Etruscans (32 page)

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Only the Stones Survive

Morgan Llywelyn

Available in January 2016 by Tom Doherty Associates

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Only the Stones Survive
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A “Tor Hardcover”      ISBN 978-0-7653-3792-4
Copyright © 2015 by Morgan Llywelyn

ONE

W
HEN IT WAS OVER
and the soil had drunk its fill of blood, the slaughtered Túatha Dé Danann lay amid their tattered banners. Their weapons of bronze had been no match for the cold iron brought by the invaders.

The most recent battle had reached its inevitable conclusion.

Day was dying too. A low winter sun could not warm the bodies scattered across the plain. Their garments were all the hues of the rainbow; their faces were the color of death. The tarnished sky above them would surrender to a blaze of stars, but for the dead, beauty and brilliance were canceled.

Near the center of the battlefield a man lay curled up like an infant. His blood-soaked garments concealed any sign of life. His shield was shattered, its princely emblazonment unrecognizable. The victors had kicked the ruined shield aside but paused long enough to strip him of his weapons.

The spark within him refused to die. Hot and stubborn, it smouldered with a will of its own. His slow return to consciousness was not pleasant. His mouth and throat
were parched with thirst. A thousand angry bees were buzzing in his ears.

Me.

I.

Am alive. Yes.

Dizzy, very dizzy.

But alive.

Without opening his eyes, he knew his wounds were deep. The brain in his battered skull struggled to function. At first he could only manage a single thought at a time, but each led to another, like stepping stones across a river.

This is not the end.

No.

The invaders cannot destroy the Children of Light.

No.

They only want our land.

Our sacred land.

The taste of bile flooded his mouth; his stomach cramped in revolt. He lay very still until he was sure he was not going to vomit. A fastidious man, he did not want to die in a puddle of vomit.

He was not ready to die. Not now and not like this, with so much time still ahead of him like a banquet waiting to be enjoyed.

My time, our time. Together.

Yes.

He fought to throw off the pain that held him captive.

Terrible wounds can be healed. We can summon the power. Through the ancient ritual.

We?

Are there enough of us left … for the Being Together?

When he tried to raise his head and look around, fresh
waves of agony washed over him. He was being torn and twisted—he was pierced and bludgeoned!

Before he could draw breath to scream, the torment ceased. The abrupt shock was almost worse than the pain.

Opening his eyes meant another shock. He was staring into a void, the total absence of anything perceptible to the senses. No sight, no sound.

Nothing. Nullity.

Is this what death is?

No. No!

He tried to move; his body would not respond. His limbs seemed to be detached from the rest of him. There was no longer any pain, but he would have welcomed pain. Pain would mean he was still alive.

Like trapped mice, his thoughts raced around inside his skull.

No way out, no way back.

Go forward, then.

But how?

He was as helpless as a child waiting to be born.

Born into what?

Part of him longed to crawl into a corner and cower there, gibbering.

No. That is not who I am.

I am me!

As if in response, the void gave way to an impenetrable blackness. Like ebony. Or was it onyx? His frantic mind sought reassurance in definition.

Black means it is … something.

He clung to the thought as random streaks of colored light began to spangle the darkness, warmly radiant lights that appeared both immeasurably distant and close enough to touch.

He reached out to them.

The result was unsettling, as if he were falling upward.

His body responded with a violent start.

Instantly, he was cocooned in a thick mist as comforting as a mother's arms. Through the mist came the chime of distant bells.

Fear gradually faded into acceptance. His worries ceased to weigh upon him. His damaged body was a burden he need not endure. It would be so easy to let go; he could just drift away and …

No!
He concentrated his entire will, his formidable will, on that word. The denial of surrender.

The little strength he retained was just enough to repel the mist. The cloud dispersed reluctantly, fading to a grainy half twilight. He began to see huddled shapes lying near him. Forcing his eyes to focus, he recognized the fallen fruits of battle, left to spoil.

None of those dead bodies belonged to the woman he loved. His relief was greater than his pain had been. She must be somewhere on his other side, then. During the final assault, he had placed himself between his wife and the enemy. When he twisted around to look for her, something tore inside him, but he ignored it. He must hurry to find her; they had a long way to go.

He tried to call her name, but his voice failed. His throat locked on the syllables his heart had sung for years.

Rolling onto his belly, he used his elbows like oars to row across the earth, dragging his wounded body after him. Moving hurt; even breathing hurt. No matter. His agonized efforts were forcing the circulation back into his limbs. His arms and legs tingled as if a thousand bees were stinging them, but he had learned his lesson: pain was good. He scrabbled his way across the broken and bloody ground until
he had enough strength to get to his feet. He stood swaying, assessing his condition. Back, shoulders, arms …
Yes!
He would be able to carry her if she was injured.

But she was not injured; she was waiting for him. Just a few more steps. He would find her soon. Her spirit was calling to his, guiding him. She was at the core of his being; he had never doubted they would grow old together.

Until he found her.

His throat opened then.

The cry he gave was enough to shatter the canceled stars.

TWO

Y
OU CAN CALL ME
Elgolai na Starbird. That is not the name I was given when I was born; it is who I am now.

It is what I have become.

On the day of my birth, I received a lengthy title that referenced past generations of the Túatha Dé Danann, identifying the nobility, the heroes, and the scholars and the artists among my ancestors. Every member of our tribe inherited a similar record of lineage, which was to be a source of pride and a guidepost for character. The infant's personal name was added to the end of the long list.

An invisible chain connected the newest Danann to those who had gone before; thus another of the Children of Light was secured in history.

My personal name, chosen by my parents before I was born, was Joss. Joss had the strong yet jaunty quality that Mongan and Lerys wanted for their son.

Naming is an act of creation.

I was born in the season of leaf-fall. To balance their long life spans, my people had a low birthrate; the arrival of an
infant was a great event. Because my father was a prince of the Túatha Dé Danann, my birth was celebrated for seven days and nights. During that time all debts were canceled and misunderstandings forgiven. Gifts in my name were given to every member of our clan, my extended family.

My early life was a happy dream. As an only child I had the full attention of my parents. The sun always shone, or so I think now, and when the sun was not shining the moon and stars were. Rain, if any fell, was soft and warm.

The clothing I wore was fashioned by my mother from the shimmering fibers of many colourful plants. My fitted tunic was soft and comfortable, cool in sunseason. My hooded cloak was as light as thistledown, yet kept me warm in darkseason.

Our house was almost indistinguishable from the forest around it. Branches more slender than the arm of a Danann were inserted in the soil and bent like basketwork to form the walls and roof. The outside was covered with thin strips of grassy sod. Ferns and leaves were woven into elaborate patterns and fastened to the interior walls with stems. They could be changed according to the seasons—or my mother's mood. A family might live in one place for three generations, then decide they wanted to be closer to the music of a waterfall and move the entire structure in a single day.