Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles)

by Ruth Nestvold

  When voices began fading into the distance and chaos was growing in the besieging army, it was Brigid's turn. Two men pulled opened the thick doors, but through Brigid's power of changing it looked as if the gate was still closed. The noise of the search for the wolves was enough to cover the creak of the opening gate. Yseult watched her mother's party walk through what seemed to be heavy wood, an eerie sight, although she knew it was an illusion. But even before the party left Druim Dara, their figures grew darker and darker, becoming one with the night. A short time later, they heard the hoot of an owl to indicate they were through, and the doors were closed again behind them.

  In her mind, Yseult accompanied the small party's progress, joining her own powers now with those of Brigid to make her mother and the rest appear invisible to the enemy warband. She saw them dodge the occasional running warrior, saw them skirt the guards still posted at the edges of the camp, despite the threat from the wolves. Finally they were past the last guard and into the woods beyond.

  Yseult heaved a sigh of relief and leaned back against the oaken doors. But her job was not yet done. She reached out to the pen where the horses were held, and, one by one, she found eight mounts best suited to the task at hand. While Brigid continued to cloak the refugees in darkness, Yseult put panic into the minds of the horses, urging them to break out, jump the makeshift fence, and make as much terrified noise as possible while doing it.

  The outcry told her she'd been successful. "The wolves are attacking the horses!" "See where they are coming from!" "We have to keep them from taking down our mounts!"

  While the warriors of the Ui Garrchon and Ui Bairrche were busy seeking the wolves responsible for the stampeding horses, Yseult led the mounts that had broken free to the small group of dark clad figures who were hurrying through the woods on foot, cloaked in blackness.

  She could feel eight-year-old Nath laugh out loud as a fine boned pony, darker than the night around them, galloped up to him. Yseult the Wise hushed her son, but there was no need — they were far enough away and the chaos great enough in the camp that no one would have heard.

  They were safe.

  Mounted, the refugees were soon too far away for Brigid and Yseult to use their power of changing to hide them. Exhausted, Yseult leaned against the wood and earth ramparts. She felt as if she could sleep for a week.

  * * * *

  Yseult the Wise and her party arrived safely in Dun Ailinne in the early morning, just as the sun was beginning to rise. Colorful tents were everywhere on the plain around the hill-fort, temporary lodgings for the sub-kings who had come to the council to elect the next king of the Laigin. Yseult wondered if Findchad was here as well, or if he was participating personally in the siege of Druim Dara. He belonged to the kinship group eligible to be elected king. If confronted, he would claim no knowledge of an attack on the site of the sacred fire.

  She would have to hide Nath away somewhere safe — safer than a hill-fort or a holy site. Yseult the Wise could only hope that her daughter was still unharmed behind the walls of Druim Dara. This was not her fight. Yseult the Fair hadn't lived in Eriu for two decades now.

  Perhaps it was time for the rest of the Tuatha Dé Danann and Feadh Ree to retreat to the underground dwellings of the sidhe. Their era was over, their gods no longer respected.

  For the first time in many years, she thought about her sister-in-law Nemain, who had left her husband to join others of the Feadh Ree in the sacred hills, taking refuge from the wars of the Gael. Yseult the Wise wasn't even sure where Nemain was now — but she knew if she sent to the king of the Tuatha Dé Danann at Oe Cualann, she could find out. She also knew that if she decided to follow those of her tribe who'd found shelter beyond the gates to the Otherworld, she was giving up all influence she'd ever had on the life of Eriu. But she wasn't sure if she cared anymore.

  * * * *

  After Yseult the Wise informed Illann of the attack on Druim Dara, she gave him her daughter's letter. "Could you see that this is sent to Cador of Dumnonia?"

  Illann nodded shortly and passed the box along to his steward. "See that this gets to Dumnonia." Then he turned to the warrior at his shoulder. "Take a party to Naas and inform my brother that Druim Dara is under siege. We need to go to their aid."

  As the warriors of Dun Ailinne began to discuss who would ride for Naas, the steward went in search of someone to take the small packet along on their next trip to the port.

  He caught the cook as she was building up the fire in the main round house. "Will you be sending anyone to Inber Da Glas anytime soon?"

  She nodded. "Illann has requested mussels again. Although why he insists on such a thing this time of year is beyond me."

  The steward grimaced. Anyone with any sense knew that mussels were a winter food. But princes were not always known for their sense.

  He handed her the flat wooden box. "Have the servant take this along and find a ship headed for the land of the Bretain. It is intended for Cador of Dumnonia, the husband of Yseult the Fair. But mind you do not pay too much for the transport — it is only a small box, after all."

  "Of course." The cook took the box and laid it aside, concentrating on fanning the flames.

  After Illann and his guests and warriors had broken their fast, the cook remembered the box and went to retrieve it from where it lay next to the fire pit. Luckily, it was still undamaged. She picked it up, dusted it off, and went in search of the servant who would be going to port on the morrow.

  "I have another task for you when you go to Inber Da Glas," she told the young man, handing him the box containing the missive. "This is intended for Cador of Dumnonia. You need to find a ship heading for the island of the Bretain who will take it along. But do not let yourself be cheated — it is only a small packet."

  The next day, the servant almost forgot the box; it was only the sight of the cook hurrying between the bake house and the main hall that reminded him. And then once he reached Inber Da Glas, there was no merchant ship there bound for anywhere on the island of the Bretain, let alone Dumnonia.

  "Can you hold onto it until a ship arrives that is to cross the Erainn Sea?" the servant said anxiously to the port master he normally did business with. "It is for the husband of Yseult the Fair, Cador of Dumnonia."

  "Yseult the Fair, you say? Tell me, is she as beautiful as the tales say? Does she deserve the name?"

  The servant shrugged. "She is beautiful, certainly, but she is no longer young. She has hair of the palest blond I have ever seen, and her eyes are only a touch darker than this silver." He gestured at the ring money he'd shaved off to pay the transport for the box. "But given the way she looks even now, at her age, with a grown son already a king among the Bretain — twenty years ago she must have been a woman to take a man's breath away, and his wits as well. I suspect there really is something to the legends."

  The port master smiled and pocketed the silver. "I will find a ship to take the letter before the summer is out, I promise."

  It was half a cycle of the moon before a merchant ship from Gaul arrived with a cargo of wine and garlic and olive oil, intending to trade for Erainn hunting hounds, which were coveted everywhere in the known world, as far as the port master could judge. Sometimes he wondered why the known world was so incapable of breeding their own dogs; on the other hand, it was certainly good for business that they were not up to the task.

  The sleek hounds were barking in protest at being loaded onto the curraghs to take them to a deep-bodied trading ship when the port master approached the merchant with the slim wooden box. "This is intended for Cador of Dumnonia, the husband of Yseult the Fair. I hope you will be able to convey it to someone willing to take it the rest of the way? I'm sure the courier would be well rewarded for his efforts."

  The merchant's lips grew thin. "And what of my reward?"

  "It is nothing more than a box, after all, and you would only need to carry it with you to your destination of Moridunum in Demetia."

  "Yes, and
there I would have to find someone willing to make the journey to the seat of this Cador, a delay that could cause me a day, if not more. And what if I find no one willing to make the journey?"

  "To bring a letter to the king of the Durotriges from his wife? You really think there are none who would bet on the rich reward at the end of the journey?"

  The merchant paused, trying to regain the advantage. "Nonetheless, a courier would still need to be found. There is no guarantee that I can do that in the space of a morning."

  The port master began to shift slivers of shaved silver from one palm to the other. "There are enough ships that travel between here and the many ports of the Bretain. I can wait."

  As the port master intended, at the sight of the stream of silver, the merchant's greed got the better of him. "Good, I will take the missive. But I want an extra handful of silver for my efforts."

  The port master continued to play with the silver shavings, left, right, left, right. "A whole handful? Do you not think that a bit excessive? As I said, I'm sure there will be another merchant before the moon is out more willing and less greedy who can take charge of a simple box."

  The merchant stared at the streaming silver for a long moment before he finally answered. "I will carry the letter."

  "So noble of you," the port master said, beaming. He handed the merchant the wooden box with one hand and poured the shaved silver into the outstretched palm with the other.

  The letter boarded a curragh with the waiting dogs and found a home aboard ship in the sleeping compartment of the merchant himself, who intended to get at least another piece of silver out of the delivery when they reached Moridunum. Surely there would be someone willing to pay for the privilege of making the journey to the king of the Durotriges, given the prospect of a reward for a letter from his wife — a small investment with the potential for a huge profit.

  Unfortunately, no one was ever to see the profit. As they sailed south, a sudden summer storm struck the Erainn Sea. The crew of the ship fought the elements as best they could, but the waves battering their vessel were too much for them. After the main mast broke in a gust of wind that hit them like the fist of a god, they bobbed on the violent waves for the space of a heartbeat and a lifetime until the proud corbita capsized, a ship that had seen the sunny lands of Rome and Carthage and had sailed may times through the Straits of Gibraltar, only to find its end on the short but notoriously stormy passage between Eriu and Britannia.

  Some of the Erainn hounds managed to swim to land. But Yseult's words to her husband — along with a dozen human lives — sank to the bottom of the ocean.

  Book V

  Love Secured

  Chapter 19

  On the right hand of King Arthur sate the beautiful Indeg, and on his left the lovely Garwen. Taliesin advanced, along the tesselated floor, towards the upper end of the hall, and, kneeling before King Arthur, said, "What boon will King Arthur grant to him who brings news of his queen?"

  "Any boon," said Arthur, "that a king can give."

  "Queen Gwenyvar," said Taliesin, "is the prisoner of King Melvas, in the castle of Dinas Vawr."

  Thomas Love Peacock, "The Misfortunes of Elphin"

  Cador to Kustennin, greetings.

  Many thanks for the news from Caer Leon. Perhaps the Armorican kings can contain the threat from Chlodovech without help. With Arthur's strong ties there, however, I know he will decide to go if he is needed. But I do wonder how many of the kings of Britain will see the situation the same way he does.

  I fear I have had no further news of your mother since she arrived in Dun Ailinne. Correspondence between Britain and Eriu is difficult in the best of times, which these are not. I assume you have also heard that Crimthann is now dead and there have been battles among the tribes of the Laigin to determine the succession? I can only hope and pray that your mother has not been caught in that. If you have more news than I, please send word.

  I hope this letter finds you well. Next month Alun and I will be at the horse fair in Durnovaria, if you care to join us.

  Your stepfather Cador

  Kustennin folded the leaves of the letter and retied the cord, gazing down at the thin sheet of wood without really seeing it. Cador was certainly right about one thing — he had heard about Crimthann's death and the resulting battles. He'd been hoping this letter would bring news of his mother's safe return. Instead, nothing.

  "What is it, Kustennin?" Loholt asked. "Bad news?"

  "No news, unfortunately."

  "Which is almost as bad," Judual commented.

  Kustennin nodded. He didn't have to explain to his friends; they knew the situation already. Their silent sympathy was a comfort.

  He looked up. "Come, weapons practice calls, and I am in the mood to swing a sword. Are you two finally done breaking your fast?"

  * * * *

  Kustennin was tired and sweaty from another long day of mock skirmishes; practice grew increasingly intense the closer Chlodovech's Frankish armies got to Armorica. What an unpronounceable name! In strategy meetings, many of Arthur's companions had gone over to using the Latin variant of the Germanic king's name, Ludovicus, which flowed much easier from the tongue.

  As Kustennin climbed the stairs to his rooms on the upper floor of the former tribune's house, he heard voices. He grimaced; it appeared he would have to send the servants away before changing for the evening meal.

  But as he neared the open door, he recognized the female voice. Perhaps he would not have to send them all away — if he was not mistaken, the woman was Generys, a serving girl who had begun warming his bed shortly after he had arrived in Caer Leon. He grinned; maybe she would be willing to "help him change."

  Then he heard Generys give a throaty laugh. "Come, sing it for me!"

  "I have no harp," came a deep male voice.

  "Ah, but your voice needs no accompaniment," she said, her voice low and warm.

  Kustennin stopped a few steps below the landing and leaned against the wall of the stairwell. He knew that seductive timbre; he had heard it often enough by now. He had even allowed himself to think the tone reserved for him.

  The man with Generys chuckled. "Well then, if you are so undemanding, here the tune I picked up in the market today: 'The Madness of Drystan.'"

  He debated whether he should interrupt the legendary tale, part of the cycle of stories revolving around the love affair that had led to his conception. The fame by association was a constant irritation in his youth, but now the irritation of hearing Generys flirting with another man had the upper hand. Before he could decide what to do, his sometime lover gave another seductive laugh. "But that's not new! I've heard versions of that tale many times before. Surely you have a more recent song?"

  "There is the song of Gawain and Ragnell that has been all the rage for the last few months. But surely you have heard that one already?"

  "Yes, but not as often as the many songs of Drystan and Yseult. They bore me."

  "Then Gawain and Ragnell it is."

  Kustennin pushed away from the white-washed wall and descended the steps. Yes, he needed to change his clothes, but he had no interest in facing those two just now. It was odd; while on the one hand he was relieved not to be confronted yet again with the tragic tale for which his mother was famed — and reviled — another part of him was unexpectedly offended that her tragedy was relegated to the ranks of boring.

  Lost in thought, he stepped out of the door — and collided with Cai's daughter Celemon.

  She grabbed him by the shoulders, laughing. "Kustennin! Watch where you're going!"

  "Sorry. I wasn't paying attention."

  "And why not?"

  "The strangest thing just now. One of the serving girls —" — who warms my bed — "just declared the tale of Drystan and Yseult boring in my hearing."

  Celemon laughed even louder.

  "She wanted to hear the story of Gawain and Ragnell instead," he continued with a little shrug.

  Celemon pushed his arm
playfully. "Perhaps that will teach you not to resent your mother's legendary status."

  "Perhaps." Celemon had long teased him for that.

  Her expression grew serious. "Is there any news from her?"

  Kustennin shook his head.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I hope you hear something soon. It's not like your mother not to write."

  "I assume the feuds in Eriu are making it difficult to get letters out."

  Celemon took his hand. "Kustennin, your mother is strong. She has been through more than you or I could ever imagine."

  "I know." He'd been telling himself that already — and that it made no sense to worry when he had nothing specific to worry about. Time enough once bad news arrived.

  After a pause, she spoke again. "Where were you headed just now?"

  Kustennin shrugged. "I wasn't particularly inclined to interrupt their 'cleaning' after what I heard."

  She opened the bag draped over her elbow to reveal two loaves of fresh bread. "I just fetched the bread for the evening meal. Would you care to sup with us?"

  The scent wafting up from her bag reminded Kustennin that it had been midday since he'd had anything to eat. "I planned to meet with Judual and Loholt and a few others in a public house, but a meal at home with you and your father is quite tempting. I never got around to changing after weapons practice, however."

  She stepped in front of him and stopped him with palm outstretched. Donning a deliberately critical look that made him smile, she looked him up and down. "Not good. But at least it's not mud. Hold still."

  Celemon brushed the dust and dirt off his clothes as best she could, and then wiped her hands off on each other. "You're good enough for family now."

  Kustennin laughed. "Then thank you for the invitation. I accept gladly. But first I must inform my friends that I won't be joining them tonight."

  "Excellent!" She looped her arm over his elbow. "I see far too little of you, given that both of us are here in Caer Leon. Back when we were in fosterage with Cador, we played and fought like brother and sister nearly every day."