book again
after so long a passage of time. Seventeen years earlier, Madron
had taken the Red Book from the Hart Tower in Wydehaw Castle and
put it in the scriptorium at Usk Abbey. Nemeton had feared he could
no longer protect either her or the
Fata Ranc Le
, and had
exiled them both to a Christian house. His other great book, the
Prydion Cal Le
, had not been seen since his death.

’Twas at Usk, at her father’s behest, that
she had written Ceridwen’s story into the
Fata’s
pages to
ensure that the future would pass as he had foreseen. No one else
would have dared such a breach of the hallowed pages.

And yet the book had acquired a new fate
since Madron had written Ceridwen’s. How it had gotten there was a
mystery. No Prydion Mage had ever gone to Usk to write the story.
And if by chance the book had come into contact with one of its
fated heirs, why hadn’t it passed on?

That Mychael’s story had not appeared was a
sore burden. She would know if the boy lived or died, if he would
have sons or daughters to carry on the Merioneth priestess line, if
the dragons would come when he called, or if his dragon-tainted
Druid blood would be his doom.

The book had told her naught. Without such
guidance, she would be hard-pressed to help him beyond what she’d
done in the night.

Beautiful wild boy
, she thought,
watching him make his way across the bailey. He had one arm wrapped
around his middle, his hand soothing the left side of his torso
where the dragonfire was wont to run rampant.
Did that long ago
priestess conjure you only for you to die before you meet the fate
for which you were born?

T
rig barely gave her
a glance when Llynya finally made it to the portcullis. A group was
already gathered, Liosalfar mainly, with a few untried youths
hanging about the fringes and sitting in a haywain. War was the
order of the day, and Trig was firmly in charge, dispatching scouts
and assigning watches to a cadre of the more experienced
warriors—those who had fought in the Wars. Each of the border
scouts was given a horn of tightly curled silver to sound in
warning or if in need.

Shay spotted her immediately, giving her a
short wave and walking over. Bits of chaff littered his hair and
stuck to his tunic, making her wonder if he’d chosen to sleep in
the haywain the previous night. ’Twas not a bad berth. She’d done
it herself a time or two when the nickering of Rhuddlan’s mares was
the lullaby she needed.

“Where have you been?” he asked, a note of
concern in his voice.

“I stopped by the chapel,” she said, offering
him a sage leaf out of one of her pouches, hoping to distract him
from the blush she still felt on her cheeks.

He stuck the leaf in his mouth. “You’ve a
cream mustache and berry stains on your lips.”

She shrugged nonchalantly and wiped her mouth
with the back of her hand, relieved by his inattention to more
personal details. “So would you, given the chance.”

“Well, you almost missed your chance. Trig’s
called for an expedition to Tryfan.” Shay’s eyes lit with
excitement. “Twenty of us are to go and see what we can find. Wei
is leading, and he’s already picked me.”

An expedition to Tryfan, she thought. Gods,
but there was the chance of a lifetime.

“To mine for elf shot?” she asked, her blush
forgotten

“Aye, and mayhaps a chance to explore.”

“The mountain halls are said to be bigger
than Lanbarrdein, with stone thrones twice as high as a man.”

“They’ll not be as rich, I’ll bet.”

“Not in dreamstone or rubies”—for Lanbarrdein
was encrusted with both—“but mayhaps in something even more
wondrous, supposing they could be found.” And there was the catch,
she thought. Legend said the mountain fastnesses of the Douvan
kings had been sealed for all time, ne’er to be opened again. Even
so, here was adventure on a high scale indeed, to mine for elf
shot.

“Come with us, Llynya. You know Wei would be
glad to have you.”

He was right. ’Twould take no more than a
lift of her hand and Wei would have her with them on the journey
north. In easier seasons, they’d traveled many a league together.
He knew her strengths and probably her weaknesses too—except for
the lavender simple.

She searched the crowd, looking for the
elf-man, and found him by the iron gate, instructing two boys in
the making and fletching of arrow shafts. Naught else would be
needed to complete the weapons, except for the elf shot points he
and his party would bring back from Tryfan, if any could be
found.

“ ’Tis far safer in the north you’ll be,
sprite.”

Something in Shay’s voice brought her head
around. ’Twas more than the patronizing air he’d taken with her
lately, the one she found so damned rankling. His face was drawn,
his eyes dark with worry.

“Wei and I were the ones who carried you away
from the weir after the battle of Balor,” he went on, quietly
insistent, “and after this last go ’round in the dark, I think you
should steer clear of the caverns. There’s something down there,
and I fear it means you no good.”

“I’m not afraid of the Sha-shakrieg.” ’Twas
only a small lie, for at the worst she was no more afraid of them
than any other Quicken-tree.

“ ’Tis not the Sha-shakrieg I’m talking
about.”

“Then what?”

“I cannot say exactly, but...” His voice
trailed off, and though he shrugged, he did not smile. Nor did he
retract his words.

“I’ve not known you to be prescient,
Shay.”

“ ’Tis not prescience to sense something
that’s truly there, and in Crai Force, while I searched for Trig
and Math, I sensed something else in the dark besides Quicken-tree
and spider people. Did you not feel it too?”

Aye, she had sensed another presence in the
furtive scrabbling she’d heard, and mayhaps in a raspy rhythm of
disturbed breath.

A cold shiver wound its way down her spine.
Had she heard breathing, she wondered, while she’d huddled by the
falls? Or was her memory playing tricks on her? Had something
grasped at her tunic as she and Mychael had run? Or was she
building a troll out of Shay’s fears?

There was danger in the dark. She could not
deny it, but she did not need an elf child’s nightmare of
uffern
trolls to find where hers lay. Descent into the weir
of the golden worms would be her undoing—or her salvation.

“When does Wei leave for Tryfan?” she
asked.

“After the midday meal,” he said with
noticeable relief. “We’re taking Rhuddlan’s mares and will meet at
the stable.”

“I’ll see you then.” She clapped him on the
shoulder in good-bye before making toward the portcullis and
Wei.

She’d made no promise really, and given
enough time Shay would figure that out. He would certainly know it
when they left and she was nowhere to be found. Her duty lay
elsewhere.

“Wei,” she greeted the Quicken-tree man. His
hair was near as pale as Trig’s, a mix of blond and gray showing
his age and falling past his shoulders. His sleeveless tunic
revealed iron-bound muscles and a lifetime’s worth of tattoos: his
initiation into a leaf clan,
daur
for Wei, the oak clan; his
name in ogham down the inside of his right forearm and in the runes
of the ancient common tongue down the inside of his left. All
warriors had been marked thus in the Wars of Enchantment. High on
his shoulder was a rowan leaf, identifying him as Quicken-tree, and
below it the sign for Deri, where he was to be buried.

“Sprite.” The elf-man looked up from his
apprentices and smiled. He had a long, narrow face, his skin burnt
brown by the sun. “Ye look none the worse for wear. Too quick for
’em by half, I’ll bet.”

“Too quick, or not worth the thread to burn
me.”

“Kept your guard up, did ye?”

“Aye.”

“And didn’t stand still like a fear-froze
rabbit?”

“Nay, I didn’t.”

“Then ye were too quick for ’em by half.”

“Mayhaps,” she conceded, “but ’tis true that
they didn’t seem as interested in me as the others.”

“You’re young for a Liosalfar. Could be they
thought ye were yet a child.” He turned and caught a fletched shaft
tossed to him by one of the apprentices. Wei looked it over,
running his fingers down the smooth wood, then over the
feathers.

“ ’Tis what I thought too, Wei, but”—she
paused, glancing at the two boys before lowering her voice—“don’t
the spider people eat elf children? Why wouldn’t they have grabbed
me for their spit?”

A broad grin spread across Wei’s face,
warning her of what was to come.

“ ’Tis a mother’s tale only, sprite,” he
said, chuckling, “conjured by women to keep their chicks firmly
underfoot. Aye, and it did the trick during the Wars.”

He laughed and patted her cheek, and she
found herself twice humiliated in one day—and all before morning
was done. Then his gaze caught and held hers, and his expression
grew serious.

“You’re Yr Is-ddwfn Liosalfar, Llynya, and
faster than all the others tied together. Anybody tries to eat ye,
ye gut ’em with your blade, girl, and if one comes after that, ye
gut him too. ’Tis why ye carry iron dagger, dreamstone knife, and
leaf blade sword.”

“Aye,” she agreed, knowing ’twas true. “But
Bedwyr, he was...” She stopped, her gaze shifting away. Bedwyr had
been fast. They both knew that too. The blade-master had been the
one to teach her the Falcon Strike and the Bear’s Feint. He’d been
the fastest in Crai Force to throw a blade, and for that he’d
died.

Wei lifted her chin and used his thumb to
wipe away the tear rolling down her cheek. “ ’Tis a truth without
end, sprite, that warriors die in war. We’ll all be missing him,
and when the Liosalfar bring him home, we’ll sing him back to the
Mother.”

He released her to catch the next fletched
shaft tossed his way and looked it over with a discerning eye,
rolling it in the sunlight to see if ’twas straight.

She wiped her face with her sleeve. Damn
tears.

“I’m to Tryfan,” he told her. “If ye want a
sennight of mountain travel and can carry a stone’s weight of elf
shot, you’re welcome to come.”

“I would sorely love to see Tryfan,” she
said, having no trouble conjuring just the right amount of
wistfulness in her voice. “But Trig has use of me, and I’ve dallied
long enough. Step lightly, Wei.”

“Aye, sprite. We’ll all be steppin’ light,
though not as light as ye, I trow.”

With a short wave, she was off and heading
toward Trig.

Now there was a gruesome sight, she thought,
Trig with his green leaf eye patch and purple scars. Math was still
under Aedyth’s care in one of the willow huts. The captain needed
no such coddling.

He saw her coming and dismissed the Liosalfar
by his side.

Llynya grimaced. She should not have taken so
long and she hoped to the gods that she didn’t look like she’d been
crying. Swallowing hard, she lifted a hand in greeting. “Ho,
Trig.”

“Llynya.” He gave her a baleful look out of
his one good eye. Strands of gray glinted like silver in the long
fall of his fair hair. A five-strand plait was tightly braided down
the left side of his head. Trig had all the tattoos of the
Liosalfar from the Wars as well as a captain’s wavy double stripe
around his wrist. Woad hazel leaves wound up his arm. The rowan
tree marked him high on his shoulder, and beneath it was the sign
for Deri.

Given his grim mood, she thought it best to
talk fast, before he could pronounce her task or her doom.

“I’ve spoken with Wei and would go to Tryfan,
if you’ll give me leave, Trig.” ’Twas a hasty plan, but better than
naught.

“Ye think to usurp my rule too, sprite?” If
anything, his glare grew even darker.

She blanched. “Nay, Cap’n.” She stood a
little taller and met his good eye a little straighter on. ’Twas no
good sign for him to speak of the mutiny so openly, and did not
bode well for the day.

“Then ye’ll listen before ye speak. The
mountain trek is no easy—” He halted in midsentence, his gaze
shifting to a place just beyond her left shoulder. She knew what
had caught his attention even before she looked. The tightening of
his jaw gave it away, as did the tingling she felt on her nape. She
did glance back, though, and ’twas as she’d feared. Mychael had
roused himself and, still looking like Christian hell, was headed
straight for them.

She clenched her hand into a fist, not
wanting to stay and face him again, but not daring to leave.
Mayhaps her luck would change and Trig would dismiss her as he had
the Liosalfar.

She shifted her stance, hoping to draw his
attention and a gruff “be gone with ye,” but the captain’s gaze was
unwavering.

“Trig.” Mychael’s gravel-voiced greeting
announced his arrival. He stopped beside her, and Llynya did her
best to ignore the blush crawling up her neck by staring resolutely
at her boots. Ignoring Mychael was impossible. She tingled with
awareness of how close he stood. Her ears twitched. Her nostrils
quivered.

“Boy,” the captain said, and she winced.
’Twould not be a bygones-be-bygones meeting.

“I was turned back from the Light Caves at
dawn,” Mychael said, every word seeming to cost him. He would have
fared far better, she thought, if he’d taken her advice and
gathered a bit of strength before facing Trig. “The sentries on
duty said ’twas on your orders.”

She looked up at that. She’d never known
there to be sentries at the Light Caves, and she never would have
guessed that Mychael had been up and about at dawn, or that he
would have had no more sense than to go back down into the caverns
in his condition. He needed a keeper.

He glanced in her direction, as if drawn by
her own wayward gaze, and she was struck anew by the wildness of
his parti-colored hair and the stark beauty of his face. Her blush
deepened all over again. He wanted to kiss her. She sensed it even
now.