Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) (49 page)

Her mother's lips tightened. "You are sworn to the sacred fire."

"I am, and that is the reason for the course I am taking. It may make no sense to you, but in my visions, this way is best to keep the fire burning longest and the memory of our ways alive."

"And to do so you will betray what we believe in?"

"I am betraying nothing. Our gods are not jealous."

"But the god of the Christians is."

"And what if he is? Their Christ is a god of peace, after all. Eriu could do with a bit more peace. Besides your husband, how many loved ones have you lost to these constant wars?"

Yseult the Wise did not answer.

Brigid placed a hand on her upper arm. "You could still join me here, help bring the most important of our traditions into a new age, one that will hopefully be less blanketed with bloodshed."

Her mother shook off Brigid's hand and walked away.

* * * *

When the door between the worlds opened the widest that Samhain, it was not spirits from the dead that paid them a visit in Druim Dara, it was a company from the Otherworld.

The weather was cold and misty, the moisture in the air just a step away from rain. Such weather made the backaches that plagued her during this pregnancy even worse, and Yseult longed for the easy health of her youth, the lack of complaints she had while carrying Kustennin — when she had been little more than a girl, it seemed to her now. Nonetheless, she knew that staying in bed would make the birth more difficult, and she did her best to continue participating in the life of Druim Dara.

She and her mother were watching the cattle being driven between the bonfires, while Nath ran along beside the livestock with the other children, when the members of the Feadh Ree emerged from the mist like characters out of myth. In the tales of Eriu, those of the Old Race were beginning to take on an aspect almost like that of gods: the legendary tribe with their supernatural powers who had gone to live in the ancient hills, the
sidhe
of the oldest gods.

It had been decades since Yseult had seen them, but she still recognized Bodb Derg, king of the Tuatha Dé Danann at the sacred site of Oe Cualann, and her aunt Nemain — Brangwyn's mother. Who had turned her back on the life of the Gaels so many years ago, even before Yseult had been married away to Britain.

Nemain and her companions seemed to be shrouded in mist and magic, bringing it with them into the little community celebrating Samhain. Tall and pale, whether their hair was dark or light or the color of fire, the breath of the Otherworld that accompanied them drew all eyes to their slender forms.

Nemain stopped in front of her former sister-in-law. "It has come to our attention that you might now be prepared to join us in the hills of the Feadh Ree."

"It is good to see you too again, Nemain," Yseult's mother said with a wry smile.

"Ah, yes, the rituals of everyday life. Forgive me that I forgot to employ the standard greeting."

"It is no matter. You look well — as if you had aged a fraction of the years we have lived through while you were gone."

"Time passes differently in the sacred hills," Bodb Derg said.

"So it seems," Yseult said, eying her aunt's slim figure. Yseult was only six months into her pregnancy, but she already looked almost as heavy as she had shortly before she gave birth to Kustennin. "You look no older than I."

"And why should I look older than you?" Nemain said with the hint of a smile. "Those who live among the
sidhe
hardly age."

"We also rarely conceive," Bodb Derg said, looking pointedly at Yseult's distended belly. "The power of the hills protects us from the one but makes the other nearly impossible."

"True." Nemain glanced briefly down at the grass, damp with thick mist, and then up into Yseult's eyes. "Any news of Brangwyn?"

"I was not expecting to see you. She sent no message."

Yseult could feel the flinch in her aunt's mind although she gave no outward sign. "But she is well?"

"Yes. She is lucky to be alive, since Pictish raiders overran her home several years ago. Fortunately, she and her husband were elsewhere at the time."

Nemain drew in a quick breath. "Does she have children?"

"Yes." While Judual was not Brangwyn's flesh and blood, he was still her child. Yseult stubbornly refused to give her aunt any more, and she did her best to block her thoughts; not only had Nemain retreated from the life of Eriu with others of the Tuatha Dé, she had effectively cut off all contact with her husband and daughter.

"And you?" Nemain asked. "Have you fulfilled the fate we prophesied for you? Is your name as tall as a standing stone?"

Yseult gave an abbreviated laugh. "I think not."

Her aunt shot her a quizzical glance. "But we have felt your fame grow, even here on the other side of the Erainn Sea."

"My fame? That is only a handful of songs and tales, mostly embarrassing, things sung on street corners that I do not wish to hear. Not the kinds of heroic tales told by court bards in Eriu, meant to ensure a king's reputation for all eternity."

Bodb Derg chuckled. "Then no wonder the feeling of fame is so strong — you did not even pay your own bards to tell the tale as you wished it known. It sprung up of its own account!"

Why had she not thought of that, to hire her own bard?
She was raised in Eriu — she knew the value of a court bard. Even in Britain, there were several kings who employed bards to tell their tales. The history of Eriu showed that a large part of any leader's power was linked to controlling the stories told about him.

Arthur should have a bard. Myrddin had been with Arthur as long as she knew them, yes, but Myrddin had always been more druid than bard, despite the poems he'd composed and every small child knew. But he'd never told Arthur's stories or sang his praises.

Although, knowing Arthur, he would not care for fame; he thought just being a good war leader was enough.

"You may not care for the stories being told about you," Nemain was saying now. "But they are still carrying your name and something of our ways into the future."

Bodb Derg turned to her mother. "It appears we came too early. You are not yet prepared to come with us, are you?"

"No. I grow tired of life among the Gaels, tired of the increasing influence of the religion of Patraic. But I want to be here when my next grandchild is born."

While her mother didn't say it, Yseult knew it was largely to help her through this difficult pregnancy, and she was grateful.

"And after?" Nemain asked.

"I don't know." Her mother's gaze drifted towards the bonfires, seeking the figure of her son. "There is also Nath to consider."

"He can come with you," Bodb Derg hurried to assure her. "We would be glad of a child in Oe Cualann. As I said, we have too few."

Her mother was silent, considering — too seriously, to Yseult's way of thinking.

"But would that be best for Nath?" Yseult asked.

"He would be removed from a life of war and hardship," Nemain said. "Many people dream of living in the Otherworld, but they do not have that option."

"I could send a message to Illann that Nath will not be going into fosterage with him after all," her mother said thoughtfully.

If her mother truly did retreat to the hills with Nath, Yseult might never see either of them again. Places like Oe Cualann were no longer part of the normal life of Eriu; they were drifting away and often could not be found by the likes of Gael or Christian. How then to get a message to them? And what reason would there be to visit the land of her birth with her mother and brother hiding among the
sidhe
?

Yseult the Wise naturally felt her daughter's worry and took her hands — a very rare gesture for the Kingmaker. "Don't you see? We have no place in the life of Eriu anymore. Those of us of the Old Race who are still left, the Tuatha Dé and the Feadh Ree, are being
driven
into the underground hills and the realm of legend."

A young voice piped up behind them. "I am not legend. I am part of the future."

Nath
. Yseult smiled to herself at how he had been able to approach with not one of them noticing. Whether he was part of legend or not, her little brother definitely had some of the powers of the Old Race.

* * * *

The winter was harsh in Eriu, just as it had been in Britain in recent years. Yseult had not spent the cold months in such conditions since she had been sent off to marry Marcus Cunomorus, what seemed a lifetime ago. Now, suffering from a difficult pregnancy at an age when she could easily be a grandmother, she found the round houses of wood and thatch in which she had grown up drafty and cold. Her back and neck and knees took turns plaguing her, and she was almost certain she would not have had as many problems with this pregnancy if she had been safe in the luxury of Cador's villa outside of Lindinis.

A luxury she had learned to take for granted in the country of her exile.

But the care of her mother Yseult the Wise, who was knowledgeable in herbs and magic in ways barely remembered and hard to come by in Britain, was valuable too. And so Yseult allowed herself to be treated with compresses of oats while logs for the midwinter fires were felled; drank tea of nettles and dandelions while the midwinter candle was lit; sipped infusions of willow bark while gifts were exchanged.

As the days began to grow longer again, her complaints became fewer, and she took long walks with her little brother Nath, their boots crunching on old snow or kicking up what remained of the fallen leaves. She found him quick of mind and stubborn of spirit, at times brooding, but dependable and generous in his own way. And he remained determined to go into fosterage with Illann in the spring rather than retreat to the hills of the Feadh Ree with his mother.

Half a moon's cycle before the celebration of Imbolc and the beginning of the first lambing, Yseult felt a stabbing pain while on one of her walks with Nath. She stopped and put a hand to her back, closing her eyes until the pain passed.

"What is it?" her little brother asked.

Yseult opened her eyes. "We had better turn around and return to Druim Dara. I think you are about to become an uncle again."

* * * *

Yseult's daughter was born before Imbolc and the first lambing. The weather was cloudy and gray, but Caillech, the hag of winter, stayed away — a good sign. The babe had no blemishes and a healthy cry — also a good sign. She was even on the plump side, despite the siege when rations were low.

"She's beautiful," Brigid said.

"What will you name her?" her mother asked.

Yseult ran one finger down her daughter's soft cheek. "She will never be Kingmaker, but she will be a queen. I will call her Riona."

The weather soon changed, and fishers and traders once again began to take their boats out on the water. Yseult was eager to return to Britain, but she wanted to wait until Riona was strong enough to travel.

And then the day came they had all been expecting, when Nemain and Bobd Derg returned.

"Are you ready now, Yseult the Wise?" Bobd Derg asked.

"I am."

Yseult stood at the gates of Druim Dara with Nath, watching their mother's figure fade in the distance. Nath turned away before Yseult did, and he missed his mother's final wave. Yseult couldn't help but be reminded of when Nemain had left Brangwyn behind to join the people of the
sidhe
— only Brangwyn had been fifteen years old at the time, a woman grown.

"When will we go to Dun Ailinne?" Nath asked.

"As soon as Riona can travel," Yseult promised.

* * * *

Yseult to Cador, greetings.

Ships are finally sailing to Britain again and I can attempt to send another letter. I hope this missive reaches you. I have good news. Your daughter Riona was born two months ago, and she and I are both in good health. I am eager to return and share the joy of your first child with you, but I would like to wait at least another month until she is stronger — the longer I wait, the more likely the crossing will be smooth.

Forgive me that I did not tell you of my pregnancy earlier, but I know how much you were set against a child, and I did not wish to worry you unduly. And seeing how few of my letters have survived the voyage, you might well not have received the news anyway.

I write this from Dun Ailinne, where I have removed with Riona and my little brother Nath. Brigid has allowed herself to be ordained as a Christian holy woman by the priest Mel and now allows priestesses both of Christ and Danu to tend the sacred fire. My mother has retreated to the sacred hills of the Faedh Ree, and Nath is going into fosterage with Illann, the new king of the Laigin.

There is no place for me here anymore. I hope I will be with you again soon.

Your wife Yseult

* * * *

The weather had been fair for several days, and Illann's druids assured her it would hold at least until Beltaine. Finally Yseult would be able to return to her adopted home — a year after she'd left.