The Chalice and the Blade (The Chalice Trilogy) (52 page)

“What of my men?” Morgan interjected.

“They are with Rhuddlan, preparing what defense we can on the perimeter. When Caradoc comes again, we will be warned.”

“Any of the mesnie who saw me or Llynya are dead,” Morgan told the Liosalfar captain with a look to the sprite.

“And no one followed us,” Dain said. “We came underground from the keep to the tower, through bore shafts barely large enough to hold a man.”

“The place has more holes than a pauper’s boot,” Trig said, disgusted. “It didn’t used to be such. The monk had a tunnel into the caverns we missed a fortnight past. We thought we’d sealed the caves from his tampering and had only the original passage to find when next we came.”

“’Twas one of your lads, Trig,” Dain said, “who showed us the way. A lost boy, I think.”

“Snit is his name,” Ceridwen added.

“I know of no Snit,” Trig said, “but there are enough of us here for anyone to find. If he knows his way about the holes, he won’t be lost long. Come. There is no time to waste.”

The Liosalfar led the way down the rocky slope into the Light Caves. In places they used stairs carved into the stone floor and worn smooth by the years, remnants of the cavern’s history. Other times ’twas a cautious picking across scree and rubble. The deeper they went, the wetter the walls became, suffused with the briny smell of the ocean. A breeze came in along with the sea spray, carrying the warmth of sunshine into the cold dark.

Beside him, Ceridwen stopped. “Wait,” she said, turning her face into the warm wind. “I know this place.” Excitement edged her voice. “Come, Dain.” She reached for his hand.

Following the drifting scent of sea and air, she led him from the main shaft. For all his worry of time, Trig said naught against the delay, and Dain saw the captain stretch his arm out in a gesture warning the others to wait.

The path widened, the walls on either side belling and rising to new heights. The air became fresher and warmer, and the light bright enough that Dain sheathed Ayas in his belt.

“Aye,” she murmured. “Here ’tis.” She reached out and touched a sinuous black line snaking along the wall. “As a child, I had to stand on tiptoe to reach them.” Another line curved down from the ceiling to join the first, and she smiled. “My mother said she had to do the same when she was a little girl, stand on tiptoe to touch the dragons, the sea dragons.”

“They do not look so fierce, Ceri,” he said, watching her, waiting for what would come. She had been a child here.

“No,” she agreed, trailing her fingertips along the single lines, spreading her hands as the lines parted and the paintings became more intricate. “They do not look so fierce... yet.”

He moved with her farther into the light. The misty rays of the sun rimmed her face and streaked across the demon marks on her cheeks. Her hair was wild about her, uncombed and unbound, falling to her waist. Her gown was dirty, the hem caked with mud. She looked the perfect hell angel, and the love he felt for her hurt, leaving him completely unmanned.

A grin tugged at his mouth. He should have known ’twould take a woman to finally do the deed.

“See?” she said, casting him a quick smile. “Here are their claws, and the wings that make them fly under the waves. The scales start back there, like great fish. They have whiskers and golden cat’s eyes.” She moved her hand over a broad curve crowned with a long, scalloped fin.

“This one is Ddrei Glas. She’s pale green to match the sea foam by moonlight. And this one...” Her hand moved higher to the bigger creature whose tail wrapped around the smaller one’s body. “This one is Ddrei Goch. He’s red to match the first break of dawn across the water.”

“Fangs as big as boar’s tusks.” He traced one long tooth of many, his fingers sliding along the blackened groove. The rock was warm, warmer than he would have thought possible for a cave wall on a cold cliff above an ocean. He flattened his hand, touching more of the stone, and with sudden insight knew exactly what he was feeling —a trace of magic. The vitality of it was unmistakable.

His desert master would have been pleased.

“Fierce,” she said, looking up at him.

“Aye, Ceri. Fierce.” He removed his hand and reached out to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. Mayhaps there was room for forgiveness in his heart. Not every day in the desert had been dark. Jalal had shown him wonders beyond most men’s imaginations: towering cities, ancient and abandoned, lost in the sands; maps to all the stars in the heavens, and to all the lands and waters of the earth; the way of magic itself.

“Come,” she said. “There’s more.” She took his hand and walked with him to the mouth of the cave. The outcrop was of rough limestone set high on the cliffs above the westward ocean. Sea thrift hugged the rocky nooks and crannies, showing pink in the late morning sun. “This was my mother’s place, where she would come to play her harp. The Dragon’s Mouth. We could hear her, Mychael and I, while in our bed. ’Twas she who saved us that night, the night Gwrnach—” She stopped, a catch in her voice, and released his hand. After a moment, she continued, but did not renew their contact. Her hands were clasped at her waist, holding only each other. “She was playing, you see, and the music woke me. I was ever into trouble as a child, long before I was imprisoned in the abbey at Usk, and that night I made Mychael come with me on my grand adventure. I got us both lost in the Canolbarth.”

A hastily wiped tear smeared the demon unguent on her cheek. He was tempted to offer his sleeve, but did not. His love could not save her this pain.

“Mayhaps we should have died in our bed and been gone with the rest of Carn Merioneth,” she said.

“When it is time to die, you will die, Ceridwen. Not before.”

A gust of wind rushed up the cliffs and curved around the natural bowl where they stood, ruffling her hair and gown.

“’Twas so long ago,” she said shakily, turning and looking at him. “Seems as though it happened to another.”

He held her gaze, and when she came to him, he took her in his arms and kissed her. The trembling of her body subsided in the warmth of his embrace. The salt taste of her tears vanished on his tongue. He slid his hand up the side of her face and into her hair as he deepened the kiss. There was sweetness to be had in her, enough for a lifetime, and fierceness too, for she had survived Gwrnach’s destruction, and she had killed Ragnor.

He did not release her when the kiss was over, but held her close, letting her rest against him as they looked out over the Irish Sea.

“Shall we be married?” she asked.

“Aye, we shall be married.”

“And have children?”

“When you like, and when you don’t like, you will be glad to have married a mage who knows the way of such things.”

She was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Are you truly a sorcerer?”

He laughed that she had finally begun to doubt what he had so heartily denied. “Mayhaps,” he admitted. “I have a small—”

“Gift of sight,” she finished for him, laughing against his chest.

He leaned down and nipped her ear. “Wench. Aye, we will be married and have children. I will take you north and carve a palace for you out of ice, and every night I will melt it with my love.”

She tightened her hold on him, then lifted her face to speak, her pale blue eyes warm with the golden light of the sun. “Do these things, Dain Lavrans, and I will ask for nothing more.”

He brushed her cheek with his fingers before lowering his mouth to hers for another kiss. Waves crashed on the rocks below, sending sea spray up into the air as he held her. Such was the blessing she gave: to kiss and be kissed, and to be filled with the succor of her love.

~ ~ ~

Trig was showing only the slightest impatience when they rejoined the others.

“The Dragon’s Mouth,” he said, nodding in the direction from whence they’d come. “There’s power there, and sanctuary, if it’s needed.”

“Aye,” Dain said, meeting the Liosalfar’s gaze. He’d recognized Rhiannon’s place for all that it was.

The journey continued through the Light Caves to a great cavern on the edge of the Canolbarth. Dain remembered the place; Rhuddlan had brought them through it on their way to scale the cliffs of Balor. Torches now burned throughout the immense cave, lighting the high, dark reaches and casting halos in the clouds of warm vapor rising off a deep pool in its center— a scrying pool, Rhuddlan had said. Numa and Elixir came running to meet them, exuberant in their greeting, while others of the Quicken-tree prepared for the battle to come. Besides the Quicken-tree, there were strangers not from Deri. Ebiurrane, Rhuddlan called them, brought from the north by their leader Llyr.

Moira was there, ready with
rasca
and her healing touch. She cleansed him with water from the pool, which made him doubt its holiness, since she washed his blood back into the water each time she wetted the cloth.

“Will take more than that,” a familiar voice said from behind him.

“Hush, child,” Moira said.

“Madron.” He greeted the newcomer without turning, holding still for Moira’s ministrations. Elixir had not left his side.

A lavender skirt swirled into his line of vision. “In this place I am Moriath, daughter of Nemeton, and you are a fool who should have taken my advice rather than the maid, and saved yourself much trouble.” She came full circle and sat in front of him on a smooth, flat rock.

“My trouble is naught but scratches,” he said. She looked as lovely as ever, her auburn hair rolled, not braided, beneath her coif, her green eyes clear.

“Fool, fool, and twice a fool, your trouble has yet begun,” she said, but not unkindly. “I have always liked you, Dain. Mayhaps too much. For you opened the Druid Door and provided some wit in my days, but this, what you have done, will cost you dear.”

“Ceridwen is mine,” he said, lifting his gaze to where the maid sat across the cavern with Elen and Aedyth, eating small cakes and drinking warm honeymead. She still had her crossbow, and he’d returned the Damascene to her. The women had cleaned her face and were braiding her hair while waiting for Rhuddlan. Numa lay at her feet in a fine show of canine loyalty. “Caradoc no longer wants her as a bride, and Rhuddlan wants only that we open a door. Then we go north.”

“There are doors and there are doors, dear mage of Wydehaw,” she said, “and I fear Rhuddlan’s will test your mettle to the breaking point.”

“My breaking point was reached long ago, Madron, and I am still here.”

“But are you whole?”

His gaze strayed back to Ceridwen. “Nearly.”

“Nearly will not be enough. Rhuddlan bound you to her for his own purposes, Dain, not yours,” she warned him, and mayhaps would have told him more but for Rhuddlan’s coming.

The Quicken-tree leader strode out of the dark reaches into the light, flanked on either side by Liosalfar and calling to all within hearing distance to begin the ceremony. Before he even reached the pool, the beat of bodhrans filled the air, and the Quicken-tree began circling around.

Ceridwen joined the others converging at the center of the cave, accompanied by Elen and Aedyth, with Numa staying close by her side. Like the Dragon’s Mouth, the cavern of the scrying pool was a familiar place to her, a rock womb of the earth redolent with childhood memories of feasts and dances and of being lulled to sleep by chants sung in many parts. During those times, her mother had held sway over the waters. This day, ’twould be herself, Ceridwen, who ruled—so she’d been told by the white-haired one, Aedyth, who had cleaned her face of the demon unguent and rubbed a warm salve into her hands, all the while gently singing, “
Domnu, Domnu, Domnu a matria patro leandra, eso a prifarym, Domnu
.”

Ceridwen remembered Domnu, She who had the Earth as Her womb. Rhiannon had sung of the Goddess, and so had another on a long night in Wroneu. But she had no memory of how to rule the waters of the scrying pool. Since Aedyth had told her what she must do—yet had not continued on to tell her how, seeming to expect her to know—she had searched her mind for the way of it and had found naught. Nor would Dain’s magic help her. Brochan’s Great Charm had no place in the rituals of Merioneth. The knowledge she needed came from mother to daughter, down through the matriarchal line of an ancient Magus Druid Priestess, Arianrod. So the red book said with a brevity she wished it had accorded to dragons and blood. Though the book recalled such a lineage for her, she had been a child when Rhiannon had died. If her mother had given her the knowledge, she had long ago forgotten it.

’Twas then she noticed the woman in lavender sitting next to Dain. Her steps faltered, and the woman turned her head, capturing her gaze.

“Moriath,” she whispered, and knew it to be true.

Here was the crone unmasked, the diaphanous dream-giver, fair-skinned with eyes as green as the trees in high summer.

“Ceridwen,” Moriath called, brushing down her skirts as she rose from beside the pool. “Come and let me see you.” There was affection in the words, and an underlying command of such subtle strength that Ceridwen was unsure about ignoring it—for all that Dain had told her the witch was no friend.

Yet ignore it she did, choosing to hold her ground where she stood.

A faint smile played across Moriath’s mouth as she measured the distance between them. “For certes you are a child no more.”

“Have you tidings of my brother?” Ceridwen asked.

“No,” the older woman said. “Not for many months, but then my concern has always been with you, as you are Rhiannon’s daughter. ’Tis why I stayed so close to Usk, to watch over you.”

Aye, Ceridwen thought, and there was that damn daughter thing again.

“Yet you would have had me wed Caradoc.” ’Twas an accusation Ceridwen made, not a question she asked.

“I thought it best for all, to ensure the sanctuary of Cain Merioneth. I would have been here to see that no harm befell you.” Moriath spoke without so much as a hint of apology, enduring Ceridwen’s inquisition with galling grace.

“You did not tell me who you were that night in Wroneu, in your cottage. Why?”

“But I did, Ceri,” the witch chided, her smile softening. With a small movement of her hand, she called Numa forth. The hound responded without hesitation, padding forward to circle around the witch twice with nuzzles and sweet growls.