by Ann Marston
XVIII
It took Kerri fifteen minutes to catch up to us. She drew up alongside Cullin and flung the leather bag at him. Cullin’s reflexes were excellent, too. He snatched the bag out of the air and laughed as Kerri sizzled in silence. She glanced across at me. I didn’t hide my smile quickly enough. A spark of pure fury kindled and blazed in her eyes. The skin around her mouth paled and tightened, but she said nothing.
We made camp shortly after dark. Kerri’s anger still flashed and flared around her, but she performed her share of the chores without protest. She did them in a cold uncommunicative silence, that I thought better than exercising the sharp side of her tongue. When the meal was ready, she took her portion and went to sit alone beyond the circle of firelight . Cullin said nothing, but I caught his eye across the flames, and I saw the distinct glitter of tolerant amusement.
We had finished our meal and cleaned up before Kerri came back to the fire. The food on her plate appeared untouched. She stood stiffly before Cullin, her mouth still pressed into a thin, bleak line. Cullin looked up at her but also remained silent. Finally, she let out a long breath and crouched down to sit on her heels before him.
“I apologize,” she said quietly. “You were right. I was wrong. My prince would not thank me if Isgard fell and there was a chance I might have helped to prevent it but did not take it out of petulance.”
Still, Cullin said nothing.
Kerri sighed again. “A stubborn race, the yrSkai of Celi,” she said. “And I am the prime example.”
Cullin laughed. “Near as stubborn as the Tyr,” he said. “And both of us stiff-necked in our pride. Dinna worrit yourself, lass. I believe you’ll always come about to do the right thing.”
“I hope so,” she said. She flashed a glance at me across the fire as if daring me to laugh or make a derisive comment. I raised both hands, palms out, in negation, and went back to the shirt I was mending.
***
Kerri took the first watch that night, claiming the need for quiet and time to think. Cullin told her to wake him at midnight, then wrapped himself into his plaid and curled down onto a pile of fresh bracken to sleep. I remained close to the fire with the shirt I was mending. It was nearly done, the rip under the arm almost closed. I am handy enough with a needle when the need arises, but the light was not good and the work went slowly.
Kerri paid scant attention to me as I sat cross-legged, hunched over my work. She stood with her back toward me, the firelight glinting on the tawny spill of her hair down her back. Normally bound back into a thick braid, it was loosened now and tumbled across her shoulders in a wild fall of rippling waves. Her tunic and breeks emphasized the narrowness of her waist, the full promise of her hips. My memory supplied a picture of the curving swell of the breasts I could not see. It suddenly made me acutely and uncomfortably aware that there was a girl—no, a woman—under the tunic and breeks, behind that greatsword she called a Celae Rune Blade.
I glanced at the haft of the sword rising above her left shoulder. I had no wish to test the temper of that steel, nor the keenness of its cutting edge. It was more than enough to curb my natural erotic speculations in the interest of self-preservation. She had made her feelings about me clear enough before we left Honandun, and I had seen her handle that Rune Blade, and the dagger at her belt. I liked my hide the way it was right now—unpunctured and relatively intact.
She moved, turning to walk back to the fire. She crouched to sit on her heels, her expression remote and thoughtful as she poked at the coals with a stick, the amber-honey hair falling softly over her shoulders, shadowing her eyes. An unexpected and insidious tightness stirred in my groin that took my interest abruptly out of the abstract and into the concrete, and I was suddenly glad I was sitting with the bulk of the shirt in my lap. I bent my head to my task, concentrating on the stitching in the poor light.
A few moments later, feeling myself being watched, I looked up and found her face turned toward me. I could see nothing of her eyes but deep shadows beneath the spill of hair even though the firelight limned the soft, clean lines of her cheek and jaw and showed me the full, unsmiling lips. She flicked the hair from her face and turned back to watch the fire.
She said we were bonded—bonded by the link of our swords. Both times I Healed her, I had shared her memories. That never happened when I Healed anyone else, not even Cullin who was closer to me than anyone, except perhaps Keylan. I remembered the strange thrumming sensation quivering up my arms when her sword crossed mine, the curious way the air fizzed gently around us when I kissed her. I remembered how the need to find her had driven me into Frendor. I had known of the danger to her then. I wondered about the nature of this bond. Had it anything to do with this sudden awareness of her as a woman? She was no happier about it than I, perhaps even less so, when we spoke upon awakening this afternoon. I could read nothing in her posture or her expression now.
Watching her covertly as she stirred the glowing coals, I had an almost irresistible urge to get up and take her into my arms. Almost irresistible. She still wore the sword, and the dagger at her hip. And she certainly made it more than clear that first day how she felt about any man laying a hand on her without her express consent or invitation, both to me and to an Isgardian seaman who would be a long time forgetting her.
But there was something about the way her face looked, lit by the flickering light of the fire, shadowed by her tumbling hair. She looked up and saw me watching her. For a moment, her expression didn’t change. Then there was a subtle shift in the set of her mouth and the angle at which she held her head and I knew she was as aware of me as a man as I was of her as a woman. She rose to her feet in one graceful, fluid movement, and walked away into the darkness, back straight, denial in every line of her body.
I don’t remember getting to my feet. I found her just outside the small circle of light, one hand braced lightly against the trunk of a silverleaf maple. She turned as she heard my footfall behind her.
“You said we were bonded,” I said slowly, my voice sounding thick and blurred.
“We are.” She met my eyes calmly. “It’s not what either of us wanted, but it’s there.”
“How deep is the bond?” I wanted to reach out and touch the softness of her cheek, but I held my hand stiffly at my side.
“To the bone,” she said. “To the heart and soul.” She stepped away as if sensing my desire to touch her. “But not as man and woman.” Her tone was flat and cold, and it stopped me dead. “Not unless you really are Kyffen’s grandson.”
“I’m not that man, sheyala,” I said softly. “Honestly, I’m not. Even if I wanted to be, for you, I couldn’t say I was.”
“You carry a Celae Rune Blade—”
“Aye, but only because I took it from the man who owned it when he tried to take me back to Mendor. I carry it now only to give it to the man it belongs to.”
She glanced up at me, an unreadable expression in her eyes. “You know this?” she asked.
“It was told to me in a dream,” I said. “I—dream, sheyala. Sometimes I dream of a man on a hill standing in the midst of a dance of stones.” The soft shadows and the hushed serenity of the night made it easier to talk about the dreams I could just barely remember. “When I was very young, I used to dream of a Swordmaster, and dancing with the sword. Now I dream of a dance of stone, and a Watcher on the Hill. And an opponent who comes out of darkness with a sword that spills night around it like a broken flask spills water.”
“A dance of stones?” she asked sharply. She stripped the hair from her face with one hand and reached out for my arm. “Tell me about the dance, Kian.”
I described it as best I could. She listened intently, a small, thoughtful frown drawing the golden brows together above the bridge of her nose, her lower lip caught between her teeth. When I had finished, she dropped her hand from my arm and turned away.
“In Celi, near the mountain we call Cloudbearer, there is such a dance,” she said. “But it lies on a
plain, not on a hill. It’s called the Dance of Nemeara and it is as old as the island itself.”
“Then I dream of a different dance,” I said. “One set on a hill. Not the same.”
“This Watcher on the Hill said you carry the sword to give it to the man it belongs to?” she asked.
“He did. He told me its name. Kingmaker’s Sword.”
She turned back to me, her lower lip caught between her teeth again. “One of the swords of Wyfydd Smith,” she murmured.
“Wyfydd Smith?”
“Come back to the fire, Kian,” she said. “I will tell you about the Swords of Wyfydd.”
The night had turned cool. I put more wood on the fire and we sat with our backs to the warmth. “Tell me about this smith,” I said.
“He was the smith to the gods,” she said. “They called him armourer to gods and kings. There’s a song about him. I know part of it.” She closed her eyes and began to sing very softly:
Armourer to gods and kings,
Wyfydd’s magic hammer sings.
Music in its ringing tone,
Weaponry for kings alone.
He who forged the sword of Brand,
Myrddin blessed it to his hand.
By iron, fire, wind and word,
Wyfydd crafts the mystic sword.
Blades to fill a kingly need.
Royal blood and royal breed.
Wyfydd made and Myrddin blessed,
Hilt and blade wrought for the best.
He alone its mettle test.
In but one hand each sword shall rest.
“A pretty song,” I said, smiling. “But a legend.”
“Not a legend,” she said. “He was very real. He was in Celi when it was still Nemeara and belonged to the Tyadda. He crafted the first Rune Blades and filled them with both magic and music. Two of them, he placed in hiding against the day they would be needed to free Celi of an oppressor. The rest went to men and women who had earned them.” She reached up and touched the hilt of her own sword. “This one has been handed down for centuries. It was my father’s, and his father’s before him, and his father’s mother’s before that.”
I glanced over to my sword that lay beside my bedroll. “And that one? How did it end up with a Maeduni bounty hunter so that it fell into the hands of a runaway slave?”
“I had thought Kingmaker to be more ornate and jewelled,” she said. A crooked smile twisted her mouth. “It was sent to Tebor of Dorian as a wedding gift by Kyffen. It was to be passed on to Ytwydda’s son, and passed on to his son. Of course, at the time, everyone expected Tebor to be the father. But Tebor thought it confirmed that he was destined to be king of all Celi. After the battle in which Tebor died, it was gone. Everyone thought it had been taken by one of the Saesnesi who fought with Tebor.”
“It may have been,” I said. “And the Saesnesi who took it lost it to the bounty hunter.”
“Who took it to you and now you carry it,” she said. “A Rune Blade always finds its way to the hand born to wield it. I told you that before.”
“Aye, you did,” I said. “And now it seems I carry it to give it to your long-lost prince.”
“If you will let the sword lead you,” she said. “I hope you will, Kian. It’s important.”
I looked at her. “Magic and music, you said the Smith gave his blades,” I said softly. “My sword has both. I’ve felt it and heard it.” I smiled briefly. “Aye, and I’ve even used its magic.” I looked at her and frowned. “How is it that the General or the warlock couldn’t sense it? The General remarked upon it. He asked how it could be that I had used so much magic and he had not detected it.”
“The swords can mask magic,” she said. “A masking spell is all but undetectable because it directs the magic inward, toward what’s being masked. You felt it in Trevellin because it was directed at you.” She pointed at a rock. “Watch.”
I looked. The air around the stone shimmered for an instant, then I saw a small, sleeping cat curled around itself. But I felt nothing. No prickling along my arms or the back of my neck, no nausea. And I smelled nothing but wood smoke and the fresh scent of water and green, growing things nearby.
“My sword will do the same, under certain circumstances,” she said and smiled. “Rune Blades don’t have extremely strong magic, as a rule, but they have some.”
“They have enough,” I said. The cat turned back into a stone even as I watched. I rubbed my arms, then changed the subject. “Tell me how it fell to you to find this princeling.”
She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around her legs. “It’s a long story,” she said. “How much do you know about Celi?”
“Not much. Only what Cullin said—that centuries ago, a band of Tyran clansmen—warriors who wanted to go their own way—went to the island after splitting off with their clan. A disagreement of some sort.”
“When the Celae came to Celi, they found the Tyadda already there,” she said. “My father is Tyadda. My mother was half Celae. The Celae didn’t conquer the Tyadda. They married them.” She smiled. “It was a gentle conquest in that regard. But the Tyadda were already a dying race. They once had strong magic, but it was fading when the Celae came. Mixing the blood in some cases brought back the magic. My mother had magic.”
“Still, why you?”
“I’m to be the prince’s bheancoran.”
“Bheancoran?”
“Warrior-maid. Each Prince of Skai has one. It’s like a personal guard, in a way, but it’s more than that. I don’t know if I can really explain it. Many of the women in my family were bheancoran. My cousin Meaghan was Llan’s. He died before he became prince, and she died from the pain of the broken bond. The task of finding the lost prince is mine. He’s sorely needed, Kian. I told you before, Celi has been invaded by Saesnesi who plunder the land. They don’t come to settle, only to steal and burn and pillage. They’ve established bases on the eastern shore now and raid from there. And there’s no one to stop them.”
I looked down at her. “You’ve been given a difficult task, sheyala,” I said finally.
“That may be so,” she said. “But I have to do my best.” She looked into the fire, her expression remote again. “I had thought I would recognize him by the bond. Because I’m to be his bheancoran, I had thought we would bond when I saw him, and he would know me just as I knew him.”
“Instead, you find yourself bonded to a savage and a barbarian,” I said. I had been striving for levity, but it fell flat.
She looked up at me, her eyes shadowed, her lips soft and half-parted. “It can’t be a true bond,” she said, then she smiled faintly. “I know what’s happening to us. Do you remember what day this is?”
I had to think about it. It was the day after Vernal Equinox when Cullin and I brought the merchant train into Honandun. How many days, how many sept-nights since then? Enough had happened to fill a year’s worth. When I counted the days, it startled me to discover it was only a season. One season.
“Beltane Eve,” I said in surprise. “Tonight is Beltane Eve.” Beltane Eve, the only night of the year when the Duality split into its male and female aspects to couple by the fires as man and woman to bless the fertility of field and herd. The night when every woman represented the goddess and every man the god.
“Yes,” she said. “I was thinking about what I would be doing if I were home tonight.”
I knew what I would be doing. Dancing between the fires with an eye out for a light-footed and lighthearted lass wishing to offer me her heather-wine. The sudden warmth in my face was not from the heat of the fire.
“What would you be doing, sheyala?” I asked, knowing I trod dangerous ground. “How do you celebrate Beltane in Celi?”
She set her chin on her drawn up knees, arms wrapped tightly around her legs. “There’s a procession from the shrine to the oak grove where the fire is waiting to be lighted,” she said quietly. “Then we dance around it.”
“Only one fire?” I asked.
She n
odded. “Just the one. Not so in Tyra?”
“No. We light two and dance between them. The women carry goblets of heather-wine to offer to the men they favour.”
“Mead in Celi,” she said. “One sip demands payment of a kiss.”
“And if you offer the whole cup?”
She laughed softly. “The grass is always soft between the oak trees,” she said. “I think it must be the same in Tyra.”
“Aye, it is. And in the morning, the children drive the beasts between the fires, all the horses and cattle and sheep and goats, even the geese and chickens, to ensure an increase.” I laughed. “And there are always a few Beltane babes born around Imbolc.”
“We call them blessed,” she said. “A child who can claim a god for a father and a goddess for a mother.” She drew in a deep breath. “Liam believes Kyffen’s grandson is a child of Beltane.”
“Sheyala, do these princes marry their bheancoran?” My voice sounded unaccountably hoarse.
“Some do,” she replied. “Kyffen married Demilor.”
“As you might marry this prince.”
She looked up at me gravely. “I might, Kian,” she said. She turned again to watch the fire. “When we find him. If we find him...” Her voice trailed off into silence.
XIX
Travelling by merchant train, the journey from Frendor to Honandun takes a fortnight. We avoided the road as much as possible, but sunset of the tenth day found us on the outskirts of Honandun. Cullin led us through the streets away from the portside inns we normally used, toward the white stone elegance of the Ephir’s palace. The streets here were lined by the sumptuous and expensive walled houses of the nobility and courtiers of Isgard. This was not a district normally frequented by merchant train guards. There was little chance we would be recognized.
Cullin finally stopped at an inn that would be vastly beyond the means of even a merchant train guard heavy with silver and a bonus of gold after a long trip south and back. I took the horses to the stable and flipped two ten-copper bits to the stablemaster who eyed my clothing askance, but did not question my coin.
