Dragon's Moon

by Lucy Monroe

  Eirik drew the sword and laid it on the table, the emeralds in the hilt not glowing like they had in her bedroom, but looking magical all the same.

  Her adopted father reached out slowly, his blue gaze dark with reverence. “’Tis truly of the ancient Chrechte. Look at the conriocht on the handle.”

  “Pick it up. Try the warrior’s dance with it,” Eirik said in a voice Ciara found compelling, though she found the suggestion odd.

  Her father saw nothing wrong with it though, because he did exactly as Eirik suggested. Wielding the sword through the pattern of movement she had seen many times before, he yet managed to make the dance something more than it had ever been.

  And Ciara realized the stones in the hilt were glowing now.

  Talorc stopped and held the sword like it had been made for him. “The handle is hot.”

  “I was taught that none but those of my line could wield the sword given me upon my father’s death,” Eirik said. “That it would accept only a Chrechte of righteous heart as its master.”

  “It’s a sword, not a horse,” Ciara’s adopted father said with some disbelief.

  Chapter 14

  Learning carries within itself certain dangers because out of necessity one has to learn from one’s enemies.

  —LEON TROTSKY

  “Aye, but it is connected to your Faolchú Chridhe through the stones in the hilt,” Eirik claimed. “Our tradition says that the original sacred stone was cut into the large stone used in our ceremonies, and a series of smaller ones.”

  “I have never heard of such,” her father replied.

  Eirik shrugged, clearly unsurprised. “Originally these stones were held by different members of the family that had been entrusted with the protection and use of the Clach Gealach Gra on behalf of our people. Later, some of the smaller stones were lost while others were used in jewelry to decorate weapons that became as important as bloodlines in claiming the title of spiritual leader or king.”

  “You believe it was the same among the Faol?” Ciara asked, thinking it sounded right.

  Eirik looked down at her. “Aye.”

  “So, he is feeling the heat in the handle because he is also of the bloodline.”

  “Aye.” Eirik touched her temple as if imparting a truth directly to her. “Fate sent you to this home for a reason when you lost the last of the family of your birth.”

  “I have always believed that.” Abigail reached out to take Ciara’s hand and squeezed. “You were meant to be my daughter.”

  The lump in Ciara’s throat prevented her from replying.

  “You are saying any other warrior could not wield this sword just as easily?” her father demanded of Eirik, clearly uncomfortable with the overt emotion swirling around them.

  “Exactly.”

  “I do not believe it.”

  “Call another warrior inside.”

  Guaire jumped up. “I’ll find Niall and ask him to send a soldier to the great hall.”

  Talorc inclined his head in acknowledgment and the seneschal left the great hall. Her father laid the sword on the table. “Was that your question, Ciara?”

  “What?”

  “Whether I could wield the sword, or not?”

  “Oh…uh…no. I did not realize Eirik thought you could, or that some could not. The sword has nothing to do with my question.”

  “Directly,” Eirik interjected.

  And she nodded in agreement. She could not deny the connection between it and the Faolchú Chridhe, not after her waking vision.

  When her father just gave her a look of question, she swallowed and prepared to share more of the secrets she’d kept held so close for so long.

  “Is this about your dreams?” Abigail asked, clearly trying to help Ciara get the words out.

  Ciara swallowed again and then forced the words from her tight throat. “In my dreams, I see the Faolchú Chridhe in a vast cavern that glows with a strange green light. It’s not torches, but almost as if the walls themselves put off the light. Do you know of caves or a cavern such as this?”

  Saying it out loud made it sound even more fanciful than when she thought about it.

  Before her father had a chance to answer, Guaire came in with Everett, one of the Chrechte soldiers.

  Abigail smiled in welcome, but Talorc wasted no time in indicating the sword on the table. “Use that to demonstrate the beginning sword movements taught to all warriors.”

  Everett did not ask why but simply obeyed his laird. However, it was quickly obvious he did not like the sword he was using. His movements lacked grace and the sword looked more like a heavy boulder in his hand the way it moved than a weapon of such impressive craftsmanship.

  Nevertheless, Everett finished his demonstration before setting the sword back on the table with a frown.

  “It is beautiful, but the weight is all wrong. I’d probably end up cutting my own arm off if I tried to use this sword in battle. Was it a gift sent north by our lady’s family?” he asked in confusion.

  “Nay. You may leave, Everett.”

  Everett shrugged and did so, showing no reluctance to get back to his training.

  Eirik crossed his arms and looked at Ciara’s father. “Do you still doubt the unique nature of that weapon?”

  “Everett is a competent warrior.” Her father’s confusion was even more pronounced than his soldier’s had been. “He has moved up the ranks and now trains the younger soldiers.”

  “But he cannot wield the sword of the Faolchú Chridhe.” Eirik evinced no surprise at that turn of events.

  “You really think my father is like me, a descendant of the keepers of the stone,” Ciara said with some awe.

  “I do. You yourself said that those that remained with that blood in their veins, no matter how diluted, were scattered among the Highland clans.”

  “But some must have more connection to the stone than others,” Guaire observed while it was clear Abigail and Talorc were sharing a silent conversation between mates through their mindspeak.

  “Aye. They do. You heard the Sinclair say the handle grew heated in his palm?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is a sign the sword accepts him. It is not enough to carry the blood of original keeper of the stone; it must also call to you.”

  No one present who knew Everett and Talorc could doubt Eirik’s words, because the warrior and his laird were distant cousins. “Then we should leave it with my father.”

  “Not until we have found the Faolchú Chridhe.” Eirik’s voice said he would not be moved.

  He put action to words and slid the sword back into its scabbard.

  “But—”

  “I agree,” her father said over her objections. “The sword is yours, Ciara, and must remain with you.”

  She looked beseechingly at her mother.

  But though Abigail gave her a look of understanding, she said, “Your father is right. Please listen to him.”

  There was no point in arguing further, so Ciara simply gave a silent gesture of agreement. She didn’t have to be happy about it, but she wasn’t going to pout like a child, either.

  Much.

  “What do you think of this oddly lit cavern?” Eirik asked their laird, closing the subject of the sword with finality.

  “It is not so uncommon in caves, particularly those with some source of water, to glow as Ciara describes. I can think of none that open into a large cavern like you describe though.” Talorc wrinkled his brow. “You should begin your search with those caves our people have always considered sacred. Mayhap there are passages we are not aware of that lead to this cavern.”

  “I do not know why I am certain, but there is no question in my mind that the cavern is deep in the earth,” Ciara said. “It would not be so far a stretch to think there are passages we have forgotten that were once used by our ancestors.”

  Her father nodded, not questioning her belief the cavern was deep in the ground. Unlike her brother, the Sinclair laird was clearly n
ot stuck on the idea that the Éan had stolen the Faolchú Chridhe.

  “Not all such caves are on friendly lands,” Guaire said and then pursed his lips at the look his laird cast him. “Niall does not keep secrets from me, but one.”

  Her father jerked his head in acknowledgment.

  Further discussion revealed that there were four sets of caves that Talorc knew about which the Faol of the Chrechte had considered sacred for many generations. Two were on Sinclair and Donegal lands, one was located in the MacLeod’s holding and one was in the unclaimed forest to the north.

  “Mayhap the Balmoral will know of others,” Talorc suggested. “I dinna think they come across the water to perform their sacred rites, so they must have someplace consecrated on the island.”

  “We’ll start the search there then, after we talk to his elders,” Eirik said, though he didn’t sound as if he expected to find the Faolchú Chridhe on Balmoral Island.

  Her father frowned. “If Ciara’s family of birth came from land near the Donegal holding, mayhap you should start there.”

  “I don’t know if they did,” Ciara said. She knew far too little about her first family’s history, she’d come to realize. “After all, Eirik—prince of the Éan—ended up here, though his family used to live in the wild forests of the north, but closest to my former clan’s lands.”

  “And the Clach Gealach Gra is here on Sinclair land, in the caves that have been considered sacred by our people for longer than any can remember.”

  Perhaps that was where they should start their search, Ciara mused to herself. Only, those caves were still used so frequently for Chrechte sacred rites, what chance was there that a forgotten hidden cavern existed that had not been discovered in all these generations?

  “It used to be Donegal land,” Abigail reminded them all. “Circin was certainly upset about that strip of land being ceded to the Sinclairs by Scotland’s king as part of my dowry.”

  Talorc nodded, looking rather pleased by the memory. “But before that, it was claimed by the Sinclair and more importantly, the pack that hunted on Sinclair lands before joining the clan.”

  “Your pack?” Guaire asked.

  Ciara’s father nodded. “Aye. My ancestors were the original Chrechte of this area, though the pack split when joining the clans and some went to the Donegal while others came to the Sinclair.”

  “Which simply proves that those particular caves are on a piece of land that has been in dispute for generations,” Eirik said.

  Talorc sighed and nodded. “We will continue with the original plan.”

  “I know you do not want Ciara away from your holding any longer than absolutely necessary, but I will keep her safe,” Eirik promised.

  “See that you do.”

  The ride through the forest was quiet, the only sound from their party the carefully placed footfalls of the well-trained warhorses under the four travelers. An eagle and two ravens flew above them in the sky.

  Eirik had surprised Ciara; taking heed of her worry for the young Éan, Fidaich and Canaul, he had assigned a seasoned warrior to join them in watching over the horses. She was even more surprised to discover both boys could shift.

  “You said your coming-of-age ceremony was only seven years ago,” she said quietly, bringing up the topic that had been worrying at her mind as they rode.

  “Aye.”

  “But Fidaich and Canaul can shift already.”

  “The ability to shift comes early for the Éan; some can take their bird form when they are small children, though most wait until that time when bodies change from child to adult.”

  “And these two?”

  “Fidaich started shifting this year, which was no surprise, but Canaul began shifting soon after. He is a year younger.”

  “Having his best friend shift without him must have been too much for his raven.”

  “Aye.” There was a hint of a smile at the edges of Eirik’s lips. “I was the same with my cousin who was two years older than me.”

  “I imagine everyone attributed your early shifting to you being the prince and of royal blood.”

  Eirik shrugged, but Ciara was sure she was right. “Still, I do not understand the coming-of-age ceremony if you already shift.”

  “It is different. It is when we are gifted with special talents and our ability to pass the raven on to the next generation relies on our connection to the Clach Gealach Gra during our coming-of-age ceremony.”

  Horror filled her at the thought of the Éan losing their stone as the Faol had misplaced theirs. “You are serious?” She had to know.

  “Aye.”

  “But the wolves give birth to wolves without the Faolchú Chridhe.”

  “It is a good thing, or there would be no Faol walking the earth today.”

  “Do you think one of the other races of the Chrechte stole our stone in hopes of just that eventuality?” Her vision today didn’t intimate such, but still she wondered.

  “I do not know, but does the why of it matter now? Centuries have passed. Any who had plans for the loss of the stone are gone.”

  It was a freeing thought, that the enmities of the past had no place in the present. “If the coming-of-age ceremony is not linked to the Éan’s first change, how do you know when it is time for it?”

  “It can be performed any time after the first change and before an Éan has seen twenty summers. However, if it is performed too early or late, the special talents conferred by the stone are weak.”

  “Who determines the time has come?”

  “The stone. It calls to Anya-Gra, the parents and sometimes the Éan himself.”

  “It called to you.”

  “Yes, but it had been taken and was not in the Sacred Caves.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “You were not meant to. My sister returned it in time for my final blessing.”

  “You would not have your dragon if she had not.” The prospect was untenable.

  “Lais would not be able to heal, either.”

  “Do you think the Faolchú Chridhe will confer special talents like that as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it’s not the same.” They’d already established that from the fact the Faol could reproduce without any coming-of-age ceremony. Stone or no stone.

  “Each race has its differences. For instance, all Éan have control of their change from the first time their bird takes them.”

  “Truly?” Among the Faol, most males could not control their change, so it was dictated by the full moon, until they participated in the sacred act of sex. White wolves and their descendants were the exception.

  “Aye.”

  “I wonder if it is like that for the Paindeal.”

  “If they continue to walk the earth at all.”

  “I’m sure they do.”

  He frowned, his attention all around them as he sought out potential threats. “You cannot be sure.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Because of the dreams,” he said with sudden understanding.

  “Yes.”

  “You have dreamed of the Paindeal as well? You did not say.”

  “Only when I was very young and I have always thought they were just dreams.” Until today when so many things had become clearer and more confusing as the case may be. “Nothing prophetic. It wasn’t a secret I knew I was keeping.”

  “You have spent too many years hiding the truth of yourself.”

  But she hadn’t been hiding. “I didn’t know about myself.”

  “You do not take my meaning. You have hidden your ability to connect to the Faolchú Chridhe.”

  “There were many times I thought it all in my head.”

  “Aye. You deserved to know the truth, but it was never given to you.”

  “I am so angry with my family,” she admitted. “But they’re dead and I feel dishonorable being so mad at them. Only, I can’t make the feelings go away.” Too many feelings refused to be stifled inside her now.
<
br />   “They hurt you deeply with their dishonesty and the pain is fresh because you have just discovered their treachery.”

  “You are right,” she whispered. She did not want to harbor anger toward those she had loved and who were irrevocably gone, but the pain inside her would not go away.

  “Their deceptions harmed your people as well.”

  “Only Galen knew of the Faolchú Chridhe.”

  “But if your mother and father had told you the truth of your lineage, you would have known how important finding the sacred stone was for all of the Faol.”

  “Do you think it called to my father?”

  “Nay.”

  “I don’t, either.” And for some reason, that truth made her sad, but her father had not been wise in his loyalties.

  A caw sounded from above. Ciara looked up in time to see one raven chasing another through the sky. It reminded her of when cubs played and she smiled. Though she doubted Eirik, or the eagle shifter, for that matter, were going to be so tolerant.

  The two ravens flew back into formation with the eagle, though she saw no signs of the eagle physically reining them in.

  “They’re young still,” she said to Eirik.

  “They are feeling the freedom of belonging to the clan rather than living in hiding in the forest.”

  “That’s a good thing, right?”

  “When it does not put them, or those they are assigned to guard, at risk.”

  “They will learn. After all, Fidaich is related to you.”

  “Canaul is the son of one of our fiercest warriors.”

  “The eagle flying with them,” she guessed.

  “Aye. Canaul’s mother was a raven; he took after her in the shift.”

  “Was?”

  “She disappeared in the forest.”

  One of the victims of the wolves who believed all Éan had to die. “I am sorry.”

  Eirik shrugged. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

  “I hate it.”

  “What?”

  “That your people were hunted by mine.”

  “It is not over, but Barr and your father have fought hard to clear their clans of those who would continue.”

  “Not the Balmoral?”

  “There were none among his pack that belonged to this secret society of wolves.”