Dragon Kin

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Arawn considered her for a long, silent moment. In the moonlight, his face was half-hidden in shadows, with a ghostly white light illuminating one side, casting his eyes into shadows.

  Ilsa could not fathom his thoughts. She waited.

  “You have repaid my trust,” Arawn said at last. “Thank you.”

  Warmth touched the center of her chest. Ilsa smiled. “I thought you might disapprove.”

  “I did, at first. Over the day, I have become accustomed to the changes you instituted. They are sensible ones.” He hesitated. “Without them, this journey through the marshes and grasses would have been impossible. Yet we are traveling at a speed even the best trained armies would envy.”

  The warmth spread. He approved.

  “Return to the fire,” Arawn said. “It is not safe to linger here. Not even with a hunting knife on your belt.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, AT the first of the dawn light, Ilsa was woken by excited muttering among the men on the perimeter of the camp. She sat up, bleary and stiff from yesterday’s journey. It was cold outside the furs. Her breath did not fog the air, though, because the fog already laid all around them. It was a dense cloud that hid everything a few paces away.

  “The river! It has all but gone!” someone exclaimed.

  There were more excited comments about tides and seasons and estuaries. Nimue had brought them to the river on the very morning of a rare, extremely low tide. It would be possible to walk across the river on horseback. A cart could not have navigated the steep banks, while horses could pick their way down and splash across the narrow channel.

  The tide was still dropping, the channel draining as they watched. Although how long until the tide turned was uncertain…

  Ilsa got to her feet, shrugging off her sleep. She woke the women and told them to pack and prepare to move quickly. As they had finished rolling their furs and strapping them, Colwyn strode up to Ilsa. He studied the flattened grass where the women had been sleeping. “Where did the ladies go?”

  “They stand by their horses, waiting for the command to mount,” Ilsa said. “I presume we are to cross the river as soon as possible?”

  “Sooner. We wait for nothing, not even to eat or drink,” Colwyn replied. “If you failed to fill your waterskins last night, then you must go thirsty today.”

  Ilsa made note to remind the women to always fill their skins in the evening or whenever the opportunity arose.

  “We are ready,” she told Colwyn.

  He nodded. “Thank you, my lady. Find your horse and your partner. We move out at once.” He moved back through the mist and disappeared.

  Ilsa went to find her horse, as instructed.

  By the time the sun rose high enough to burn off the fog, the riding party had forded the small stream left by the departing tide and climbed the other bank to the flat grassland on the other side. The fog had lingered long enough to hide their movements from any enemies who might take advantage while they were contained between the high river banks.

  Ilsa heard more than one mutter about the Lady and her powers. She spotted strong signs against enchantment.

  They reached Carnac just before sundown. Ilsa saw her first army town.

  Carnac had been a tiny village before Ambrosius came. Budic used the village as a summer retreat in quiet years when he was not defending his eastern borders from invaders. For Budic, it had been a place where he could rest, while the household fished and gathered food for the winter ahead.

  The king’s house was still there. In the twenty-three years Ambrosius had been living there, the house and the village had been surrounded by the businesses and housing for his army.

  From the north, as they were traveling, the party passed through the miles of standing stones in their regimented rows. Silence gathered over the party as the stones rose around them and the wind whistled between them, lifting in a ghostly, thin voice. Not even the soldiers at the back of the pack traded quips.

  Halfway through the stones, the road straightened and ran straight toward the walled town. The palisades were green and fresh, the sap still running in places.

  “They build new walls every month, I believe,” Arawn said, “to enclose the expanding town. The sections of wall enclosed inside the outer ones are used to make more buildings.”

  “Is Carnac larger than Lorient?” Ilsa asked, staring at the noisy, smoky town behind the walls.

  “Much larger,” Arawn replied without a shred of resentment in his voice. “I believe Ambrosius has thirteen thousand men and more of them arrive every day, drawn to serve Ambrosius because of Vortigern’s excesses and the threat of the Saxons. With those thirteen thousand come their wives and children, camp followers, prostitutes, priests, surgeons, engineers and many, many shipwrights to build the ships they will need to cross to Britain when the time comes.” He pointed beyond the walled town to where hundreds of masts and sails showed, gathered in an inlet which ran up almost to the walls of the town itself.

  “It is a busy town,” Arawn added. “Once Ambrosius leaves and takes his army with him, Carnac will become a village once more.”

  “Is he leaving soon?” Ilsa asked, for the bustle and roar of the town seemed to indicate a place in the throes of frantic preparation.

  “It might be years yet,” Arawn replied.

  “Years? Why do they wait? Is Ambrosius not ready?”

  “To learn the truth, you must ask Ambrosius. Only, do not expect a frank answer. The precise moment to strike at the enemy is a question which taxes even the strongest and wisest leaders. If he strikes too soon, his army may not be properly prepared and the enemy too strong. If he waits too long, the enemy could be too entrenched.”

  “Who is Ambrosius’ enemy?” Ilsa asked. “You mean the Saxons?”

  “Vortigern,” Arawn said. He didn’t look around to see who heard him speak of the High King in such disloyal terms. “The Saxons, too. Ambrosius, when he strikes, will face a war on two fronts. Do you see why he waits? The timing must be flawless.”

  The town circled about two great houses—Budic’s summer residence at one end and Ambrosius’ at the other. Between them laid streets of workshops, providing the support necessary for a standing army of so many men. Around the core were the cottages and houses for the men and their families.

  Arawn’s party clattered into the flagged square in front of Ambrosius’ headquarters as the last of the daylight flung long shadows. Torches already streamed light and flame from every wall and brazier.

  Arawn made a sound of approval as they came to a halt. “Ambrosius himself greets us. You are about to meet the future High King of all Britain, Ilsa.” He swung himself down to the stones and held her horse’s bridle while she dismounted, as everyone around them was doing.

  On the steps at the front of the big, rough timber house stood several men. Ilsa realized the building’s only purpose was to house the business of war. There were no women here.

  Among the waiting men was Uther. Even in the failing light, his red hair gleamed. He was not as tall as the man beside him, who was as dark as Uther was not. The man wore a short white tunic over trews and army boots, a dark cloak swirled back over his shoulders and out of the way, thick metal wrist guards and a heavy sword.

  The sword was the only non-Roman touch about him. It was not a short sword, but one of the longer, heavier weapons Britons preferred.

  This man must be Ambrosius. Arawn was heading directly for him, a smile on his face and his hand held out in greeting.

  Ambrosius gripped his hand and held it, his other hand resting on Arawn’s arm, a smile on his own face. He had black eyes and olive skin. His black hair, with not even a hint of gray, was shorn short and brushed forward in the Roman fashion. He had a powerful neck and shoulders, and a hawk-like nose which Uther shared. It was the shape of their eyes, their build and height and their noses which declared Ambrosius and Uther brothers.

  Uther was staring at Ilsa as she moved up behind Arawn. She realized with a start
that Uther had not seen her since the day in the forest. Certainly, he had never seen her without mud from knee to forehead. A light glowed in his eyes which made her move closer to Arawn.

  “Ambrosius, I present my lady wife, Ilsa,” Arawn told the man in front of him, letting go of his hand and touching Ilsa’s shoulder, instead.

  “You are most welcome in my house, Ilsa,” Ambrosius said. “Although you may find the accommodations not as soft as you are used to.”

  “If it is even slightly better than a spot of dirt in front of a camp fire, I am sure I will be comfortable,” Ilsa replied.

  Arawn smiled.

  Ambrosius made no move to introduce any of the men standing about him, save for Uther, whom he drew forward. “Uther is known to you, of course.”

  Arawn waved Colwyn forward, along with his more senior officers. Ilsa gestured to the women, who gathered beside her and waited, their eyes wide as they took in the rough accommodations.

  While Arawn and Ambrosius spoke about the next leg of the journey, which would be to Vannes where Budic waited, everyone moved inside.

  The interior of the house was startling. It appeared to be four sides of rooms with railed verandahs stacked three high, all facing an interior courtyard with a closed over roof.

  The courtyard had large fires burning in pits at every corner. Inside the circle of fire pits were tables and benches where men ate and worked over smaller projects—including the burnishing of arms. Several men wearing the red cloaks which marked Ambrosius’ army were gathering up swords and knives and sharpening stones from a table, as servants waited to put down steaming cook pots.

  The air in the big room was casual. No one snapped to salute Ambrosius or Uther, although when Ambrosius murmured to a passing soldier, he instantly changed directions to complete the command.

  Ambrosius moved to a long table at the end of the room where a proper chair sat at the end. There were wax slates and rolled books in front of the chair, which he swept up and handed to a soldier, with the order to “put them in the chest in my room, then get some supper yourself.”

  As everyone found seats at Ambrosius’ table and those surrounding it, the servants brought more of the steaming kettles and put them in the center of the table. Bowls were placed in front of each diner and spoons provided.

  The aroma wafting from the kettles was of rich meat and vegetables.

  Nimue touched Ilsa’s arm. “Let us leave the men to their talk of war and weapons. We can eat at another table.” She nodded at Ambrosius, who gave her a short nod back and turned away.

  The nine women in the riding party moved to another of the long tables and sat on the benches which ran the length of the table. It left the tenth position empty.

  Shortly after they had served themselves from the kettle placed between them, a black-haired boy stepped up to the table and bowed low toward Nimue, then again toward Ilsa. “My ladies, may I join you at this table? There is no other seat.”

  Nimue smiled at the boy. “You are Myrddin Emrys, yes?” She waved toward the empty position, which was opposite Ilsa.

  “I am,” the boy said. He was a tall lad, but slender, with fair skin unmarked by stubble. Ilsa judged him to be around twelve years old and tall for his age. He served himself from the kettle and settled on the bench. His gaze met Ilsa’s.

  She shivered.

  Merlin Emrys. She remembered the name now. Nimue had mentioned it at the unsettling supper in Arawn’s antechamber. The boy whose arrival foretold the coming of kings and the fall of kingdoms.

  Nimue had suggested the boy was Ambrosius’ son and now Ilsa was looking at his face, she knew it was true. Merlin’s resemblance to Ambrosius was startling. No one looking at them together would doubt the familial relationship.

  Only Merlin’s leanness made the lines of his face sharper and more defined. His cheekbones were stark, the corners of his jaw sharp, his chin aggressive. His cheeks were hollow and his skin Celtic white, while Ambrosius’ skin was Roman olive and tanned from days spent outside, training and fighting. Merlin’s mother had imparted that much of herself upon Merlin. His hair was tousled, thick and longer than Ambrosius wore his own.

  Even though Merlin’s eyes were Ambrosius’, there was a far-seeing look in them which reminded Ilsa of Nimue’s habit of staring into the future.

  Merlin, then, was another with the Sight.

  “You have recently arrived in Carnac yourself, have you not?” Ilsa asked him, as he ate sparingly.

  Merlin nodded. “It was dangerous for me to remain at the palace in Maridunum. Ambrosius was kind enough to allow me to serve him.”

  With a start, Ilsa realized Merlin was unaware of the connection between him and Ambrosius. Surely, everyone who met him must see it, yet no one had told the boy.

  “You lived in Maridunum?” she asked. “Maridunum is in Britain?”

  “The kingdom of Dyfed, on the Severn,” Merlin said, with a nod. “My grandfather was the king.”

  “Was?”

  “He’s dead.” Merlin spoke without visible grief. “My mother is his daughter, and with his death, she was free to retire to the convent as she has wanted to most of her life. My uncle, though…”

  “The new king,” Nimue added.

  “Yes,” Merlin said, frowning. “My mother was older than my uncle, you see…”

  “Your uncle thought you wanted to be king?”

  Merlin’s smile was that of a much older man, filled with bitter knowledge. “I am not the material of kings and princes, even though I am one, in fact. My uncle was being cautious, as new kings usually are. I knew I could not stay there, so I came here.”

  “You stowed aboard a ship, I’m told?” Nimue said, as if she had heard the gossip from a servant, not seen it in the stars for herself.

  Merlin grimaced. “I was sick all the way, too. I do not look forward to returning.”

  “Then you intend to go back to Britain when Ambrosius does?” Ilsa asked.

  “If Ambrosius wants me to, yes.” His frown this time belonged to an uncertain boy. “I learn everything he requires of me—Greek, medicine, engineering, Latin, mathematics and more. Yet I am still to learn how I am to be of service to him, although he says there is time, yet.”

  “Years, perhaps, before Ambrosius makes his move,” Ilsa said. “He must time it correctly.”

  Both Nimue and Merlin studied her, startled.

  Merlin’s gaze shifted to the lamp sitting on the table beside the kettle. He glanced at the flame, Ilsa realized, for the light reflected in his eyes. “You are Budic’s seed,” he said softly.

  Ilsa jumped. She had pushed the knowledge far to the back of her mind. “So I am told.”

  “You are told the truth,” Merlin said. His tone was flat with certainty and Ilsa shuddered. “When you meet him, you will see for yourself.”

  All the other women at the table had halted their conversations and listened to Merlin, avidly curious.

  “I suppose I will meet him when we reach Vannes. I had not thought of that,” Ilsa admitted.

  “If you are his and Budic is brother to Ambrosius’ father, then you and Ambrosius are cousins,” Merlin said.

  Ilsa could find no words to say in response to that shocking revelation. She glanced at Ambrosius at the other table. He was sitting back in his chair, one arm resting upon it, the other holding a great bronze cup, as he listened to the men speaking.

  Her cousin.

  It made Merlin her cousin, too, although she would not speak that aloud. If Ambrosius had not seen fit to reveal his relationship to his son, then Ilsa could not. She studied Merlin with even deeper curiosity than before. “You are correct once more,” she said softly. “I confess the fact will require reflection. It is…startling.”

  Merlin nodded. “You and I are both bastards, yet far more fortunate than most who bear that brand.” His side glance took in Ambrosius’ table.

  Ilsa could only agree with the strange, gifted young man.

  Nimue stood.
“We would be best to sleep as soon as possible. Ambrosius will call for a pre-dawn start, tomorrow.”

  Merlin nodded. “It is two hard days’ ride to Vannes.”

  “You travel with us?” Ilsa asked.

  Merlin nodded, his face lighting with enthusiasm. “It is a good opportunity to see Morbihan and Guannes. Bors’ new town at Campbon uses stone for their walls, which I want to study. They have the new, heavy plowshares, too.”

  “They use stone because their enemies are relentless,” Nimue replied. She was not smiling.

  Merlin did not smile either. “So, too, will be Ambrosius’ enemies. To overcome them, he will use strategies and tools never before seen in war.”

  Ilsa realized Merlin was not speaking hypothetically. He was speaking with the certainty of someone who had seen that future.

  Even Nimue looked surprised.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Arawn’s traveling party increased in size with the influx of Ambrosius and the men he took with him to Guannes. As the purpose of the journey was not one of war, he was accompanied only by Uther and Merlin and their servants, and a few soldiers as guards.

  The larger company left Carnac well before dawn the next morning. The moon lingered on the horizon, a fat orange globe, as the horses clattered through the town gates and cantered across the plain where Ambrosius’ men trained during the day.

  It was cold and still, silent the way night was before the dawn chorus. Not even a breeze stirred, except that which they made with their passage.

  Ambrosius and Uther rode at the front of the company, with Arawn. Ilsa and Merlin and Merlin’s servant, Cadel, rode behind them, with Colwyn and his lady wife, Rigantona, trailing.

  As they turned inland and put the moon behind them, the edge of the great forest rose before them. The stars above wheeled and glittered. From the right, moving across the night sky, was a bright red star, trailing a long red and orange tail. It was so bright that looking at it left a dazzling afterimage which clawed and reared in her eyes and her mind.