The Chalice and the Blade (The Chalice Trilogy) (61 page)

Gently, so as not to wake her, he laid them both down on the deep-piled rugs of softly woven Quicken-tree cloth, magical stuff, and drew her close to sleep and dream with her, safe in the Dragon’s Mouth.

O
utside the castle walls, on a wooded slope overlooking Balor and the Irish Sea, Mychael sat high up in an old oak tree spread with age. He was skimming the pages of the red book Ceri had given him two days earlier, before she and Lavrans had left on their journey north. ’Twas from Usk, she’d said, the Latin in it being the prophesies of Nemeton that Moriath had written down.

He remembered Nemeton, a large man with a flowing red beard and a single iron-gray stripe running through his hair. Mychael had his own such anomaly now, copper running through blond, the mark he had gotten for venturing into the wormholes.

As for the rest of the red book, the strange languages filling some of the other pages, Ceridwen had not known what they said or who had written them. Neither did he, but he’d seen fragments of the odd scripts before, seen characters from them carved into the rock in the deep dark. Aye, the red book was a treasure.

The Latin in the book spoke much of dragons, as he’d hoped, and of maiden’s blood, which did him no good. He was no maiden, nor was he likely to have access to one. He was a man of God and had not abandoned the life of Strata Florida, despite the strange turn he had taken by coming north. In truth, the longer he had been in the caves, the more he’d come to fear the holy sanctuary of the monastery might be his only salvation when his task beneath Merioneth was done.

A grim smile crossed his lips. He had once considered restlessness the bane of his monkish existence. Then he had been called by a vision, one of power and grace and frightening beauty, and of pagan things to be done, sure to damn his soul—and he had been unable to resist.

Three days of hard travel had brought him to the cliffs overlooking the Irish Sea. From there he had followed an overgrown trail and his instincts into the heart of the caves, and he had remembered a long-ago night and grown afraid, thinking of Ceri. Mayhaps he would have left then, run back breathless and penitent to his monastery, except for the keening cry that had risen out of the dark and touched him like a caress. ’Twas that which had lured him onward, the yearning in the cry, the hint of desperation and of things coming undone.

Thus he’d found the
pryf
trapped in the maze behind the weir gate and the old worm moving through the deep dark on a course of his own making. He’d found the great crystal cavern with its floating thrones; he’d found signs of those who ruled it all, and he’d found the gemstone that warmed to a man’s touch and burned bright.

He turned another page of the book and his hand fell upon familiar likenesses. Ddrei Goch and Ddrei Glas swirled and writhed across one of the pieces of parchment that was far older than those written on in Moriath’s hand. He smoothed his fingertips over the curved lines and felt the power of the ancient creatures reach for him from across the ages. This was what had called him from Strata Florida, the dragons he had yet to find.

He’d seen their nest and the words carved into the rock that bespoke of dragon care and dragon need. He’d touched those words and remembered all the tales his mother had told, beautiful Rhiannon with her angel’s voice and the mother’s love he had learned to live without. But he’d found no dragons other than the ones calling to him from inside his heart.

“Ddrei Goch,” he whispered, tracing a golden eye and the beast’s long, whiskered snout, a fierce creature with an incarnadine hide. “Ddrei Glas.” His touch turned tender. She was glass green, of air and water, pale and silvery, fierce and so essentially female, so other than himself that she fascinated him.

A movement in the glade below caught his eye and drew his attention from the book. Leaning forward, he swept aside a veil of leaves better to see. A girl was walking alone through the woods. He remembered her from the weir of the
pryf’s
dark maze. She’d fought well, but had lost her friend, and the sadness of the loss still clung to her. He saw it in the unnatural heaviness of her movements, as if every step were a burden she scarce could bear, and her face was drawn, her eyes downcast. Llynya was her name.

He watched her bend low over a patch of yellow flowers at the base of a hazel tree. She picked one and brought it to her lips. ’Twas a buttercup.

Eyes closed, she blew into the bright lemon-colored petals, setting them all aflutter. Delicate pistil and stamens trembled within the sweet draft of her breath, tangling together, and for an instant... a twinkling, no more... the aureate hue appeared to lift off the flower and grace the air with its light golden tones, as if the girl had blown the color from the petals themselves.

A fanciful musing, he thought, yet he still gave the girl a closer look, and ’twas then that he saw the tears upon her cheeks. Her sadness ran deep, but in time he knew she would find comfort in memories and a lessening of her grief, just as he would find the dragons, for all things came to pass in time.

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anthanor—an alchemist’s stove

aqua ardens
—“water that burns,” alcohol

athame—a small ritual knife

bedzhaa
—Arabic word for “swan”

Beirdd Braint—“privileged bard,” the second class of the Druidic Order

Beltaine—Celtic festival falling on May Eve and May 1

Calan Gaef—Celtic festival falling on October 31 and November 1

Canolbarth—the midland caves beneath Carn Merioneth; ceremonies are held in the largest cavern by the scrying pool

cariad
—love, lover

crwth
—musical instrument, a bowed lyre

Cymry—Welsh name for themselves

Ddrei Goch, Ddrei Glas—the dragons of Carn Merioneth

Ebiurrane—northern band of the wild folk

gwin draig
—dragon wine

hadyn draig
—dragon seed

kif
—hasheesh

Liosalfar—Quicken-tree soldiers

penteulu
—leader of a great Welsh prince’s war-band

pryf
—dragon larvae, worm

pudre ruge
—a red powder used in the healing of wounds

Quicken-tree—southern band of the wild folk

rasca
—Quicken-tree medicinal ointment

rihadin
—small combustible packets of resin that ignite in various colors

tylwyth teg
—Welsh fairies

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Read on for an excerpt from
Dream Stone
, Book II in the enchanting Chalice Trilogy:

 The Chalice Trilogy – Book Two

 Chapter 1

October 1198

Carn Merioneth

Merioneth, Wales

W
olves howled in the darkness. From his vantage point on Carn Merioneth’s east wall, Rhuddlan of the Quicken-tree watched the fleet forms weave their paths through the moonlit forest. Swift and deadly, the shadows were hunting, coming down out of the mountains of Eryri to claim the land from the river to the sea. Wolves alone were naught to fear—but the wolves were not alone. Here and there, Rhuddlan caught sight of a more upright shape running with the animals. The man beside him nocked an arrow into his longbow.

“Hold, Trig,” Rhuddlan commanded softly. He was tall and slender and wore no badge other than his bearing to proclaim his rank as king. Gray marked the pale blond of his hair and was woven into the five-strand plait on the left side of his head. A long green cloak was thrown over his shoulders.

“Ye know what they are.” His captain’s voice held an edge of impatience. Trig was as tall as his sovereign, but broader in girth, with a squarish face bearing the scars of a long-ago war. He, too, wore a
fif
braid streaked through with gray.

“Aye.” They both knew. Men were running with the wolves. The question was why.

When Rhuddlan said nothing else, Trig snorted and lowered his bow. “It’ll be our heads on pikes, or worse.”

“’Tis too soon to be worrying about pikes. Find your bed, if you wish. I’ll wait with Naas.”

Trig grumbled again. “She’s been at it all night and seen naught. More ’an like, she’s gone full blind on ye.”

Rhuddlan let him leave with his complaint unanswered. Dawn was not far off, and if Naas was to see for him, it had best be soon, or they would have to wait the month out in hopes of another clear night with a full moon.

Behind him on the wall-walk, the old woman tended a fire of hot burning coals. She was small, a bundle of greenish gray cloak and dark gown huddled next to the flames. The brazier holding the fire had been forged of a rich alloy, giving the bronze a fey, purplish cast. The shallow rim of the pan was circled ‘round with dragons in relief, all of them spouting ruby flames into billows of smoky quartz. Magic was to be done in the night. Rhuddlan but waited for the old one to pull it down out of the sky and into her cauldron.

The last wolf disappeared into the northern woods, and Rhuddlan turned toward the upper bailey of the castle. Light from the full moon slanted long, dark shadows across the grass and the scarred remains of what had once been Balor Keep. Since taking the demesne in May, he’d had his people destroying the structures built by the previous ruler, Caradoc, the Boar of Balor, and by the Boar’s father, Gwrnach, except for the stone wall. That great defense he would leave for time and the old white-eyed woman by the fire to dismantle. He had need of it for now.

“Naas.” He spoke her name, and the woman lifted her strange gaze. Pale irises discernible only as rims of milky luminosity were barely visible across the rising smoke. The bones beneath her age-lined skin were delicate and finely fashioned, giving her a fragile appearance. Pure deception, that was, for few had Naas’s strength—and none had her singular skill with fire.

She whispered something unintelligible, then turned and added another stick to the flames. Sparks rose with the wind and cascaded by him, a thousand brilliant stars slipping through the merlons and falling to their death on the sward.