The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One (41 page)

The scrap of peace she had won had now been torn away. She no longer had a mother, for that mother, whom she’d trusted with all her heart, had lied. All along, the woman she worshipped, the woman she followed on unsteady, baby legs had been someone else. She betrayed Rhiann’s real mother, seduced her father … and worse, the worst thing
of all, kept the secret from Rhiann, whom she was supposed to love like a daughter. The hurt was sickening; it burned.

And yet behind it all, something else throbbed, too. Rhiann now had the closest of kin, a real sister. And not only a sister, but one who carried the king’s blood, and so could provide their heir.

Shadow and moon, darkness and light, betrayal and truth.

By the time she reached Dunadd’s gates, the moon had sunk behind the hills. She stumbled up the pathway towards her house, her heart as heavy as the blackness around her, now stabbed only with the cold light of stars.

Chapter 39

E
remon sent a messenger to tell the council of his success, and asked him to seek out Rhiann to give her the news.

She was deeply relieved to hear that there had been so few losses, and that her friends were safe. But beneath that, her fear and pain surged anew. For Caitlin would be coming home.

No word had come from Linnet, and no one in Dunadd knew that anything had changed. And yet for Rhiann, everything was different. She spent the days after the confrontation in a cold haze from which she could not awaken.

Until on a day of soft sun, Eithne arrived with her belongings in a pack, and Rhiann was forced to emerge from her darkness to take the girl in hand.

Rhiann had already warned Eithne about Didius, and she was relieved to see the girl display curiosity when she first saw him, rather than fear. And after all, Didius was so despondent, merely sitting and staring at Rhiann’s walls, that he couldn’t appear frightening to anyone.

‘Eithne, I have one very important duty for you,’ Rhiann said, when Eithne had deposited her meagre belongings on a shelf. She led the girl to Didius’s pallet by the fire. Rhiann smiled at the Roman, and received a wary look in return. ‘Eithne,’ she said, pointing at the girl. Didius barely nodded.

‘Now, Eithne, I need you to start teaching Didius our language. I don’t know how long he will stay here, but we will never be able to make any use of him unless he can speak – and I think his time here will be easier for him, as well.’

Eithne’s black eyes widened, and darted to the Roman’s face.

Rhiann smiled. ‘The other rule here is that you can say what is on your mind. Will this duty I speak of distress you?’

‘Oh, no, lady. If it will help the tribe, I would be honoured.’ She raised her chin proudly.

‘Good. It is a very important task, as I said, and we all must do our part.’

‘But lady, why do you want to make his time easier? He is the enemy!’

Rhiann chose her words carefully. ‘His people are our enemies, that is true. But compassion is part of the way of the Goddess, Eithne, and so lives in this household. All people are Her children – even Romans, though they seem not to know it. I would defend myself against any Roman trying to harm me, or those I loved. But Didius will not do so, I sense it strongly. And the Source is about balance – perhaps something will come of our compassion for him, something good. Do you understand?’

Eithne smiled shyly. ‘A little, lady.’

‘Then let me be more plain. His information may aid us, but I will not allow him to be tortured. If we – you and I – can win his trust, then we accomplish what we need without cruelty. Now do you understand?’

Eithne’s smile broadened. ‘Oh, yes, lady! I will do my best.’

‘I’m sure you will. Just point at things and tell him the words. He is a man of some expertise among his people – he will learn quickly.’ Rhiann looked down at Didius kindly. ‘Eithne will help you to speak,’ she said in his own language.

As Didius scowled, she squatted down. ‘You must learn words so we can speak.’ She gave him her most engaging smile. Surely he would see the wisdom of being able to communicate with her properly? At last he nodded.

Rhiann stood up, sighing. ‘Now,’ she said to Eithne. ‘Go to the well and fetch us some water. Then you can start teaching him.’

Eithne took up the earthen pot by the fire. But only a few moments after leaving she came running back in. ‘Lady, lady!’ she cried. ‘The warband is back!’

Catching up her cloak, Rhiann hastened with Eithne down to the village gate. They could just see the horsemen in the front ranks coming over the causeway, and a bright flash of red along the flanks of their mounts.

By the time they pushed their way up the stairs to the gate tower, Eremon was riding past underneath, formidable with his boar helm and shield. But the sun also picked out the gleam of steel on his thighs, for before him he held a Roman helmet, with its wide neck-guard and bronze-tipped cheek flaps. And strapped to his saddle was a Roman shield, square and red-painted, with an eagle emblem outlined in yellow.

At this sight, the people broke out into ragged cheers, which only
increased as Conaire followed, riding slowly under the shadow of the gate towers and back out into the sun.

Next to Conaire, surprisingly, rode Caitlin, straining to hold up a standard that the Romans used, a banner on a tasselled pole. Even from where Rhiann stood, she noticed that Conaire’s eyes were for once not drinking in the crowd’s adulation, but fixed on her cousin, no, her
sister
: the gleam of her hair, the fierce glow in her eyes, the graceful line of her shoulders.

But when Conaire caught sight of Rhiann above, he paused to wink at her, and grinned.

As dusk crept over the marshes, Eremon, attended by the druids, offered the Roman spoils to a deep, still pool beside the river. Beneath the blast of the war trumpets, he dedicated the shining helmets and swords to Manannán, in gratitude for the warband’s success.

And when night fell, so one of the greatest feasts of the year began, on the plain between the roasting pits and the pier. The sky was so deep and clear with stars that it brought the touch of frost, but no one noticed the cold.

Only Rhiann was unable to lose herself in the sheer relief and triumph that ran through the veins of every other man, woman and child. For generations the Romans had loomed as a dark threat on the horizon, the monsters with which mothers threatened errant children, the stuff of nightmares. Now, the Epidii had won a victory against these people. They were not monsters after all, they were only men, and could be killed.

The warriors of the attack party glowed as if new-come from a furnace. The tale of every sword stroke was told and retold to wide-eyed groups of admirers, and the bards rushed from fighter to fighter, composing snatches of songs and poems on the spot to immortalize each deed. Two groups of horn and pipe-players competed with each other, and already ragged lines of people danced in the space between two roaring bonfires.

Rhiann glimpsed Caitlin laughing, surrounded by young men, though Conaire’s golden head hovered closest, and his great shoulders were being put to good effect, keeping the other admirers at a distance.

Eremon sat at the centre of the benches that had been brought from the King’s Hall, as toast after toast was made to him by Talorc and Belen and a score of others. Tonight was his night, and as Rhiann sipped her mead on the edge of the firelight, she listened to the tales being boasted of around her, gleaning that the battle had been won with sound strategy as well as strength. Eremon was a good war leader, then, perhaps a great one. The Epidii men near her were certainly speaking of
him with awe: it seemed he had well and truly won them over with this one daring attack of his.

A cheer went up, and the crowd parted to let through the servants bearing the first roast boar on its litter. The beast was paraded around one of the fires to cries and wild drumming, before being set down at the centre for the carving. Declan oversaw this, for each portion must be allotted to the proper person, from the chief druid to the clan elders to the king’s cousins. The haunch was reserved for the tribe’s champion, but just as the druid was directing a server to take it to Eremon on a bronze platter, there was a disturbance, and raised voices.

Rhiann pushed closer to see who spoke. It was Lorn, standing before the boar. ‘The champion’s portion is due to me!’ he was crying. ‘It was I and my men who brought us victory!’

He turned on Eremon with a flourish, and the Erin prince’s face darkened as he slowly got to his feet. ‘That is a lie.’ Eremon’s voice was calm, but raised to carry to the suddenly hushed crowd. ‘The attack succeeded under my orders. Orders that you ignored, endangering us all.’

‘You name me a liar?’ Lorn howled. ‘You tarnish my honour, and that of my clan! I demand that you retract it.
I demand that you retract it now
!’ He drew his sword in one sweep.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Talorc growled, elbowing his way between the two men. He rounded on Lorn. ‘We have heard the bards; the tale is clear! Withdraw your challenge.’

‘I will not!’ Lorn’s eyes flashed. ‘He excluded me from command because I would not rely on trickery rather than the courage of the Epidii!
I
brought us victory, and still he seeks the glory! The champion’s portion is mine!’

‘And what do you say to this, prince?’ Talorc addressed Eremon now, and Rhiann could see that the old warrior’s eyes held a message, a warning. ‘Do you retract your accusation? If so, all is well and we will eat.’

Eremon’s face was taut in the firelight. ‘Again, I say he lies. He disobeyed me, and would have been our death. I protect no such man.’ Despite the words, his voice held resignation, not anger.

Around Rhiann there were gasps, and the movement of people drawing back, the benches now abandoned. ‘Rori,’ Eremon’s voice was calm. ‘Get my sword and shield, and quickly now.’ Rhiann found herself only a pace away as Conaire grasped his foster-brother’s arm, his face close. ‘Eremon,’ she heard Conaire murmur, ‘this cub fights well.’

Eremon’s eyes were cold. ‘I have seen that for myself.’

‘But Eremon … he hates you. He will not fight to disarm; he will fight to kill.’

‘I know this.’

‘Then do not be careful.’

‘No?’ Eremon cocked his head at Conaire, his grim mouth lifting.

‘Be angry.’

Eremon nodded, holding Conaire’s gaze, as Rori raced back, breathless, sword in hand.

Lorn was circling one of the fires now, like a pacing wolf, but as soon as he saw that Eremon was armed he sprang forward, and those around the Erin prince could only scatter, falling back to the edges of the crowd. Rhiann realized that she was clenching Conaire’s arm, the nails digging into his skin.

With a war cry Lorn leaped on to one of the abandoned benches to launch himself at Eremon, and the prince dodged to one side, the swords colliding with a clash. Around they skirled, first one falling back and then another, the blades glowing like brands in the firelight, the crowd stumbling over each other to escape.

Rhiann did not know the art of sword fighting, but still she sensed the gulf between the two men; Lorn thrusting and slashing wildly, rage palpable in every limb, compared to the tightness of Eremon’s body, the holding of thought followed by the careful stroke.

‘No,’ she heard Conaire mutter, ‘let it go, let it go!’

And then Lorn leaped to the benches again and Eremon followed, beating the Epidii prince back in a flurry of thrusts, until suddenly Eremon slipped on a puddle of spilled mead and went down to the ground with a thud, limbs flailing.

The people let out a great cry as Lorn flew from the bench to press his advantage, and under Rhiann’s fingers, Conaire’s arm tensed. She strained to see, but could only glimpse Lorn’s back and Eremon’s legs splayed on the ground. There was the clash of steel and a harsh grunt of pain.

Whose pain,
whose pain?

Then Eremon seemed to twist, and suddenly Lorn was falling back, pinned against the bench, and Eremon was on his feet again. In the firelight, Rhiann could see the torn tunic over his arm, dark with blood, and how the tightness in his face had been lost in flushed cheeks and glittering eyes.

He glanced down at the blood, the whites of his eyes livid in the firelight, and then something seemed to give, and he let loose one wild, unearthly yell and bore down on Lorn, shield high, blade flying. Lorn returned the thrusts desperately, the light in his own face faltering at the unexpected rage of the onslaught, but, forced to throw every grain of attention to defence, his awareness wavered.

The edge of the bench caught his leg, and he stumbled. It was only a moment, but it was enough. With shocking suddeness, it was over, Eremon’s sword at his throat.

And in the silence, Rhiann saw the trembling of the blade, as Eremon fought to regain control.

There was no cry of triumph from the assembled people, no cheering or excitement: only the harsh panting of the fighters. ‘You see, son of Urben,’ Eremon gasped out at last, ‘you need both ice and fire to win.’

With a grim mouth, Lorn pushed Eremon’s blade away with his palm, sparing no glance as he sheathed his sword and left. The crowd cleaved before the darkness in his face, sensing, somehow, that this was no real victory. For such a division was dangerous at this time, and Lorn was a respected fighter, his father a renowned chieftain.