by Jules Watson
Linnet’s breathing rattled in her chest, and she coughed impatiently into both hands before resuming her agitated grip on the blanket. Behind Eithne, Dercca now appeared with a pile of washed linens she had been drying in the sunshine.
Rhiann used Linnet’s distraction to push her advantage. ‘Besides, Nerida herself sent a message back to my own, saying that she would look for me at Beltaine. Setana already knew that I was coming.’
Linnet frowned. ‘Did she?’
‘Most certainly.’ Rhiann moved to the edge of the bed and took Linnet’s hand. ‘I do not wish to grieve you, aunt, but I am going, and you must stay and get well, so you can care for Caitlin and Gabran.’
Linnet’s mouth pursed, then crumpled. Rhiann stroked her hot cheek, red and lined from the pillow. ‘Anyway, no one even knows the path I sail. I am nothing more than another priestess on her way to the Sacred Isle for Beltaine.’
Linnet’s fevered eyes were dark with pain, yet at last she managed to summon a blessing to her cracked lips. However, though she returned Rhiann’s embrace, she left warm tears on her niece’s neck.
A week later, Rhiann and Didius set sail from Crinan. Caitlin eventually sought shelter from the cold wind that blew in over the Bay of Isles, ducking into a nearby house to warm Gabran by the fire. But from far out on the choppy waves Rhiann kept her eyes on Linnet’s tall, straight figure standing alone on the edge of the rocks.
And she saw that Linnet did not move at all, until the distance and sea-mists took her from Rhiann’s sight.
The lamp-flame rose steadily against the cold walls of the vast underground tomb, sheening the moist stone.
Outside, a moaning storm swept across the flat Orcades lands, straight from the sea, heavily laden with salt rain. Yet the stone was so perfectly worked that not a single gust penetrated the heavy, silent air inside. At the farther reaches of the central chamber the light fell away into dark shadows that moved and whispered of their own accord, restless, and sometimes there came a glimpse of gleaming, aged bone.
The old man lay naked, spread-eagled on the earth floor, his white hair trailing around his head. The burning cold seeped up from under him, and with every breath he drew it in deeper, sensing the power like an underground stream, black with secrets. It pulsed in waves of oily darkness, curling into each of the symbols daubed on his wrinkled skin in black mud and ash, joining him to Arawn, lord of the underworld.
With every surge of the druid herbs he sensed his spirit contract, and the aches of his body dissolve into a cold, sinewy strength that turned within him. Come, lord, the Otherworld spirits were already calling. Come and let us bow down to you! Speak, and let us serve!
You have no choice, Gelert thought, and his spirit flexed and slithered free of the body, and down into the streams of power that ran beneath the land.
Free now, he writhed and spun among the tangled threads of dark and light that joined all times and all places into one web, unseen by the eyes of man. Some threads glowed silver, but he arched away from their harsh light and followed the others deeper into the dark. For they had the strength of that which bides its time, hoarding energy and warmth, coiled in darkness, wet and cold. And as he had so many times, he fixed Dunadd once more in his mind.
Spiralling through the deepest chambers, his spirit drew closer to its crag, to the bright glow of its inhabitants, the memories it held for him flaring with points of rage and pain. Up from the depths he swam, towards the surface – for he had found his rage could hold a part of himself there long enough to haunt the marsh pools and dark woods, gliding silently, cloaked as a grey man. There, he would stalk and trap the stray thoughts of men, using the ways of the spirit to give him vision, where he had no eyes.
CHAPTER 32
Rhiann! Rhiann!’
Fola’s shout floated over the calm loch to the Epidii boat, wending its way among the clutter of sea-craft in the bay below the Sisters’ settlement. Dragging her eyes away from her friend, Rhiann clasped the neck of the swan prow, staring around at the curraghs littering the weedy rocks, and the larger vessels tied up at the pier. Her call to all the priestesses of Alba had been answered.
‘So many of the Ban Crés have come,’ Fola gasped out, when Rhiann disembarked to be swept up in her friend’s arms. ‘Eight at least. And many elder priestesses from the mountains and the islands.’
Disconcerted, Rhiann broke free and massaged her temples, which were pounding from squinting into the sunlight over the sea. ‘I … I did not expect …’
Did you not?’ Fola panted, one hand pressed to her side, for she had scrambled at a mad pace down from the Stones. ‘Young you are, Sister, but known to them all the same.’ She straightened and grinned, her sloe eyes twinkling with pleasure. ‘Their kings may not have joined your man, but they certainly have been talking about him the length and breadth of Alba.’
Rhiann glanced up at the Stones as something trembled in her despite the sun on her arms, bared by the sleeveless shift. The Ban Crés were, like her, noble women trained as priestesses, and, like her, they walked the line between the demands of their tribe and the demands of the Sisters. They were no maidens, but shrewd women versed in the politics of their kings. And she was the youngest of them all – so why would they listen to her?
Because of the longest day rite, she reminded herself. Trying to release her nerves along with her breath, she smiled at Fola, and turned to gesture Didius to bring their packs along behind. As the guestlodges were bursting with visitors, the sailors who had escorted the priestesses had thrown up a temporary camp against the rocks in the little bay, surrounded by fishing nets spread to dry, bundled ropes, and kegs of ale and food. Yet Didius could not be abandoned to their mercy, for despite strutting along the pier in his over-sized Alban sword and helmet, his Latin skin had grown swarthy in the sun once more, and his straight hair, round eyes and stockiness would soon proclaim him a foreigner.
‘I am so glad you are here,’ Fola whispered more fiercely, squeezing Rhiann’s arm to draw her close. Her eyes had now lost their twinkle, and as they plunged into the shadows of the houses, she hunched one shoulder. ‘Nerida and Setana have had faces like thunderclouds for weeks now, though they try to hide it by huddling together around Nerida’s fire.’ She shook her head, drawing a crease between her brows. ‘Can you sense the weight over the Stones, Rhiann? Over us all?’
Rhiann glanced up at the headland again. From here she could only see a pale glitter of sun on grey rock, yet this time a nameless fear seemed to emanate from the air itself, not her own heart, brushing over her skin with a cold breath. ‘It is a dangerous time for Alba,’ she replied slowly. ‘We are all feeling it.’ For a moment, she drew into her mind the warmth of the glowing cauldron in her dream. There was danger, yet also light, somewhere, somehow.
‘Perhaps.’ Fola shrugged unhappily. ‘Well, we will soon be able to share what is really going on, for we have all been called to farewell the sun in the Stones.’
Thoughtfully, Rhiann followed Fola to her little house, and spread her belongings on the pallet beside Fola’s bed, absently greeting the other young women who had been moved from their beds to make way for their elders.
Didius had gone to make his own bed in an old stable nearby, and Rhiann now dug out her mother’s bronze mirror and peered at herself by the light of the stone lamp on Fola’s stool, noting the smears of sunburn across her high cheekbones, her reddened eyes, and the doleful tangle that was her hair. Hastily she unbraided and combed it. Fola stood before her, jiggling with impatience, before pushing Rhiann’s hands away and binding it herself.
Rhiann couldn’t do anything about her skin, but she changed her salt-stiff dress and grabbed two bronze arm-rings to add to the torc around her neck. Then she let Fola hurry her out of the door among the chattering girls.
On the path to the Stones Rhiann pulled on her priestess cloak and pinned it with the Epidii royal brooch, and only then did she concentrate on taking proper breaths and calming herself. Sh
e knew she would be scrutinized by the other Ban Crés, and was glad she had paused to adorn herself with some signs of rank.
Though the path was shrouded in shadow, when Rhiann and Fola reached the top of the headland the flame of the setting sun was still warming the ring of Stones. At the end of the avenue that led to the inner circle, Nerida waited to greet the Sisters, and Rhiann grasped both her arms after the kiss of greeting, registering a great stab of shock at Nerida’s appearance.
Nerida’s white braids hung heavy around her, casting her wrinkled cheeks into shadow. Her eyes seemed too large for her face, and her shoulder bones were sharper beneath Rhiann’s fingers. ‘They heeded you, and came,’ Nerida murmured, yet there was no joy or triumph in her voice.
‘I only hope they listen,’ Rhiann managed, studying her.
Nerida met her gaze directly, though her eyes remained veiled. ‘Your message told us of the siege, and the baby, and the manner of his survival. It was well done indeed.’ Nerida’s hands closed over Rhiann’s, squeezing them tight, and for the first time she smiled. ‘We sent you our blessings, Setana and I, for we were so proud of our daughter, and the courage and love you showed.’ Her eyes searched Rhiann’s face as if she looked into her heart. ‘You are indeed the bright light we always thought you – a light to pierce the darkness.’
A strange, confused sadness took Rhiann’s breath, the knowledge of how she had really failed to find that light. Yet Nerida was already turning away, beckoning Rhiann into step behind her.
The sun-bathed hill was crowded with all the priestesses from the island, and all those who had come from elsewhere – four score altogether. The white-robed novices formed an outer ring around the Stones, their sweet voices chanting a farewell to the reddening sun, and the young initiates with their blue cloaks clustered around Fola, eyeing Rhiann with excitement, whispering behind their hands.
The forty or so elders, by contrast, held a place of calmness in the very air around them, each standing as still and centred as if they were tall trees rooted in the Source that ran beneath the Stones. The lives of those who lived in retreat, like Linnet, were written in the seams on their faces, and in their willowy frames, which spoke of sparse food and long days spent in prayer. Nor could the Ban Crés be mistaken, for though they all wore the same cloaks, the dresses underneath were of a finer weave and torcs gleamed at their necks. Their hair was dressed in a variety of elaborate styles, despite the fact that most were greying, and they held their heads with pride, their eyes glittering with a shrewdness that was not unkind. After all, even if their kings had as yet not joined Eremon, the Sisterhood warded the land itself, and in the end that loyalty would outweigh all others. Or so Rhiann fervently hoped, her hands clasped behind her to stop their shaking.
Nerida did no more than explain who Rhiann was and why she had called them here, and that they would hear from her in detail before the Beltaine rite, a week hence. It was then that they would call on the Source to give them guidance, and decide what could be best done to serve Alba.
Rhiann stood silent beneath the Sisters’ intense scrutiny, her cheeks warmed by the sinking sun, her eyes half-shuttered to its flaming heart. Yet inside the trembling ran in waves up and down her spine. It did not come from nerves, though, she realized with a shock, nor from fear that the Sisters would not listen, for among them she sensed a deep undercurrent of openness, wary as it was.
What plucked at Rhiann’s awareness instead, with a sharp urgency, was the look Setana and Nerida exchanged when Nerida stopped speaking. In that look, something had been shared. Yet Rhiann missed the swift flash of it, and felt only the echo of its pang.
*
The great oaken gates of the Dun of the Waves were a stirring sight.
They were the height of three men, wide enough for four chariots abreast, and flanked by two sturdy gatetowers. The stakes along the top were capped with gold, and the rivets were of gilded iron. Above the gate soared twin masts that bore the blue and gold eagle banners streaming out in the sea-wind.
Yet as he stood on the walkway above the gates, Eremon remained insensible to the intricacies of the twisting ditch and bank defences, and the grandeur of the dun’s position on a spur of land between river and sea. He didn’t even take in the first warm sun that had graced his face for the entire damp, cold, muddy journey up the Great Glen. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the wide meadow that spread out below the dun, and before he could stifle it, a loud whistle shot through his clamped teeth.
Calgacus was not a king to stand on ceremony unless it was necessary for show, and now he grinned, his web of wrinkles melting for a moment into the expression of any excited young warrior. ‘I take it then, prince, that you are impressed at our numbers.’
Eremon could only nod, his eyes devouring the rank upon rank of fighters arrayed below for his inspection. There were 500 of Calgacus’s best warriors, 200 from the young Taexali King Garnat and 200 from the Vacomagi. In addition, another 100 clustered untidily beneath a banner he didn’t recognize, though he felt sure he’d seen it at Calgacus’s last council. Besides the ranks of spear and swordsmen, there were the 200 Caereni archers attached to Eremon’s warband of 400, their hide clothes and braids and quivers all beaded with shell and horn, and another 100 Epidii bowmen that the Caereni had trained.
‘So many,’ was all Eremon could force out. And yet behind the surge of excitement came the sobering thought that it was still only a fraction of the Roman forces.
Beside him, Lorn gripped the edge of the battlements. ‘By the Mare, it is the biggest warband I have ever seen.’
Calgacus glanced at the Epidii king. ‘An army, I think the Romans call it. But using it as such isn’t what the Erin prince has in mind, I believe.’
Eremon shook sense into himself, tipping his helmet back on his forehead. He had ridden with it on all the way, for the men responded well to it as a badge of his office. Yet he had barely dismounted at the gate before Calgacus, shouting at his captains to get the men into some order, had dragged him up the stairs to see what had been assembled. Now he fought to clear his throat. ‘No,’ he said, his voice lowering to normal levels. ‘Agricola can draw men from all Britannia, assembling an army perhaps twenty thousand strong. We will never face him in open battle with any less than that number.’
‘Then we must keep pushing for that alliance, prince.’ Calgacus spread his hands. ‘I have not been idle, though. Over the long dark, as you see, I convinced the Decantae to send us some men. It is a start.’ He indicated the men under the unfamiliar banner.
Conaire spoke up now, his fair brows drawn together. ‘But where in Hawen’s name will we get an army of twenty thousand warriors?’
Calgacus smiled. ‘Our land may seem impenetrable to you, my Erin friend, with hidden glens and narrow coves and high ridges a plenty. But those glens and coves all contain men. If something could bring them together, Alba could rouse at least twenty thousand, perhaps thirty thousand.’
Conaire grunted, but seemed content with that.
‘This may not be an army like Agricola’s,’ Eremon said slowly, ‘but it is seventeen hundred men nevertheless – more than we have ever gathered. Enough men to attack the Roman frontier with some force.’
‘So what will it be then, prince?’ Calgacus’s smile was grimmer now, and his eyes were those of a king again, measuring. ‘Roman forts? Watchtowers? Supply lines? Camps? These are all the terms I have had to learn from you, since first we met.’
Eremon shook his head, still reeling. Then he turned and clapped the Caledonii king on his broad shoulder. ‘I am sorry such knowledge comes along with my counsel. But if you wet my throat with some of that heather ale of yours, between the information of my scouts and yours, we can pick our targets this very night.’
*
The first two days of Rhiann’s visit were taken up with a council of elders, exchanging news from the tribes. When Rhiann was not sharing her own she listened carefully, but most of what was spoken she alread
y knew.
The kings were too wary of Calgacus’s power to join his alliance with Eremon, for they viewed it as a move of his to subdue them. The Alban tribes had never banded together – their enemies had always been each other – and they felt secure behind their grim mountains and in their hidden glens.
For the first time, Rhiann tasted Eremon’s exquisite frustration when faced with this ignorance. When she spoke of what she had experienced, she knew the Ban Crés believed her, but no one who had not faced Roman soldiers down, as Rhiann had done, or seen the aftermath of their destruction, could truly understand. It was too large a concept to grasp, that the Romans did not spare women and children, as Alban warriors did, that they did not adhere to careful codes of fighting conduct and honour.
Yet Rhiann forced herself to speak up around the evening fires, painting pictures with her words. And as she did she sensed the minds of those elders hovering around her own, seeking to absorb what she drew for them.
So they would listen and consider, and on Beltaine eve, decide what could be done, and if they would do it.
In between the councils, Rhiann helped prepare the dyes and herbs, spent time with Fola, and didn’t for one moment think of returning to the beach below the village where her foster-family had been slain.
Yet after a week, the call came for a healer to attend the village chieftain, Brethan, and Rhiann decided to gain a respite from the heavy words and long silences of the priestess gatherings. She knew Brethan from her visit last Beltaine, and thought it might be wise to keep the young chief informed of Eremon’s plans. And perhaps there was more to it; perhaps she needed to see if she could face that place again.
Brethan had lately fallen from his horse, and though the lower arm bone had set, the skin wound was still painful, and not healing well. Sitting in the sun outside the chieftain’s stone tower, Rhiann had lanced the infection with a bone needle and packed it with honey and yarrow leaves. Didius perched on the low wall facing the sea, polishing his sword blade and whistling under his breath.
