The Dragon Bard (Dragon of the Island) (26 page)

All at once, she realized the gag was gone. She immediately cried out, “O’Bannon, you stinking coward! You won’t get away with this! I’ll set a spell on you and your balls will turn black and rot!”

O’Bannon leaned over the opening. “If you were capable of such things, you would have done so by now. The truth is, the stories about you being a sorceress were all lies. You possess no magic.”

She’d dreaded this day for years. Dreaded the time when her secret was revealed. She wanted to ask O’Bannon how he’d discovered the truth. But to do that meant admitting she had no power, and she suspected he was still wary of her. That he wasn’t quite certain she didn’t have some magical abilities.

“It takes time to make a spell,” she called up to him. “Take your chances, if you will. But if you wake up in the next few days and find yourself with withered private parts, you’ll know you were wrong. Or, perhaps I’ll do something else to you, something even more unpleasant.”

O’Bannon laughed, but with a hint of unease. Perhaps she’d bought some time. He might at least wait a few days before raping her.

They placed a piece of wood over the opening and left her. Once more, Dessia gazed around her prison. She wanted to scream, to claw at the walls and try to dig her way out. But the rational part of her knew she’d end up with nothing but torn and bleeding fingers and a raw throat. She must make the best of her circumstances and do what she could to stay alive. The honor of her family demanded it.

* * *

As soon as Bridei woke, the vague dread that had haunted his dreams became real. Maybe Dessia wasn’t going to send anyone with food and water. She might intend for him to die here. It seemed more and more likely.

He struggled to think she could be so cold-hearted. It didn’t match up with the Dessia he knew. What had happened? What could have caused her to despise him so much? He wracked his brain, trying to come up with a reason for her actions. Even if she’d discovered he planned to leave and meet up with traders, that didn’t explain why she would do this. If she were angry at him for abandoning her, she might leave him here for a few days as punishment, but she’d at least provide him with water. To abandon him like this bespoke great hatred and rage. He couldn’t think of anything he’d done—or that she might believe he’d done—that would arouse her animosity to that degree.

It was a puzzle, but he couldn’t waste his energy trying to solve it. He had to try to do something to free himself while he still had the strength. With effort, he struggled to a standing position. He was weak and dizzy, but at least the nausea had passed. The few apples he’d been able to choke down had helped. But there wasn’t that much food left, and he was desperate for water.

He peered up at the hole in the floor above him. The opening was still too far above for him to jump up and climb out. There was no way he could escape without aid. But getting someone to aid him might be possible. Surely in the whole hillfort there was someone who would dare to defy Dessia and help him. All he had to do was let them know he was here.

He took a deep breath and called out, “Help me! It’s Bridei! I’m in the souterrain.”

* * *

Hearing scuffling sounds overhead, Dessia stopped her pacing and moved directly under the opening above her. “O’Bannon!” she called out. “You miserable coward! Get me out of here! I dare you to face me in combat. I dare you!”

The noises grew louder and she saw someone leaning over the opening. A man, but not O’Bannon. His beard was a grizzled gray rather than black and his face heavily lined. “Milady,” he called down. “I’ve brought you some food. I’m going to lower it down to you.”

“Where’s O’Bannon? I want to speak to him!”

The man didn’t answer but lowered a large wooden bucket. Inside was a cloth bundle and a waterskin. Dessia took the bundle and waterskin and put them on the table. Underneath the bundle was a candle. She grabbed that as well.

The man pulled up the bucket and called down, “Is there anything else you require?”

Dessia laughed bitterly. “Aye. I need a ladder so I can climb out of here. And then I need a sword to kill that wretch O’Bannon!”

The man started to move away. Dessia called out, “Wait! I’m sorry to take out my anger on you. Please stay and talk to me.”

“Milady, I cannot. I’m only to see that you’re reasonably comfortable and give you the food.”

“I’m not asking you to free me. But please tell me what O’Ban . . . what your lord intends to do with me.” Dessia sought to make her voice soft and pleading. It had been a mistake to appear so angry and confrontational. She needed to play upon this man’s sympathies, to remind him that she was a woman.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen to you,” the man answered. “He hasn’t said.”

The man again started to move away from the opening. “Wait!” she cried. “Tell me your name,” she added in softer tones.

The man seemed to hesitate, then said, “I am called Druim.”

Dessia drew as close to the opening as she could. Gazing up with what she hoped was a winsome, helpless look, she pleaded, “Druim, I know you can’t go against your lord’s wishes, but all I want is a little information. Do you know how your lord was able to get into Cahermara? Do you know who betrayed me?”

“Nay, milady. I wasn’t privy to any of that. But . . .” Druim leaned near to the opening. “I don’t think he intends to harm you.”

“Oh, thank you,” Dessia said, inwardly wincing at the timidity she must affect. “I’m relieved to know that.”

“I must be going, milady,” Druim said.

The man left. Dessia sighed and sat down on the stool. She’d acted like a simpering fool and it hadn’t gotten her anywhere. Idly, she opened the bundle. It contained some barley bannocks, cheese and an apple. Simple fare, but it would sustain her. For a moment, she hesitated, then she took a bite of one of the bannocks. She wasn’t ready to die yet. Not until she knew who had betrayed her.

* * *

He couldn’t keep doing this much longer, Bridei thought. He barely had the strength to sit up, let alone stand under the opening to his prison and shout, and his voice had become a weak croak. At this point, he doubted if anyone could hear him unless they entered the storage shed and bent down to listen.

Resigned, he sank to the earthen floor and closed his eyes. He felt like weeping, but his eyes were so dry that no tears sprang forth. It was no use. He’d tried to summon aid, but either no one had heard him, or no one cared enough for him to defy Dessia. It looked as if he was going to die here, far away from his homeland, alone and unmourned.

Of course, there probably weren’t many people who would mourn him in Gwynedd either. His mother would, and perhaps his younger brothers and sisters, if they remembered him. Regrets washed over him. Looking back, his life seemed very empty. He’d entertained a lot of people. Bedded a great number of women. But he’d never allowed any of them close enough to truly care for him. He’d kept everyone at a distance.
Everyone except Dessia
.

He pushed the thought away, telling himself he wouldn’t think about her. If he was going to die, he had more important things to consider . . . such as the way he’d wasted his life. He’d been a fool. Afraid to love, afraid to ever embrace a cause or dream a dream. Although he’d thought he was being careful, it now seemed to him that he managed to condemn himself to a cold, meaningless existence. He felt lost and weary and miserably alone. Things seemed so bleak, so hopeless. He might as well give up and let death take him. It was easy to drift off, easy to succumb to the allure of sleep, blessed, endless sleep.

* * *

“Bridei.”

He woke to the sound of his mother’s voice. She stood a few feet away, looking exactly as he remembered her. Her hair, a rich warm red. Her skin as pale as moonlight. Tiny as she was, she seemed to radiate a vibrant energy, filling the dark chamber with light. “Bridei,” she said again. “What’s wrong? Why are you giving up? Don’t you understand that if you don’t deal with things in this life, you’ll only have to face them on the Other Side?”

“But what can I do? How can I change things? I’ve tried. I’ve truly tried. But it’s no use. I’m going to die here.” His voice shook on the last words.

“Oh, Bridei . . .” She exhaled a deep sigh. “My poor lost son. You still don’t understand. Your whole life is waiting for you. All you have to do is reach out and grasp it.”

“How? Tell me how.” With great effort, he made himself stand and move closer to her. “Please help me,” he whispered. “Give me some of your strength. Your magic.”

“You don’t need it,” she said. “You have your own strength.” She smiled. “And your own magic.”

“That’s not true! I’m all alone. No one cares for me. I’ve ruined everything!”

“Those are the words of a child. But you’re a man now. You have to think as a man would. You have to be strong. You can do it. I know you can.”

Her form was fading. In another few heartbeats, she would be gone altogether. “Mother,” he cried. “Don’t leave me!”

“The gods are with you.” Her voice sounded in his head. “Ask them to help you.”

* * *

He woke later and knew it had been a dream. But what a vivid dream. It almost seemed he could smell the sweet scent of herbs that always clung to his mother’s clothing. The fragrance lingered in the air, banishing the dank, moldy odor of his prison. When he was a boy he’d half hated that fragrance. It represented safety and peace, things he’d scorned. Now the smell comforted him, reminding him how his mother used to hold him on her lap when he was little. She always seemed so slender and delicate, yet strong. How he yearned for her strength now. But what had she said—that he had his own strength? She’d also mentioned the gods, and told him to ask them to help him.

It was worth trying. The gods had sent the storm that saved him from the slavers. And it must have been the gods who created the vision he saw in Dessia’s scrying bowl and the things he'd seen in the lake. He’d always felt the presence of the Ancient ONes when he was in the Forest of Mist. But it was very hard to imagine them in this place. He glanced around, wondering what god to call out to. Or perhaps it should be a goddess. His mother always said that female deities were more powerful than male ones, because their energy came from the earth.

Ceriddwen represented wisdom, grain and plenty. Arianrhod ruled the moon and destiny, while the great mother goddess Donn was connected to the land. In this place, he couldn’t see the moon or the night sky, and he had no magic cauldron as a Ceriddwen did. The great Donn seemed very remote and was seldom evoked in ritual. But there was another great goddess—Rhiannon, the deity his mother had been named for. Rhiannon was associated with death and the underworld, and also horses, which made it very fitting that he should call on her. He was facing death in an underground realm at the hands of a queen of the tribe of the white horse. The goddess Rhiannon was said to ride a white mare as she gathered up the souls of the dead.

But now that he’d decided to ask Rhiannon for aid, how did he do it? When he’d brought the storm, he’d evoked the force of the sea and the might of the weather. How should he reach out to Rhiannon? One of the legends of the goddess was that she was accompanied by three birds who sang so beautifully they were able to bring the dead back to life, or lull the living to sleep. What he needed were some birds that could rouse the living before he ended up dead!

Perhaps, to save himself, he should evoke the magical birds that served the goddess. But how did he do that? Maybe he should try singing. But at this point he was too hoarse and weary to do more than croak. He sighed, then licked his parched lips and called out, “Rhiannon, Great Queen, help me. Give me the strength to sing. Ask your magical birds to join me. Together we will sing a song that will reach the ears of all who are near and draw them to this place to aid me.”

Having evoked the goddess, Bridei felt uneasy. Although there was a dark aspect to most of the deities, with Rhiannon it was especially pronounced. She was associated with death and the underworld, which made her a dangerous deity to bargain with. And bargain was what he as doing, although he hadn’t offered the goddess anything. Some sort of sacrifice, that was what was needed. In the old days, sacrifices were usually of blood. An animal was killed and its spirit offered up. But he had no living creature to offer. He could give the goddess nothing but himself, offer her nothing except his own life.

The foreboding sense grew stronger. He could feel the goddess’s power surrounding him. What if instead of bringing him aid, evoking her brought about his death? But if that happened it would be the goddess’s will. He must accept that he might die. “Oh, Great Queen,” he intoned. “Give me life. Offer me another chance. If you do so, I vow I will be a different person. I will change and become a new man. One who gives instead of taking. One who loves instead of running away. One who believes in dreams instead of scoffing at them. Send your enchanted birds to sing me back to life and I will join in their song.”

He waited, thinking there should be some sort of sign that the goddess had agreed to do his bidding. Nothing happened. Yet the next moment, he remembered his mother’s words.
You must be strong. You can do it. I know you can.

He took a deep breath and began to sing:

Rhiannon, Great Queen,