The Dragon Bard (Dragon of the Island) (8 page)

“Is she dead?” she pressed.

His smile was quick. “Nay, the Lady Rhiannon is not dead. I’m certain she remains young and beautiful, like her namesake, the goddess of dreams and enchantments.”

“Then why don’t you visit her?”

Bridei’s expression grew bitter. “Because she lives with my father, and I have no desire to see
him
.”

“Why? Did you quarrel over something?” To her—who would give nearly anything to see her family again—his attitude was baffling.

His blue eyes glittered like cold, hard jewels. “One does not ‘quarrel’ with the Dragon. When the Dragon gives an order, it is obeyed.”

“The Dragon—is that what they call your father?” She remembered what had happened in the hall—how the emblem of a golden dragon had appeared behind Bridei.

He nodded. “The Dragon of the Island, the fiercest warlord in all of Britain.”

“And you are his heir?”

He gave a harsh laugh. “Not likely. I have an older brother who my father dotes on. Rhun can do no wrong, and is brave and noble beyond belief. Of course . . . ” His expression darkened. “. . . he was killed in battle this past sunseason, so I suppose some would think me next in line for the kingship. Not that I would even consider such a thing.” He gave a dramatic shudder. “I have no desire to be a king. It sounds like a very disagreeable life. And my father would never name me as his successor, even if I were the last of his line. He’d rather have his favorite hound rule after him than his cursed, evil-tainted second son.”

“Cursed?”

His countenance grew even grimmer. “It’s a long tale, and one I don’t choose to bore you with.” He gestured impatiently. “Since you refuse to allow yourself to enjoy the beauty of this place, we might as well return to Cahermara.” He executed a low bow. “After you, milady.”

Dessia retrieved her sword and sheathed it, then started toward the thick woods. This man’s moods seemed to change as swiftly as the clouds in the winter sky, making conversing with him was as exhausting as physical combat. He constantly left her feeling off-balance and wary. At any moment she feared to make a fatal misstep and find herself with blade of his wit at her throat.

The sound of his voice from behind her made her jump. “And as we make our way back, will the mist rise again?”

“Nay. The mist doesn’t guard the way back, only the way here.”

He was right behind her. So close he could reach out and touch her. The thought affected her profoundly. She thought of him watching her. His gaze taking in the shape of her body, clearly revealed by her attire. A bolt of anger pierced her. Never before had she concerned herself with how she looked in trews and tunic. It was a functional way to dress, and with most men it made her feel powerful and in control, knowing that if she drew her sword, she was more than a match for them. But with this man, everything was different. He never seemed to forget she was a woman. And because of his continued sexual regard, she couldn’t seem to forget it either. It put her at a disadvantage. Though she might outrank him as queen and be at least his equal as a warrior, as a man facing a woman, he had all the advantages.

He’d made that clear already. She thought with a sense of embarrassment of the shameful way he’d overpowered her and made her drop her sword. Clever tricks, and yet she’d succumbed easily. It was partly, as he said, because she hadn’t seen him as a serious threat. A mistake, a very grave one. How could she have been so foolish? If she ever did anything so stupid when confronted with a real enemy, she would surely die.

Her earlier worry suddenly returned, making her shudder. What if this man were allied with O’Bannon or some other chieftain who coveted her lands? He might have made up the tale of being the son of a British warlord. Yet there were many details that rang true, and it didn’t feel like he was lying when he talked about his past. That was real, she was certain.

She also couldn’t see him allying himself with someone like O’Bannon. Or any man. This Bridei ap Maelgwn was too proud and self-sufficient. He called himself a prince and behaved like one.

He spoke again. “Have you ever considered that if you marked the pathway on the way back, you might be able to find it more easily when coming from the rath?”

She shook her head. “The mist would still rise, obscuring whatever signs were used to indicate the way. Besides, the forest is enchanted. It would be foolish to try to control things in this place.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he said. “But it’s unsettling to travel blind through a mist. To trust you won’t end up lost forever.”

“Ah, trust, is that not the way of all magic?” She turned halfway around so she could catch sight of him. As always, she was stunned by the perfection of his face. His graceful features. Those white even teeth and impossibly blue eyes.

“Tell me,” he said. “How long have you been going to the lake? When did you discover it?”

She turned away, concentrating once again on the pathway. “I was a child when I first went to the lake.” The memories came rushing back. The horror of fleeing her burning home. The terror that sent her into the woods.

“You must have been a very bold child,” he said. “Few adults would dare to venture near such a place, let along a young girl.”

She thought of the cat leading her to safety. In all the years since, she hadn’t seen the creature.

“Why did you go there?” he asked. “Was it simple curiosity . . . or something else?”

The peaceful clearing around the lake had been her refuge. She’d survived there on berries and nuts, staying for nearly half of a cycle of the moon. It was a deer that finally led her out of the woods, a beautiful hind that came down to the lake to drink. As she had with the cat, she knew she was meant to follow the creature. The deer led her to the other side of the forest, where there was a small farm, with small plots of oat and barley sprouting through the dark earth. She approached a boy tending a flock of sheep, and he took her back to his home, where his father recognized her as the chieftain’s daughter. She lived there for a time, helping as much as they would allow her. Then she moved on to another farm. And another. For nearly six years, the people who honored her father as king had sheltered her and hidden her, allowing her time to grow to womanhood.

But she would not tell this man those things.

She didn’t respond, but instead, quickened her pace. A few more steps and the forest ended. In the distance, Cahermara rose upon the hill, its pale stonework gleaming in the early morning light. From this direction she could see the unfinished part of the wall, reminding her of all the work left to do. If she could learn magic from this man, perhaps the construction process could be hastened. For that matter, if she discovered a
real
spell of protection, the security of the rath wouldn’t have to depend upon stout stone walls.

Almost as if he knew her thoughts, Bridei said, “I’m confused, lady. If you’ve worked a spell to repel your enemies, why bother with stone fortifications?”

Dessia focused her gaze straight ahead. She couldn’t let him guess the truth. If he were a spy, he would alert her enemies to her vulnerability. And if he were a sorcerer, he would never agree to share his knowledge if he realized she had nothing to offer in exchange.

“I’m building the wall as a deterrent for invaders from the sea,” she answered, “men who might not have heard of my reputation.”

“But if there’s a spell in place, wouldn’t it repel them as well as your other enemies? Why bother with all this work?”

She struggled to come up with a response that would satisfy him. Finally, she said, “Spells can be broken. If my enemies should find some way through my magical defenses, I want to have something else in place to keep them from overrunning Cahermara.”

“What could break a spell?” Bridei asked. “Perhaps another spell, one evoked by a magician whose powers are even greater than yours?”

There seemed to be a threat behind his words, the implication he doubted the strength of her magic. Her muscles grew taut. She should never have agreed to this exchange of knowledge. Sooner or later he would realize she was bluffing. When he did, what would he do?

Bridei suppressed a smile, feeling quite pleased with himself. Now that he had the advantage, he meant to press it. “I’m eager to discuss these things further,” he said. “To share information about magic. But clearly, we can’t do it in the hall. We must meet somewhere private.”

She turned again to look at him, her expression glowering. Grudgingly, she nodded. “I’ll meet with you in the tower, which serves as my work area. But first, I would like to refresh myself.”

“Of course.” He smiled at her. She was inviting him into the place where she slept. Once there, things would fall naturally into place. He cared little about spells and sorcery. What he wished to discover was what her supple, womanly body would feel like beneath his and whether she was as fiery and passionate as her vivid coloring suggested. He’d never had a woman like this one. A queen. A warrior-woman. A sorceress. The very thought fired his blood with such intensity that he had to remind himself the chase was part of the fun.

Patience. Let it unfold as it will. Like a long and complex tale that lasts well into the night.

When they reached the rath, Bridei went to the cistern to wash, then made his way to the hall and the stairway leading up to the queen’s tower. He climbed the stairs, his muscles taut with anticipation. Near the top, he paused and inhaled the scent wafting down from the chamber above. The sharp, slightly astringent odor reminded him a little of his mother’s workroom when she was mixing dyes for her weaving and embroidery. “Dessia?” he called out softly.

“Aye. You may come up,” she answered.

He took the last few stairs and entered the chamber at the top. Dessia stood with her back to him, gazing out one of the small, narrow windows. He quickly surveyed the furnishings of the chamber: A bed draped with curtains and piled with furs and blankets. A large work table cluttered with manuscripts, jars, bowls, half-burned candles and bundles of herbs. Storage chests and baskets on the floor.

When she didn’t speak or turn around, Bridei went to the table. He picked up a nearby manuscript and scrutinized the document. It was written in Greek rather than Latin and was obviously very old, the parchment yellowed and stiff. She must have paid dearly for such an ancient piece. He unrolled the manuscript and started to translate. “By the light of the new moon, take the caul of a newborn babe and the bones of a nightingale—”

“What are you doing?” Crossing the room in three brisk strides, she tore the parchment from his hand.

He smiled at her. “I thought you were going to share your lore with me.”

She let out a gasp, her green eyes shimmering with emotion. “First, you must prove to me that you possess knowledge of magic yourself.”

He shrugged and let his gaze stray to her heaving bosom. She’d bathed and refreshed herself since he’d left her. He could smell the fragrance of the herbs used in her bath. They merged with the natural odors of her skin to create an intoxicating brew. As Bridei inhaled the heady aroma, he decided he’d never desired a woman as much as this one.

The plain russet gown she wore hung loosely on her body, unadorned with belt or brooch. Her hair had been combed out and arranged with bronze pins that held it away from her face. The drab gown emphasized the feminine contours beneath, while the simplicity of her hair refined the elegant perfection of her features. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless.

She stepped back and spoke sharply: “I’m waiting. Prove to me that you aren’t wasting my time, that you truly know magic.”

With effort, Bridei focused on her words. “What do you want me to do? What sort of test of my abilities did you have in mind?”

She took another step back and crossed her arms. “You said you could call down a storm.”

He shook his head. “I can’t call upon the gods to perform a trick simply to please you. The powerful forces that are the source of my magic aren’t to be used for trivial things.”

“But you must show me something. How else can I believe your claim?”

“Perhaps you’ll have to take it on faith . . . just as I must accept that you have power. It could be that you’re lying. Perhaps all of this . . .” He gestured to the jumble of objects on the table. “. . . is an elaborate deception to make your enemies believe you’re a sorceress.”

“Of course my powers are real!” Her eyes went wild, and her whole body seemed to thrum with tension.

Why should she be so defensive?
Bridei thought.
Unless his accusation struck too close to the truth?
“Prove it,” he said. “Prove you know magic.”

Her nostrils flared. “You, first.”

Bridei smiled at her challenge, then glanced around the room, wondering what he should try. He was bluffing as much as she was. Fortunately, he was used to pretending to be something other than what he was. Every time he told a story, he took on the attributes of the people he described: The noble, valiant warrior going into battle. The maid weeping for her lost love. The king who has lost his kingdom. He could transform himself into any one of them. This was no different. He was trying to prove to Dessia that he was sorcerer. What he needed to do was think like one. His gaze fell upon a bronze bowl on the table and he pointed to it. “Do you seek out the future in that?”