Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) (39 page)

Here in Eriu that amounted to a small army. Yseult bowed her head in thanks and promised to send them back once she reached Dun Ailinne.

In the main hall, she was seated at the head of the table like a king or a great warrior and given the hero's portion from the meat roasting over the fire pit. Moved, Yseult accepted the honor while she listened to Domnall and the others explain the political developments of the past two years. Apparently spurred on by their own growing power and sense of frustration at the way the Ui Cheinnselaig and Ui Dunlainge dominated the kingship of the southeast, the Ui Garrchon had taken matters into their own hands and begun attacking seats of rival tribes. With allies such as the Ui Bairrche, who had been responsible for the death of Crimthann's father, they had begun conquering sites in the territory of the northern Laigin.

Yseult had been right to land in the south, but not because of the threat of the Ui Neill — the danger came from within.

Even while trying to follow the political developments in a dialect she had spoken only rarely in the last twenty years, part of her mind was busy reconciling the memories from her youth with the people around her, layering them on reality like a palimpsest. The druid Laidcenn, who had seemed so young for one of his rank when she'd known him, now as wisely gray as a druid should be. Domnall's wife Aine, a merry, slender, flirtatious girl in her memories, was still just as merry as she remembered, but now a respectable matron with half-a-dozen children. The rich farmer Cathair, once portly and self-satisfied, now thin and drawn from a wasting sickness not even the best healers in Eriu could treat.

On one level, Ard Ladrann was the home of her youth, the place where she'd fallen in love with Drystan, the "Armorican" bard Tandrys, in a life before so many personal and political betrayals. But on another, this place had become foreign to her, the people unfamiliar.

It was strange to be at home and not at home in so many different places. Was she uprooted? Or was she blessed with more than one home that called to her? She couldn't say. As she listened to Domnall and the other warriors of Ard Ladrann telling battle stories around the fire, she wondered if she would ever know.

* * * *

Yseult set off for Dun Ailinne with her retinue of fighting men the next day. During the journey, she felt again that sensation of being pulled in different directions: knowing this land was home in a more fundamental way than Britain could ever be, but knowing, too, that it had grown strange to her, had become a fantastic world completely different from the life she led. She relished the well-known sights and sounds, the gaudy display of jewelry by men and women both, torques of gold and silver and bronze at neck and wrist and upper arm, the colorfully checkered and patterned garments; felt the belief in magic that was everywhere, in the little rituals people performed before slaughtering a wild boar or planting seed, acknowledgment of the wonder of life rare in rational Britain; heard the music in the air and the laughter between the round houses, jokes and commands, anger and tears. Now and then she could feel the presence of a mind like hers, probing, knowing, a presence she encountered much more often here in Eriu than in her adopted home.

Nonetheless, it was not long before she found herself missing the luxuries of life in Britain — which while traveling consisted first and foremost in the paved Roman roads stretching from Isca Dumnoniorum in the south to Eburacum in the north, from Camulodunum in the east to Caer Leon and Moridunum in the west. The roads they now followed to Dun Ailinne most resembled trackways in the remotest parts of Dumnonia. Admittedly, there were areas in Britain where the regional kings no longer felt responsible for maintaining the old Roman roads. But even those neglected streets were better than these muddy paths; the Romans had built things to last.

They passed another fortified homestead with its wooden round-houses, buildings that would leave little trace within a few years of being abandoned. In her youth, she had never questioned it — why should she? It was all she'd ever known. But now she had a comparison. Other than power and glory, what the people of her homeland valued was largely ephemeral. Wealth was measured in the equivalent of cows and female slaves, which made her feel strange and uneasy now.

On the other hand, she felt the love of words and music and song everywhere. And the emphasis on fame in legend being so important in life — and beyond — made a certain amount of sense, especially in view of what counted as a royal residence. When a building of wood and thatch burned to the ground within hours as the result of a stray spark during a feast, it was easy enough to rebuild it in a matter of days. A reputation was nowhere near as easy to rebuild. In Britain, by contrast, a king's reputation often seemed to consist of the number of seats he held and how impressive his fortifications and buildings were.

The Romans built their cities to last; the Erainn built their cities to burn. She did not know yet exactly what it meant, but when she regarded the achingly familiar wooden walls and thatched roofs of the settlements she passed through on her way to Dun Ailinne, remembered how in her youth half a village she'd lived in had been turned to charred earth from a simple cattle raid, and then how little had actually been destroyed in the battle for Dyn Tagell, it made her wonder. It had to.

She was living between two worlds.

* * * *

Yseult to Cador, greetings.

It is difficult to find appropriate writing utensils here in my native land, and I fear I forgot to pack my writing box when I left. Now that I have arrived in Dun Ailinne, I have been able to obtain stylus and tablet, parchment and ink, although it was not easy.

After landing near my old home of Ard Ladrann, I traveled north with a small army, arriving here safely. My mother and little brother are well, but that is the extent of the good news. Crimthann suffered extensive injuries in a recent battle, and I suspect the only thing still keeping him alive is stubbornness. He does not want to die at the hands of the same tribe that killed his father, but I fear he will have no choice. The rath is quiet now, day in and day out, all waiting for news of the death of their king.

Young Nath is taking it bravely, but my mother is bitter. My little brother is eight years old now and is to go into fosterage this year, so she will be losing him too.

I do not know if this letter will reach you; correspondence between Britain and Eriu is always difficult, but the present unrest makes it even more so. Nonetheless, I will write again as soon as I have more news.

I hope this finds you in good health. I will not expect to hear from you, but please pass along the news to my son when you have a chance.

Your Yseult

Yseult to Cador, greetings.

Crimthann passed away at the waning moon, and the situation grows grave. Here in Eriu, as it is in many tribes in Britain and Armorica as well, a new king is elected from the kinship group of adult males capable of leading a warband. This naturally does not include Nath, as he is much too young, but Crimthann's cousin Illann says there are those who see my little brother as a threat. He is warning us of one king in particular from the Ui Garrchon — Findchad, husband of Crimthann's daughter from his first marriage, Edain. According to the laws of succession, Findchad must also be invited to the council to determine Crimthann's successor, although he is a traitor.

With Findchad and his men in Dun Ailinne, Illann fears Nath would not be safe. Thus we will be leaving for the holy site of Druim Dara before the council meets.

Nath remains brave, but my mother is listless. I am hoping that a visit with the high priestess Brigid will restore her spirits.

At least the battles between the tribes of the Laigin have let up; all seem to hope that the council will decide in their favor. For my own part, I fear civil war will soon break out in earnest.

I hope this letter finds you in good health and good spirits. I will return home when my mother is more herself again.

Your Yseult

* * * *

As they rode out of the rath of Dun Ailinne, the atmosphere of death was all around her. Yseult was reminded of how she had felt returning from a cattle raid over two decades ago. Instead of cheering as the warband drove the stolen beasts between the huts, the peasants had stood silent.

Now too the farmers and craftsmen who looked up as they passed were silent, wearing expressions of sorrow. Then, the king of the Laigin had greeted her with the head of her uncle Murchad, the king's champion. Now they were mourning the king himself.

Crimthann's cousin Illann and a party of warriors rode with them to Druim Dara to ensure their safety. It was not far from Dun Ailinne to the ancient holy site. Even with pack animals, Illann and his warband could easily ride there and back and still have time for a generous midday meal before returning. The weather was fair, a perfect early summer day, the air warm with a slight breeze, just enough to keep the flies from bothering the horses. Above the treetops, Yseult could see the faint white image of the half moon against the blue of the sky.

A half moon. And she had not had her menses since before she left Britain.

Yseult began to count the days and drew in a deep breath. How was it possible that she had not noticed her bleeding was late by nearly a month? Yes, she had been traveling; yes, she had been distracted by the slow dying of Crimthann; yes, she had been worried about her mother and brother and the political situation in Eriu. But that still was no excuse to ignore the signs of her own body so thoroughly for so long. Taking a high enough dosage of flea mint or rue or birthwort to abort the child now could easily endanger her own health.

She drew in a deep breath, accompanied by a flush of anger; she did not
want
to abort any babe she might be carrying. She wanted Cador's child — both for herself and for him. She had only been using her knowledge of herbs to avoid pregnancy at his insistence. He had ordained no children, in no uncertain terms. If she had not agreed, he might well have decreed they live celibate like some Christian monks, and Yseult was not about to have that.

Slowly she felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth: what if she really was pregnant? If any man in Britain deserved to be a father, it was surely her husband. He'd always had a way with children, and they were naturally drawn to him. But how would Cador react when she sent him news that she was with child? She'd assured him she would not get pregnant, and now her herbs — or perhaps her discipline? — had failed her.

The smile died on her lips. She herself was not worried, but she knew Cador would be. It did not matter how often she pointed out to him that she was of the Old Race, like her mother, who had given birth to Nath when she was over forty years of age. After having lost two wives as well as his only sister in childbed, ingrained fear ruled over reason. He did not want to lose her too.

He did not want to lose her too.

Yseult shook her head, her gaze catching once again on the pale daytime moon. No, Cador had been her friend practically since he had reached adulthood; it was natural that he did not want to lose her; it meant nothing more than that.

It was still possible that she was not pregnant. She did not have to tell him yet, not until she was absolutely certain.

* * * *

After several weeks in Druim Dara, Yseult was finding it increasingly difficult to find excuses not to write Cador. As the half moon became a sliver, her body began to change. When she squeezed a nipple, a clear, sweet liquid seeped out of the pores. But she could not shake her fear of writing Cador, and it seemed wrong to tell anyone else before she informed her husband. Perhaps it would be better to tell him in person: then he could see with his own eyes that she was just as healthy as ever. And so she sought comfort in routines that were once her own when she'd lived here in her youth: the prayers to the goddess, the changing of the fire, the caring for the sick. She even reconciled herself to the presence of the Christian community of Cill Dara outside their doors; if the high priestess Brigid's visions told her it was the only way to ensure that the Old Ways survived into a new era, who was Yseult to say her nay? Life in Druim Dara was pleasant and peaceful, despite the news they received daily of battles not far away. They were in a holy site, protected by the gods.

When the phases of the moon completed another cycle with no sign of bleeding, Yseult realized she would have to tell her mother. Besides, Yseult the Wise needed some good news — the idea of another grandchild might distract her a little from Crimthann's death.

Yseult found her mother outside the main hall with Brigid, discussing the possibility of a summer solstice festival. But if the dark clouds beyond the walls of the holy site were any indication, the longest day of the year was to be short and dark. Nearby, her half-brother Nath played at sword fighting with one of the few boys his age in Druim Dara.

"Do you really think a festival wise, with the tribes of the Laigin making war on each other not far away?" her mother asked.

Brigid's smile was bitter. "When are the tribes of Eriu not making war on each other? And still we celebrate our ferocious gods on a regular basis."

"Festivals are always a welcome distraction from raids and fighting," Yseult said as she joined them. "Good day, mother, Brigid."

They gave each other the kiss of peace.

"You have news?" Brigid asked.