The Dawn Stag: Book Two of the Dalriada Trilogy (19 page)

My beloved
, she found herself whispering, and the Source spilled out even stronger, pulsing in waves.
My dearest beloved, come back safe to me
…

The Chosen One reared, and his hooves struck the earth as he bellowed with rage and charged. The other stag also reared as the first rushed on, and their antlers met with a resounding crack.

Gripping his unsheathed sword, Eremon cast a glance back over his shoulder. The spearmen and archers had done well, creeping like ground fog to the dark places beneath boulders and in the shadows of the gnarled trees that clung to the hillside. Now he looked down the steep ridge to the broken walls outlined in silver, and the dark humps of men in between.

The flock at rest
, he thought grimly, and sank deeper on his haunches, for the restlessness had now become rage, sweeping away his caution in a flood of heat, rising up from his loins.

In the shadow of a great rock beside him, Conaire was still, but his teeth flashed once in a grin. Eremon tried to grin back, yet what came was a baring of teeth, and then he knew it was time … it was time … it was time …

He stood and stepped into the light, raising his sword, heedless of anyone below seeing him now, for it was too late for them …

Eremon dropped his hand, and the silent air exploded in a hail of spears and arrows, before shrieking Alban men swept down the slopes from both sides of the valley in a flood-tide.

At the first screech Agricola instinctively unsheathed his sword, racing for the tumbling walls, heart pumping in sudden panic. But before he broke free of the cover of the scree slope, he heard the deadly hiss of arrows and higher whine of spears, and then all around the thuds and clashes and cries of pain.

A screaming savage landed right in front of him, leaping from a great height, and Agricola could only stab and slash at this daemon who danced around him, his face striped with starlight and shadow, his eyes those of a rabid beast.

Then the man fell under Agricola’s blade, and the Roman governor of Britannia stumbled over the body, shouting to rouse his men.

The other stag screamed, its brow running with blood, as the hooves of the Chosen One raked down his sides. Fierce antlers stabbed at flanks again and again, and the hooves now stamped and shredded flesh into rags, as the chanting of the priestesses grew louder, resounding through Rhiann’s mind and heart and out through her hand …

… Eremon slashed with his father’s sword and leaped, lightning-quick, among the Roman soldiers rolling to their feet, slicing across white throats and unprotected heads until blood ran hot in his mouth and eyes. And all the while his head swung from side to side as he sought the one he sensed, the one he had come for.

He cleaved the knots of fighting men with his blade, until before him the rotting, wind-scoured wall fell down into a tumble of stone steps, and Eremon raced up them until he stood on top of the wall, searching the fighters with desperate eyes.

Directly below him, a Roman soldier ran an Alban through with a javelin, and Eremon heard the bellow escape his own throat in answer. At the sound, the man looked up … and they were Agricola’s eyes, filled with hatred. Eremon felt the breath leave his chest, replaced with instant rage.

That ruthless face had haunted his dreams, taunting him with its sneering mouth and cold contempt. And here was his own sword, and there the face.

With another yell, Eremon lowered his weapon and tensed to jump, but a knot of Roman soldiers swept around their commander just as a blade grazed Eremon’s calf. In the darkness, screams and confusion that followed, Eremon was caught in the milling knots of fighters, until the men around him, Alban and Roman both, were dead or wounded, or had fled. It was then he heard the panicked whinnies, and far on the other side of the throng he glimpsed men in cloaks whipping their horses into a gallop, fleeing north.

Shuddering as the rage abruptly left him, Eremon’s sword dropped to the ground and he sank back against the cold stone. And somehow, in all the darkness and blood he felt Rhiann, as if her breath brushed his cheek …

… and the Chosen One stood over its vanquished enemy, splashed in blood, its sides heaving, its head lowered until the torn velvet on its antlers brushed the ground.

CHAPTER 14

R
hiann barely remembered the first moments after the rite: the blood-soaked grass under her palms, the scent of damp soil, the pain in her head. She was carried by chanting Sisters, bathed by Fola’s tender hands, and then she slept.

She awoke in darkness on a pallet by Fola’s own bed, sensing a presence looming over her. Yet as she started, she recognized Didius in the shielded glow of a single lamp.

‘Didius, why are you here?’ she whispered, groggy from the
saor
. ‘Were you not in the men’s house?’

Didius leaned forward with a cup of water, pressing it to her parched lips. ‘They let me come, lady,’ he answered, glancing up at the dark hump of Fola in her bed. ‘I … I needed to see you.’

Rhiann stared up at him as she drank. ‘You saw, didn’t you? You were there at the rite.’

Avoiding her gaze, Didius took back the cup and then hung his head, his jowls catching on his collar. ‘No one knew; no one saw me.’ His eyes swept up, the pupils huge and fearful. ‘I am sorry if it was wrong, lady! I wanted to know you were safe – and then I could not look away – and the Sisters, I didn’t recognize them … and the singing …’

‘Peace.’ Rhiann groped for his hand and held it, sinking back on the pillow as a wave of dizziness took her. ‘There is no harm done. And perhaps it was right for you to be there. Perhaps the Mother called you, too.’

To anchor us to his people
, Rhiann thought hazily, and a strange sadness swept her. Then her half-open eyes were caught by the flare of lamplight on the sword still strapped to Didius’s side. It was the first weapon he had been allowed to bear, yet it was made for Alban men, to defend Alban land. With a jolt, Rhiann remembered Eremon.

Eremon!
Oh, Goddess, what if it were
her
people who had been defeated?

The plunge of dread took her breath away, and she struggled to rise on her elbows, trembling violently. It hadn’t worked; the Calling wasn’t strong enough. Eremon might be lying somewhere even now, wounded or dead …

Murmuring, Didius eased her down with curiously gentle, though callused hands, pulling the wool blanket up to her chin. And it was that solid warmth and pressure that brought Rhiann back from the edge of panic, as she remembered what Linnet had once said to her:
I would know, the moment you left Thisworld
.

And Rhiann would know, too, if the bond of soul-flames had been severed, if Eremon walked this land no more. She repeated it to herself over and over, her eyes squeezed shut.
I would know. I would know
.

Gradually, as Rhiann sucked air in and blew it out, the thudding of her heart softened, and implacable exhaustion took hold once more. Though she struggled to open her eyelids, it was as if a hand was pressing them closed, and she was dragged back down into sleep.

Yet there, dreams still came, jumbled and tortured, frightening in their intensity. Rhiann sensed rather than saw anything: pressure and constriction; cramping pain and wounded cries; cold wind and the silence of desolation.

Early dawn found her fully awake, kneeling by Fola’s side, shaking her friend’s arm. Didius, giving into his own exhaustion, was a mound curled in a blanket at the end of her pallet.

‘Something is wrong,’ Rhiann whispered, when Fola rolled over with a sleepy exclamation. She’d re-lit the lamp from the coals, and now set it on a stool by Fola’s bed. ‘I can feel it in my belly. I must return home – now.’

Instantly, Fola was sitting upright in her bed shift, blankets tumbling around her waist. ‘But it is not yet light.’

‘I can’t wait.’ Feverishly, Rhiann tied her single braid with flax and pushed it over her shoulder, pulling her pack onto the pallet. There, she began flinging in her scattered belongings: her antler comb; sleep shift; medicine pouch; and figurines.

Now Fola was beside her, wrapped in a blanket, her dark pupils shrinking in the flickering light. ‘Sister, the rite was powerful, it will have disturbed you. Come, I will make you tea and then you can rest—’

‘No!’ Rhiann strove for calm, for the impulse that had driven her from bed was growing stronger now she had spoken it – a summons in her bones, her belly. ‘Fola.’ She took her friend by the arms and stared into her face. ‘Look at me. I am in my right mind. My sense is that I must get home, as soon as I can. Something …’ She swallowed, the strength leaving her once more. ‘Something is wrong.’

Fola bit her lip, her eyes straying to Didius as he began to stir. I will rouse Nerida. She will want to see you before you go.’

The sky over the inland hills was streaked with rose when they emerged onto the muddy path between the dark, crouching houses. Rhiann sent Didius to alert the boatmen and ready the craft with water and food, while she and Fola crossed to Nerida’s door. When Rhiann entered the warmth and light of the Eldest Sister’s home, her calm deserted her. Suddenly she was on her knees by Nerida’s chair, grasping the old woman’s hand.

‘Do not say I am sick, or fevered,’ she whispered. ‘My dreams were so vivid, and spoke of harm and pain and disturbance. Do you …’ The words hovered on her tongue. ‘Do you think that Eremon has come to grief ?
Was the rite not a success
?’

Nerida’s grip on her wrist was forceful, and Rhiann met her eyes, which were unfilmed by sleep or age. Her white hair was unbound, and she had drawn a faded blue blanket around her shift. ‘Daughter, the rite was strong and true. You anchored us to him; you sent him the Source with your hands, your heart. It will be well.’ She squeezed Rhiann’s arm, and at last her calm authority began to penetrate the frozen shell around Rhiann’s mind.

He is alive, he must be alive. But what, then, calls me home?
She didn’t know, but she couldn’t ignore it.

‘I must go,’ she said, stumbling to her feet. With Nerida’s blessing warm on her forehead Rhiann was out then in the starry dawn, the chill on her skin drawn from within this time, and not from the wind off the sea.

Against a strong swell, the sailing to Dunadd took four days, during which Rhiann could hardly contain her impatience, sitting in the bow almost straining out over the waves. On disembarking, she hurried along the Trade Path, so quickly that Didius had to trot to keep up.

The land about did not share her unease. Calm weather had returned, and the field strips across the river were a rippling sea of green barley heads. The few homesteads they passed were deserted and peaceful, for the young people were in the high pastures with the cattle, and the men were clearing next year’s fields in the Add valley. Even the trading punts on their way from their ships at Crinan glided lazily up the river.

When Dunadd swept into view Rhiann stopped so abruptly Didius nearly ran into her. Yet as she gazed up at the imposing crag and high palisade, the tension wound about her heart began to loosen. The dun still stood: strong, unassailable. Perhaps her fears had just been dark fancies after all. Perhaps if she was wrong about this, she was also wrong to fear for Eremon. Pausing in the hot sun, she unpinned her cloak, stiff from salt, and folded it over her arm. Then, with her head high, she endeavoured to continue more calmly.

There was not enough wind to stir the royal banner that crowned the King’s Hall, but the village gate stood wide open, and from afar Rhiann could see people moving in and out of it as normal. She barely glanced up at the gate guards or noted who was about, so intent was she on reaching her own house. It wasn’t until she entered the Moon Gate on the crag that she realized something was indeed wrong.

It was the thick, heavy silence that alerted her, unnatural and tense.

Among the houses of the nobles – her royal clan – no one moved.
Has someone died?
she wondered, with a resurgence of panic, and found herself turning for the Horse Gate and King’s Hall. Yet she had not got far before she was met by a sight that arrested her. Three men were advancing towards her under the oak arch of the carved stallion’s legs.

The first was Gelert, his face carefully blank even as his raised brows registered surprise. The jet eyes on his owl staff, clasped in one bony hand, flashed in the sun.

Then came Lorn, his chin rearing up when he caught sight of Rhiann.

And finally Urben, commanding the space around him with his bear shoulders, his garish clothes and excess of rings, chains and brooches. His hair, the fair mingled equally with silver, was bound back with a gold circlet, and his moustache framed a profoundly satisfied mouth.

It was Urben who broke Rhiann’s shocked silence. Ah!’ he boomed. ‘Our Ban Cré has returned to her people at last. Splendid!’ Belying these hearty words, his grey eyes assessed Rhiann with a coolness that turned her belly.

‘What has happened?’ Rhiann struggled to keep her voice even, staring hard at Lorn, willing him to answer. But he would not meet her eyes.

That was when she knew.

‘Alas, it appears that our war leader will not be returning from his southern adventure.’ Urben spread his glittering hands in a parody of helplessness. ‘At such an unstable time, I thought it prudent to lend my protection to the royal dun.’

The blood roared in Rhiann’s ears. Struggling for breath, she spun around, only to notice belatedly that unfamiliar guards – Urben’s warriors – were now flanking the Moon Gate. And the high timber gates themselves, which had never been closed in a generation, were now scraping shut behind her.

Cutting her off from the village below.

CHAPTER 15

R
hiann rounded on Urben. ‘Traitor!’ she hissed, her face ablaze with sudden rage.

Lorn turned his head away, but Urben merely smiled and folded his hands on his jewelled belt. ‘Traitor, lady?’

At his raised voice, a few pale faces appeared in the darkness of their doorways – the nobles of the ruling clan. Rhiann could only wonder how they’d subdued Talorc, who would never stand for such a betrayal.