The Dawn Stag: Book Two of the Dalriada Trilogy (50 page)

‘My lord.’ The lady suddenly fixed him with her blue cat-eyes. ‘I bear news of what happened on the Sacred Isle at Beltaine.’

The chieftain blinked. ‘The raid? A terrible business, terrible!’

For a moment, his heart darkened with sorrow over the old Ban Cré, his king’s sister and his own cousin. ‘But I have already heard this news, lady. It travelled fast among the tribes.’

That direct gaze hardened imperceptibly. And were you told also that Maelchon of the Orcades led this raid?’

‘By Manannán, no!’ He started back, shocked. ‘I received the news from my king, but no mention was made of Maelchon. King Maelchon led it? Are you sure?’

For a moment, that innocent girl’s mouth was twisted by bitterness. ‘Quite sure. I was there, you see.’

‘I am so sorry, lady, it must have been dreadful for you,’ he babbled, his heart going out to her when he saw the grief in her eyes. By Lugh, he had a daughter just this age! ‘I am sorry,’ he repeated, only just held back from taking her hand by the glitter of her finery. She was royal, after all.

‘Then, my lord,’ her voice softened, ‘since the news has already reached all the corners of the land, have you heard also what your king plans to do about it?’

‘Do
about it?’ he echoed. ‘Are the Sisters’ houses being rebuilt, lady? Do the Sisters need food, shelter? I am sure my king would be glad to help.’

The sweet mouth tightened. ‘No, my lord. All that is left of the Sisterhood travels with me. There will be no rebuilding, not of the kind you mean.’

Behind the chieftain, his tender-hearted wife gasped. He’d not known or understood the extent of the loss, and a renewed surge of pity overtook him for this girl and her wards. It was a sorry business, a sorry business indeed. He would feed them as well as he could before seeing them on their way.

Yet suddenly the Epidii princess leaned forward, reaching into his vitals with those eyes and gripping him so he couldn’t look away. Vaguely, he noticed that the four Caereni men had taken up position by the fire and the roof-posts.

‘Do you realize,’ the woman continued coldly, ‘that apart from myself, all the Ban Crés were slaughtered among the sacred Stones – the blood kin of kings? Do you realize that the cauldron of wisdom guarded by the Sisters was extinguished that day – the healing knowledge, and the songs and rites that keep the Otherworld and Thisworld balanced, your crops thriving, your cattle swelling with calves?’

The chieftain found his mouth dropping open again, as abruptly, the Lady Rhiann stood. ‘Then permit me to enlighten you,’ she said, and raised her hand. The Caereni men took packets from their tunics and threw their powdered contents on to the hearth-fire and up over the torches, and the hall was instantly plunged into near darkness, the smoke tinged with a sharp smell.

The people cried out in surprise and dismay, but the Epidii princess’s voice came again, carrying over the mutters of men stumbling to their feet. ‘Fear not.’

The chieftain sank back on his bench, his old heart thundering, as his wife’s small hand came out to grasp his shoulder.

The drumming began again outside, but this time it was a compelling beat that seemed to reach into the chieftain’s chest and shake it. There was a rustling at the door, and a single voice broke into a high chant that made the hairs rise on the back of his neck. In the dim light of the coals, something pale entered and circled around the edges of the room.

The clear, piping voice continued to rise and fall in the wordless song, and in the chieftain’s mind he was soaring over the mountains like an eagle, and then out to sea and back again. Another sound at the door, and then a second voice joined the first, then a third, and more and more, until the room shimmered with a veil of sweet, shifting notes, as pale wraiths glided around in the shadows.

He had rarely been so frightened or excited. Who knew what priestesses could do? His wife’s hand grew tighter on his shoulder, as the sound swelled until it echoed off every beam of the roof, the pillars, the shields on the walls, even the cooking pots and cauldrons. And just as his heart could pound no harder, nor his wife grip any tighter, the sound abruptly ceased.

Before the chieftain could react, a circle of flame flickered into life around them. Peering at the edges of the room, the chieftain saw girls, dressed all in white, and behind every second girl, a Caereni warrior holding a burning brand.

The Lady Rhiann stepped forward into the cleared space before the door, and turned to face her audience. Immediately, most of the girls sat down in a circle around her, their fingertips touching, while several remained standing. The seated girls began another song, but this was a low, breathy chanting that wound soothingly among his people, and the chieftain felt some of the tension leave him in a rush, as he slumped back.

Now the Lady Rhiann was raising her hands, and her rings and bracelets sparkled in the flames as her cloak fell back from her arms. Higher and higher came her hands, her sleeves spreading out to either side like wings, and all the while the chanting continued.

‘My lords!’ The Lady Rhiann’s voice was no longer soft, but strong and fierce. ‘We have a tale to tell you, to sing you, to show you. Listen well, for the Sisters do not need your food or shelter, but your vengeance!’ She flung out her hand to one of the white-robed girls, and the maiden drew closer. Here are the innocents whose lives were bloodied that day by the red invader. The others cannot sing to you, for they are dead, but let our song and tale speak for those who have no voices! Listen well, for they beseech you from the grave!’

And when the maiden came forward into the pool of torchlight, and began to speak of what she had seen, the chieftain was stirred by a terrible pity and horror.

One after the other, the standing girls spoke, and each seemed to him to have a sweeter face than the last, and eyes that swam with tears, and words that plucked at his heart. But when the Lady Rhiann at last took the floor herself and described, with the grace of a born storyteller, what
she
had seen, well, by then his wife was openly sobbing into his shoulder, as were all his women, and even he could not breathe past a choked throat.

At long last the priestesses fell silent, and all the chieftain could hear was the snap of a dying coal in the hearth. Those monsters, these Romans, had killed women like
this
, defenceless, peaceful women who made beautiful sounds and spoke beautiful words. Something had to be done about it.

The chieftain’s reverie was shattered by his eldest son, who, with an oath, leaped to his feet, nearly knocking his own wife to the ground. This is not to be borne!’ he cried, his face alight with fury. If it’s vengeance you wish, lady, then vengeance you will have!’

The chieftain opened his mouth to protest, for he knew his hotheaded progeny well, but the Epidii princess was already smiling at his son. ‘Last year your king refused an offer of alliance with the Epidii and the Caledonii,’ she cried. ‘But if the tribes had united then, this outrage would not have happened, and your priestesses –
your
birthright – would still be alive. I come here today to urge you to petition your king, to beg him night and day to join the alliance! Together, we can defeat the Romans, but only together!’ She spread her arms, the gesture taking in all the girls arrayed at her feet, and standing by her side. ‘Protect our land so that innocents like these, like your own children, can prosper in peace. Join with us!’

She held out one elegant hand to his son, the light glittering on her rings, and every other young warrior in the hall leaped to his feet, shouting curses at the Romans, and oaths to join the fight. Their women chattered excitedly and the hounds, disturbed by the noise, began to howl.

‘Wait!’ the chieftain roared, for he knew his king well, and that he had been fixedly against this alliance for the last two years. ‘Heed me!’

Yet his son was before him, sword unsheathed, joy in his face. ‘Father! Let us set out for our king’s dun tomorrow, at first light! Let us lead the fight against the Romans – us, the foremost clan among the Creones!’

And the chieftain knew then he had lost, and sat down heavily on his bench as his wife threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly. With a rueful smile he pinched her under the chin and then sighed, feeling every one of his old, aching bones, as the hall erupted around him with a youthful clamour that could not be denied.

The Epidii princess was smiling broadly now, and though it was not a cruel smile, there was no sign of the sweet and innocent, either.

High in the mountains, the sun could be fierce in this season when it blazed free of the clouds, and Eremon had taken refuge from its midday heat under his tent canopy.

He’d informed his men before that he would not be hunting this day. Bewildered, they had left him in a whirlwind of shouting, whistling and clattering spears, and it was only as peace fell that Eremon realized his true motive for forgoing the outing: to shave, and therefore to think.

As he scraped the dagger blade over his skin, peering into the untarnished side of a bronze pot, Eremon’s thoughts could range far and undisturbed.

Despite the rough conditions of the camp, he undertook this ritual with soaproot and dagger every few days. It was not for vanity, or even because he found beards itchy and breeding grounds for lice. Unshaven cheeks were a custom of Erin, and for some perverse reason he wanted to hold to his traditions, even in the midst of an Alban battle camp. Or perhaps that’s exactly
why
he did it – he was war leader of an Alban tribe, married to an Alban princess, a close ally with the most powerful Alban king. He had to be stamped with something of Erin, and it would be his face, which he showed to the world. And when he agreed to be tattooed on the Sacred Isle he had insisted that the tattoos not include his face, for in Erin a king must be unblemished.

So he told himself then, but now? After three years away from his homeland, Erin had gone from being his reason for living to a background desire that no longer seemed to have much to do with day-to-day concerns. Abruptly, Eremon paused, the blade dripping water into the wooden bowl balanced on his crossed legs. Now that was a strange thought, for he remembered as if it were yesterday the fire that had driven him to take the boat from Erin, to keep his men alive. All he had wanted was to gain support for himself in Alba, and then return home to claim his Hall.

Yet somewhere along the way, without his realizing it, that fire had merged into another: to save the people of Alba from the Romans. When had the change occurred? He stretched his chin up to tighten the skin, spattering himself with water.

In these past years, he had sent no messengers to Erin. At first he’d been afraid to alert his uncle to his whereabouts, but now Eremon was powerful and secure. He need not fear his uncle any more – Donn might even be dead. So what held him back?

The blade hovered. Conaire would say it was his methodical nature, for he hated leaving things undone and had not yet reached the end of his Alban road. It would not be over for him until he drove Agricola out of Alba, or died trying.

And yet … for a moment, Eremon’s heart ached with a longing for his own valleys, greener than any in Alba. He wiped bristles and soap on his trouser leg, closing his eyes as the breeze gusted the tent edge back, spilling sun over him. Perhaps when he was back at Dunadd he would at last send someone to see what had befallen his homeland. For he felt in his bones that this struggle between Agricola and Alba could not go on for more than another year. Perhaps it was time to give some thought to what should happen afterwards. After, when there was peace … peace to …

No! He would not think of home and hearth! That meant Rhiann, and memories of her were continually slipping under his defences, however carefully he guarded his heart against it.

At least the hurt had cooled after the lightning raid on the plain, when those few Roman soldiers came crashing through the undergrowth after them. It had been both easy and satisfying to fly at them from the damp shadows, striking down and then running, dodging trunks and leaping fallen logs until he and his men thought their lungs would burst. And then, the exultation of flinging themselves into the icy waters of a mountain stream, which seemed to carry away the shame along with blood and dried mud. Eremon had thought then that he had mastered his pain, pushing Rhiann into a more contained place in his soul.

That was until he received her news, two days ago.

Eremon had listened to Nectan’s man with the silence of utter disbelief. Rhiann was not at Dunadd, but travelling through the mountains with the priestesses. She was winning over the chieftains, they were falling to her words like a scythe through grain, the messenger reported happily. Eremon had dismissed him at last, the shock seeping through him. And beneath that was fear for her – pride in her, yes – but hurt, too, all over again. It was not only that she had undertaken this mission alone, without his consent, counsel or help. If she was in the north, too, then why had she not come to him, to show him that she still loved him?

And why would she?
his conscience taunted now, as it had been doing ceaselessly since he received this news.
You acted as an angry child, not a man …

Irritated with this turn of thought, Eremon’s hand jerked too quickly and the blade nicked his jaw. ‘Hawen’s balls!’ He clapped his palm to his bleeding face, just as he heard a discreet cough behind him. It was one of Calgacus’s men.

‘Prince,’ he said deferentially, ‘Gerat’s band has returned from the southern mountains. They have a captive with them who demands an audience with you.’

‘Demands?’ His finger still pressed to the cut, Eremon fished a rag from under his knee and wiped the last stubble from his chin. Has your lord Calgacus been informed yet?’

‘My king has met the captive and determined that you are the best man to deal with the situation.’ The man jiggled back and forth on his heels.

Eremon rose. ‘When you say captive, do you mean this man is a Roman? A soldier from the army? That would be a catch indeed.’