The Dawn Stag: Book Two of the Dalriada Trilogy

by Jules Watson

  Rhiann rested her head on her arm, her hand against his cheek. For two days this bed had cradled her, and she had been astonished that when Eremon showed her gentleness and trust, her fears subsided enough for pleasure to have its time in the flame-light. Yet it was dark again now. Rhiann smoothed fingers over Eremon’s chest, and when they drifted lower to the nubbed scar on one arm, a chill overtook her. That wound he had received in a duel with Lorn, yet Eremon’s skin was webbed with many other fine, faded scars from other battles.

  And because their flesh had joined now, the pit of Rhiann’s belly suddenly understood what her mind had not: that this flesh she now loved could be pierced by blade and point as easily as her fears pierced her. Struggling for breath, she turned over on her back. In the stone circle she had given the power of her heart to Eremon, yet she hadn’t thought beyond that, to a life spent watching him ride to war; followed by the moons of loneliness, expecting all the time to hear of his death.

  With stinging eyes Rhiann stared at the roof beam over her head, looped with chains of fading roses. I will not wait here, helpless to fear, she thought fiercely. The dream is my path, yet we walk it together, Eremon and I.

  She gained only a night of fitful sleep, but when she woke to a grey sky, a cold fire and Eremon’s arm flung across her breasts, Rhiann knew already what she would do.

  To Eremon’s delight, his messenger to Calgacus had not gone far north when he met a warband of the Caledonii king coming the other way – a gift for Eremon of five hundred warriors.

  Eremon inspected them at once on the river meadow before Dunadd’s gates. It was a cloudy, wind-whipped day that was nevertheless heavy with unseasonal heat. The few horses among the Caledonii warriors tossed their manes, skittish in the dry wind.

  ‘What news from your king?’ Eremon asked the warband’s commander, whom he had met at Calgacus’s dun.

  The man, a tall, powerful fighter with greying hair, slowly shook his head, his arm looped under his horse’s neck. ‘News that was bought at great cost, lord – the lives of ten spies and scouts.’

  ‘By the Boar!’ Eremon blinked windborn grit from his eyes. ‘What news was worth such a price?’

  ‘The Roman emperor has died; a new one has come.’ The Caledonii warrior held Eremon’s gaze, his mouth a grim line. ‘And this one has renewed the excitement of the soldiers. The southern tribes say the Romans are restless, boasting of a coming fight. They are demanding more taxes of charcoal and wood for their smithies, more grain and meat for soldiers. The news is that they are preparing to march south to the Novantae rebellion.’

  Eremon went very still. In a hollow voice he dismissed the men, and instructed Conaire to see them housed and fed. Then he strode away from the river towards the dun, his eyes blank and unseeing, his feet careless of their steps.

  Some time later Conaire found him with Bran at his furnace, watching intently as the big, ruddy smith pushed air into the mud dome over his fire with a huge pair of leather bellows.

  ‘I let Rhiann know about the extra men,’ Conaire said, glancing from Eremon’s still face to Bran’s great, soot-rimed arms, the hardened muscles bunching with each push. Eremon grunted and nodded at Bran, then rose stiffly to his feet and laid down the hammer he had been hefting between his fingers.

  With a jerk of his head, Eremon drew Conaire away from the roar of the furnace and the stifling heat of the small shed, into the dark coolness of the adjoining storehouse. The grey daylight filtering through the open door picked out the piles of new shield-bosses and spear-points on the long oak bench.

  Conaire selected a spear from a bundle against the wall and eyed down its shaft. ‘I’ve split the new arrivals into groups to train with our own men … some on spears, some on swords.’

  ‘Archers,’ Eremon said absently, picking out a point and testing it on his fingertip. ‘We will need many archers; get all who show ability in this area to train with Nectan’s men. We only have a few days; there is no time to lose.’

  Conaire was watching him carefully. ‘Why are you so disturbed, brother? It’s not just the Novantae – you knew Agricola was bound to retaliate once they rebelled. It’s something about the new emperor; I saw your face.’

  Eremon snorted wryly, for there was little he could keep from Conaire. He took a deep breath of the tang of iron and raw wood. ‘During those few nights I spent with Samana in the Roman camp, she told me that Agricola only stopped his initial advance at the Forth two years ago because the emperor then, Titus, had not given him leave to go further. Indeed, Titus had even taken some of Agricola’s men to fight on another frontier, far to the east.’ He blew out his breath, and dug the point into the bench. ‘If this new emperor has a different mind, then perhaps the game begins in earnest. After dealing with the Novantae, they will come north, at last.’

  Conaire rested the spear-butt on the earth floor and leaned on it. ‘As we have been expecting they would eventually,’ he reminded Eremon. ‘We are ready.’

  Eremon’s bitter laugh took Conaire by surprise. ‘These men are ready,’ Eremon agreed, flinging his hand towards the open door. ‘Ready for a tribal raid; ready to face a warband. But not an army, brother! Not the thousands of men Agricola commands! Without all the tribes of Alba, we can hold them back only a little while.’

  ‘Then that’s what we’ll do,’ Conaire replied, flipping the spear across his broad shoulders. ‘These Romans haven’t yet seen that there are more ways to fight than with numbers alone.’

  Eremon sighed, and threw the point down. ‘When we go south, we must find a way to slow them. Or, the gods save us, the storm will break over us and, soon after, those we call our own.’

  A burst of laughter sounded from the second bonfire, carrying clearly across the river meadow on the damp, night air. So far, Calgacus’s men and the Epidii warriors were feasting together quite happily. So far. Yet Lorn’s head jerked towards the sound as he drank of his ale.

  ‘I think it best,’ Eremon continued carefully, ‘that you take charge of the defence of Dunadd.’

  He braced himself for one of Lorn’s explosions, the indignant demands that he lead his own men on the southern adventure. But Eremon didn’t want Lorn along this time, however good a fighter he was. The warband would have to move far and fast, and Eremon couldn’t spend his time knee-deep in the marshes and bogs of the Novantae territory arguing with Lorn.

  Lorn gave no sign he had heard, however, as he slowly swallowed his ale. It was only after he wiped the liquid from his pale moustache that he spoke. ‘I agree,’ he said evenly.

  ‘You do?’ The words fell from Eremon’s lips before he could stop them. He peered at Lorn, but the Epidii prince’s eyes were in shadow, the outline of his nose sharp against the flames of the nearer fire.

  ‘Of course. Your man Finan is a fine commander, but he is of Erin.’ Lorn paused, as the far laughter slid into jeers, and one or two indignant shouts. ‘An Epidii warrior in command here would be best. We don’t know yet what Agricola will do – I can field a northern force to defend Dunadd, and stop him outflanking you. And the extra border guards and signal stations must be ordered as well as when you are here.’

  Eremon frowned at Lorn’s agreeable tone – he would have felt happier with some degree of protest. And yet there was an unease in the swift way that Lorn tossed back another gulp of ale.

  Still … Eremon shrugged to himself, his eye caught by Conaire, tunic sleeves pushed back, wading into the middle of the scuffle which had broken out now between some newcomers and Dunadd men.

  ‘Boar’s balls!’ Eremon rested his cup on the log and sprang to his feet. ‘They’ll kill themselves before we get anywhere near the Romans.’

  As he made to go, Lorn stopped him by gripping his forearm, wrist to wrist. ‘Prince.’ He was looking up at Eremon now, but the glint of pale eyes in the firelight showed nothing. ‘May the gods bring you success.’ Lorn’s breath pushed out through his teeth. ‘Go safely.’

  By the time Eremon reached
the fighters, Conaire’s great fists had downed enough to bring them into line, and Eremon had little to do but give orders: the Dunadd men back to their own fire, and another keg of ale to be opened. Soon, they would all be singing together under the stars, and no one would care then what tribe their drinking partner came from. If only disagreements between princes were as easily resolved, Eremon thought, glancing back at Lorn, who was moving off.

  Conaire had argued about leaving Lorn in charge, his reasoning only voicing Eremon’s misgivings. Yet Lorn had given his oath to follow Eremon as war leader, and though Urben’s dismay that first day had been real, Eremon could, grudgingly, understand it. The old chieftain hadn’t made an appearance since returning to his dun, anyway, and even Tharan and the other dissenters on the council had not argued against Eremon’s southern expedition. Perhaps the act of giving Lorn a prominent role in the warband was finding wide favour.

  Another drunken shout came, and more black shapes were suddenly flailing their fists before the fire. With a sigh, Eremon turned back, seeking once more for his brother.

  Rhiann kept her plan secret for as long as she could.

  This was made easier by being so busy with provisions for the warband, instructing the women to bake the men’s trail cakes of beef and venison pounded with pig fat, barley and dried berries. She and Eithne also kept up their collection of leaves, roots and flowers, preserving and storing late in the long twilights. Rhiann’s greatest concern was Caitlin, but her sister was so enthused by Rhiann’s plan that she agreed to move in with Linnet for the few weeks Rhiann would be away.

  Which only left one thing – informing Eremon.

  It was hard to catch him alone, for at any time he could be on the training ground, with his own men, or at Bran’s smithy. She trailed from one place to another, Didius trotting along at her heels, until at last she ran Eremon to ground at the port, Crinan.

  He was standing on the end of the longest pier with Finan, to whom he’d given charge of the transport arrangements for the thousand-man warband. The old Erin warrior had commandeered every boat he could find along the coast, from hide curraghs to larger trading ships.

  As Rhiann approached, she shaded her eyes against the afternoon sun, noting Eremon’s easy stance, his hands on hips, his head down, listening to Finan. Cù saw her first, bounding over to jump up on his hind legs, and she was still brushing down her skirts when Eremon followed his hound, his eyes dismissing Didius with a cursory glance. Cù had now turned his attentions to the Roman, and was snuffling his crotch while Didius stood frozen, his plump jowls quivering. Romans did not live with hounds the way Albans did, and Cù seemed to have sniffed out the little man’s fear along with his scent.

  ‘Eithne’s father is a fisherman,’ Rhiann offered to Eremon. He says it will only take six days to land in the south of the Novantae lands.’

  Eremon winced. ‘Only six days!’

  Rhiann grinned and patted his cheek. ‘This time I will brew enough tansy to settle your belly ten times over.’

  ‘I think I’ll need some prayers, too.’

  Rhiann bit her lip, glancing down at the hide boats which bobbed against their pier on their weed-furred ropes. ‘Prayers I can give you, and not just my own.’ She drew a deep breath, and then expelled the words in a rush. ‘I have it in mind to return to the Sacred Isle while you are gone.’ She braced herself for an argument, but Eremon only frowned.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I wish to ask the Sisters for aid, and to call the Source to strengthen you and your men.’

  The crease in Eremon’s brows deepened, and the sun shimmered from the water into his eyes, showing his fear clearly. ‘I cannot deny we need it … but we just returned from the Sacred Isle. I don’t like the idea of you roving the seas alone, not with Maelchon still at large.’

  ‘It only takes three days in a good wind, Eremon,’ she wheedled. ‘No one will notice a little fishing boat.’

  His jaw was setting in that familiar way. ‘You can’t go alone.’

  ‘I won’t be alone.’ She waved behind her. ‘I will take Didius; you know I could not have a more devoted guard.’

  Eremon snorted, his eyes narrowing on Didius. ‘More devoted, perhaps not,’ he muttered, ‘but more effective would be better.’

  The breeze coming off the bay was keen, and Rhiann crossed her arms over her breast, shivering. ‘I don’t want to take any warriors away from you or the defence of Dunadd. Besides – not that you care – but it would be wise to remove Didius from Gelert’s sight and—’

  At those words, Eremon’s expression transformed, his eyes jerking back to rest on her face with sudden intensity. And that’s when she realized what she’d accidentally invoked: the attractive idea of placing her away from the chief druid’s sight. ‘Gelert,’ Eremon repeated, absently rubbing her arms to warm them. At last he kissed the top of her head. ‘Give my own regards to the Sisters, then, and take three of my armbands as an offering to your Stones.’

  Rhiann smiled with relief. ‘So I will, cariad.’

  Three days later, from a lookout on top of the sea-facing headland, Rhiann managed to remain dry-eyed as the flotilla of boats passed out of sight beyond the wood-cloaked Isle of Deer. Caitlin, tucked under her arm, fared less well, and Rhiann felt the violent trembling in her sister’s thin shoulders. It was a threatening, dark day, and spatters of rain began to fall, driven by growing gusts of wind that tugged fiercely at their sheepskin cloaks.

  ‘I won’t say I wish you were staying, Rhiann.’ Caitlin swiped at the mingled tears and rain on her cheeks with impatient fingers. ‘I won’t. Anything you do that protects Conaire is right, it must be.’

  Rhiann smiled, wrapping Caitlin’s cloak tighter about her neck and repinning it with nimble fingers. ‘I know this is hard. But though Dercca will coddle you, Linnet’s mountain is beautiful – more like your old home. And Eithne will be with you.’

  Caitlin nodded, staring out at the iron-grey sea, her hands absently rubbing her belly. ‘He will come back, though, won’t he?’ she whispered. ‘He’ll see the baby?’

  ‘Of course he will.’ Rhiann brushed Caitlin’s braids free of her fleece ruff and kissed her, trying not to notice how her belly jutted, and how it was already putting a noticeable sway in her narrow back. Only five moons, Rhiann counted, with a stab of unease. It will be well for me not to stay away too long.

  As they waited out the rain among the damp hazel woods below, watching the drops denting the bay, Rhiann relived again the moment when Eremon left.

  He had held her cold face in his hands, as his standard of braided boar-tails and horse-mane streamed above them on the pier. They had both remained silent in front of all those men swarming over the boats, yet Rhiann’s fingers dug into Eremon’s mailshirt as she searched his eyes, and there, at last, she had seen the farewell he would not speak.

  CHAPTER 11

  Though she had left the Sacred Isle on a day of sun, glowing with triumph, Rhiann’s return echoed the cold knot of dread that had gradually come to rest in her belly, the further north they sailed.

  For two days rain lashed the little hide shelter in the timber boat, pattering ceaselessly on the worn leather, spraying her with every gust of wind. Its sail down, the boat was driven north along the edge of the restless swells, making an easier and shorter journey for the escort of six oarsmen Rhiann had taken from among the fishermen, and Didius.

  When Rhiann at last ducked out of the shelter as they entered the sea-loch of the Sisters’ settlement, she was stiff and cold, and her skin, hair and cloak were coated with drying salt.

  The low, tumbled cliffs of the Sacred Isle’s west coast were a featureless bank in the drizzle and mist, slowly emerging into jagged profile as the loch waters nudged the boat shorewards. Yet Rhiann would not need to see with her eyes in order to know the Stones were near. She raised her face as the boat passed under their headland, heedless of the rain being driven under her hood. Instead she closed her eyes, drawing into memory
the Stones as she had last seen them: a cross and an inner ring of aged sentinels, tall and grey, watching the sea. On that day of her leaving, the sun had glittered on their pale surfaces, shifting and moving as if with joy that she had found Eremon, and been reunited with the Goddess.

  And now…

  Rhiann’s eyes flickered open. This day the Stones seemed to huddle into the grey rain, and the rocks lining the shore as they drew close were slick with cold spray, darkly clothed with weed. Rhiann shivered and gripped the hood under her chin, shamed by the Stones’ stern gaze. Did they know of the sacred pool, and how she had failed? Did they know what she had come to ask, despite this?

  For the Stones not only marked a major convergence of the rivers of earth power – pathways for the Source – that ran beneath the land. They also cradled the spirit of each priestess, turning child to novice and novice to initiate. Rhiann had gained her own power here, power she had now lost, and she was unsure if she deserved to count herself among the Stones’ children any more.

  Yet I also gained love, she found herself thinking, and her fingers crept up to the amber necklace where it lay against her neck.

  The Epidii rowers brought the small boat skimming over the dark water to the pier, which crossed the kelp-wound rocks on spindly legs. It was only then, peering into the drizzle, that Rhiann saw she was not the only visitor.

  A larger plank ship was also tied up, its sail of oiled hide unfurled to display the painted emblem of a raven. It was of the Lugi tribe then, on the northern coast. Yet Rhiann’s mouth had gone dry, for the Lugi lands also faced the strait to the Orcades islands – Maelchon’s realm. Just as Rhiann’s boat edged its stern side-on to the pier, a man in a rich, striped cloak stepped into the hull of the Lugi ship, guarded by warriors whose spear-tips gleamed dully through the rain.