Chalice 2 - Dream Stone

by Tara Janzen

  ’Twas him, moving through the fields, his essence mingling with the grasses, so different from the tylwyth teg.

  She closed her eyes, waiting, breathing him in. His was a richly layered scent, warm and animal, bespeaking a life beyond her ken, of years spent behind cloistered walls filled with smoking tallow candles and the pious chants of men. Faint but true, she read his history on the wind. The forest was there, winding through his days. The sea had come and gone in his life, and far and away beyond it all there was a scant strain of that which she sought—the ether of time, dark-edged and dangerous... a tremor ran through her, sinew and bone, a stark shadow of fear cracking open an abyss at her feet. She leaped back, away from the sharp edge and into a pool of light—and came up against the well wall. Water spilled onto her hand. Her eyes flew open.

  “Shadana...” The prayer fell from her lips. She’d learned a bit of sight in Deri, naught to rival Moira’s, but enough apparently to give herself a good jolt. Well enough warned, she chided herself, to go using deep-scent on a man-child of Merioneth, a Druid whether he willed it or nay.

  He came out of the fields then, and the first sight of him confirmed the wisdom of caution. Gods, but he was wondrously strange. No two parts of him matched. Even his boots were made from the skins of two different kinds of animals. She recognized rabbit fur tufting out of his left boot and vair out of the right. His left stocking was mostly white monk’s wool, his right mostly Quicken-tree cloth, the both of them patched and no doubt the cause of his elusive light-and-shadows stride. A wide leather belt worked with silver was buckled around his waist, holding his sheathed knives and a short-bladed sword.

  He was going a bit awry of the path, and left alone, he was sure to miss the well.

  ’Twould be better to let him go, an inner voice whispered. She shunted it aside and called out, “Malashm, ho!”

  He slowed to a stop and looked up to where she stood, hesitating for a long moment before starting in her direction. If he returned her greeting, she did not hear it. Mayhaps he nodded, mayhaps not. ’Twas hard to tell with the light against her and his face shadow-painted with woad. He stopped again not too far from her. There was yet an inch or two of empty space behind her, enough to accommodate a small retreat, though not enough to calm the racing of her pulse. Standing on a level with him, she realized it had been an intuition more powerful than cowardice that had earlier kept her on the wall.

  No savior here, for certes, but mayhaps a man who indeed had spent too long alone in the depths of the earth. He was taller than she’d thought, lean and feral with an air of wary tension about him, and broader across the shoulders than any tylwyth teg. The stripe in his hair was startling when seen up close, a bright swath of copper and bronze glittering in the lantern light with an odd metallic sheen.

  He was stone silent, standing at the edge of the light, and she wondered if he couldn’t speak. Some wild creatures couldn’t—though most spoke to her—and he was at least half-wild, if not more. His eyes were veiled by the dark of night, yet she felt his gaze tracking over her with a keenness that unnerved her.

  She swallowed softly, wondering what she’d gotten herself into and how she would ever turn him to her need, or indeed even manage to escape the well if such proved necessary. He moved closer in a silent step, and she instinctively pressed back, her fingers making a warding sign. His gaze flickered downward, and when his eyes met hers again, he seemed to know more of her than she would have wished.

  Sticks! What was she about? She would ask the world of him, to breach the gates of time and set her upon a path from whence she might never return. Warding herself against him was not the place to begin. Nor was it to her advantage to let him know a single step of his was enough to force her retreat.

  He gestured toward the cup. “I would have a drink,” he said, his voice low and gruff, as if in truth it did not get much use.

  “Aye,” she managed, clearing her throat and holding the cup out.

  Their fingers touched when he took the silver mug, and she was chastened again to feel only warmth and not the least bit of sizzling power. Trig would have her wrung and hung if he saw her acting such. She was elfin Liosalfar, Yr Is-ddwfn aetheling, and the match of any man, even wondrously strange ones with a trace of magic about them.

  Aye, there was that too. With him now in the light, she could see it. ’Twas the Magus Druid in him, a feyness in his eyes she’d also seen in his sister. Things were wont to shift in those blue-gray depths, and not just in shades of awareness. He had sight, and she wondered if that was how he’d seen his way clear to enter the wormholes.

  When the cup was drained, he handed it back and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “This morn, in Riverwood, ’twas your tale I followed to find you. Next time, bring your friends inside the wall if they would hear a story.”

  With that affront, he turned to leave, and Llynya nearly let him. Yet piqued or not, she would have him stay. In fact, she felt a powerful reluctance to have him leave, and hadn’t she offended him first with her warding sign? Tit for tat—not such a good start for what she would ask.

  “The birds are not mine to bid,” she said, quickly finding her voice, “but do only as they will, not so unlike yourself.”

  “Aye,” he agreed, stopping and returning his gaze to her. “I do as I will.”

  “And what of another’s will?” she asked boldly. “If the need was great?”

  He considered her for a moment, and to her surprise, the barest smile touched his mouth. “Rhuddlan has indeed grown wily,” he said in his rough voice, “if he would send you to speak of needs.”

  A mystery of words there, but she divined their meaning enough so to feel warmth creep into her cheeks. What a strange thing for him to think, that Rhuddlan would barter with her company, and even stranger that the thought would bring a smile to his lips.

  “I have not come from Rhuddlan,” she said.

  His smile faded. “I trust the witch of Wroneu Wood even less than the Quicken-tree man,” he warned.

  “Nay,” she corrected him. “Madron has not sent me. I come on my own behalf.”

  At that, his brow furrowed. “Come for what?”

  “You saved my life,” she said, having long since decided on her opening gambit. “You’re the archer from the damson cliffs, and I’ll never forget what you did.”

  “ ’Twas no—”

  “Llynya!”

  They both turned at the sound of her name being called. Llynya stifled a groan. She’d run out of time. ’Twas Aedyth approaching the well at a fair clip, her skirts hiked up to hasten her strides. The healer had not wasted her day either, speaking to all and sundry and learning enough to denounce Mychael ab Arawn as an unstable Druid boy. She knew the way of these things, the healer had said, and Llynya should listen. Rhiannon’s son was not all that he seemed and was a good deal of what couldn’t be seen, a darkling beast, Aedyth was sure, though none else had dared to name him such.

  “Come away, girl,” the healer called out. “I have looked the night long for you and would have you in your bed.”

  Double-sticks.

  “Aye, Aedyth. I’ll be there soon enough.”

  “Your soon enough will not be soon enough for me,” Aedyth admonished. The old woman came alongside her and took hold of her arm. “Nor soon enough for Rhuddlan. He’d speak with you.”

  “Aedyth, I—”

  “Enough, sprite,” another voice interrupted. “Rhuddlan calls, and ’tis your duty to abide.”

  Mychael jerked his gaze from the girl to the darkness beyond the well and cursed himself for acting the besotted fool. He had been so intent on the maid, he’d not noted the man running up behind the old woman. ’Twas Bedwyr, the one who liked him least of all the Quicken-tree, and he had his hand on the haft of his knife, his message clear.

  What did the old dog think? Mychael wondered. That he would ravish the girl?

  Another glint of blade farther to the east caught his eye. ’Twas more than jus
t Bedwyr calling him out, though he knew they dared go no farther. Rhuddlan would not have him hurt.

  “What’s this, Bedwyr? Trev?” the girl asked, her manner turning surprisingly imperious. “I need no escort here.”

  When the men didn’t reply, but only finished unsheathing their blades, she went for her own knife.

  Mychael grabbed her wrist before she could free the dagger.

  The old woman gasped.

  “Put up,” he told the girl, even as he wondered who she was that Bedwyr acted so rashly on her behalf. “ ’Tis for your protection that they act thus.”

  “And do I need protection from you?” she asked, pinning him with her gaze.

  “Mayhaps.” He spoke the truth and saw a fresh blush rise to her cheeks.

  “Nay,” she answered. “I think ’tis you who needs protection from them.”

  “And you would do the deed?” He released her with an odd reluctance, as if he might yet think of a reason to continue holding on to her. She smelled of lavender, luscious scent.

  “Aye. I am Liosalfar, sworn to protect those in my keeping.” The grim seriousness of her words and the gaze she leveled at him surprised him again. ’Twas no light thing she offered, and he wondered at the why of it.

  “But still a chit who needs looking after,” the old woman interjected, her mouth firming into a tight line. She gave the maid a tug, and this time the elfin girl moved.

  Mychael stepped back and let her go, shifting his attention to the two men. Fools both. If he’d wanted to make away with the girl, it would have taken more than Bedwyr and one other to keep him from it. Had not the blade-master learned that much of him yet? For certes Mychael knew more of him, and now he would add another weakness to Bedwyr’s tally. He would not forget that ’twas more than dislike the man felt, and that fear skewed the blade-master’s judgment.

  Bedwyr was with them to deep dark on the morrow and would bear watching. The caverns beyond the Magia Wall allowed little room for weakness, and fear was the dark’s surest path to death.

  Chapter 4

  On a ledge high above the floor of a great cavern, and far below the land of Merioneth, Mychael knelt by a freshet of water and dipped his hand in for a drink. They were four days into the earth, three days past the Hall of Lanbarrdein, two and a half days beyond the Magia Wall, and into the home of the old worm on a scouting expedition to the deep dark. Not three paces from him, the stream poured over a cliff face and dropped into dusky gloom. His dreamstone blade gleamed brightly in its open sheath on his belt, spreading blue light into the mist roiled up by the falling water and glinting off the iron stars affixed to the leather guard that banded his right arm. A bow and quiver were slung across the pack he wore. An iron dagger, pattern-welded with a cutting edge of steel, hung ready at his left hip. His short sword was on his right.

  Fires flickered along one wall of the cavern, dotting the darkness with yellow flames. He and Shay had set firelines to trap the old worm on the far side of the track Trig had chosen for the sortie. ’Twasn’t the first time the captain had paired him with the young Quicken-tree to herd the beast off the trails so others could safely hone their skills in blind scouting the deep dark. He and Shay could blind scout caverns in their sleep.

  They didn’t trap the old worm every time they came below, but Trig was not wont to take any chances of late. Better to have the trail clear, he’d said. That meant setting firelines. Nothing could clog up a tunnel or a trail more thoroughly than the old worm. Although the smaller pryf could be prodded along with a dreamstone blade or sung into submission—wild though they’d become—the ancient one was where he was, unless stopped by fire.

  Mychael heard the serpentine beast sliding in a slow rumble toward the other end of the cavern below, avoiding the flames they’d spiked with dragon seed, hadyn draig. The old worm knew better than to tangle with dragon matter.

  Mychael brought his cupped hand to his mouth and drank. Water dripped off his chin, and he wiped it away with his sleeve.

  A repeating arc of blue light cut through the darkness on the far side of the mist, catching his eye. ’Twasn’t too far distant, coming from above a tunnel fire that was just starting to flame. Shay was finished with his last fireline. Mychael reached for his blade and returned the signal. ’Twas time to go. He dipped his hand in the stream for another quick drink before rising and loping down the passage that led away from the cliff face.

  He and Shay had set their rendezvous point at a place where four tunnels converged in a cavern filled with animal paintings: graceful ochre and umber deer raced across the ceiling; a bear ran neck and neck with a bristling boar; a herd of bulls thundered in a swift curve over the top of one of the passages. All of them were fleeing a dark, hidden place depicted by slashed strokes of paint pouring out of a black crevasse.

  When Mychael had asked what the images meant, Shay had made a warding sign with his fingers, muttering something about a place where even gods died. No matter how he pushed, the boy had not said more.

  He’d found many such mysteries when he’d been alone in the caves. For those months, he’d been naught but a searcher following the path his heart set, a path that wandered through a world unlike any he had imagined. The Dragon’s Mouth and the Light Caves below it had been as he remembered from childhood, but beyond the cavern of the scrying pool, at the end of the mazelike tunnels of the Canolbarth, was a cave of wonders he now knew was called Lanbarrdein, the Hall of Kings. ’Twas there he’d first held a chunk of bluish white crystal and felt it grow warm as it began to glow; and thus the fathomless abyss of darkness that had loomed in front of him—an abyss that he’d feared was the absolute edge of the earth from which all else fell into chaos—had been transformed into a heavenly palace wrought from the mother rock, alive with the light of dreamstone. And Lanbarrdein had been only the beginning of the wonders of the deep.

  Yet for all that he had found, he had not found dragons.

  Rhuddlan said he need not search, that the dragons would find him, if indeed he’d been called.

  His jaw tightened. He had been called aright. This thing that churned through his blood, the restless yearning, had only grown in strength since his sister had freed the pryf. The last time, the night before they’d come below, it had been more than a calling. He’d felt the heat of it, the pumping of his blood freshly hot from his heart—wild, damned dragon heart that he’d feared since reading the red book Ceridwen had given him.

  Fata Ranc Le, Madron called it, the Red Book of Doom, an inauspicious title, but accurate, for it certainly foretold his. He’d read it after Ceridwen and Lavrans had left, the sections in Latin and Welsh, and what he’d read had cost him many a night’s sleep. A particular Latin passage had revealed a spell created by a long ago priestess, using dragon’s blood to conjure a son out of the Druid priestess line of Merioneth. He’d been born of the Druid priestess line of Merioneth, and no son’s name had been written in it until his.

  Dragon’s blood from his mother. That was what coursed through the paths of his body, what had filled him with a delirious dream four nights past. At the height of the nightmare that mirrored his vision, the heat had suddenly vanished, along with the delirium, and he had been left lying cold and shivering in his bed, beset by memories of the vision he wished had not been his.

  Cursed blood. Pryf were dragon spawned, and he knew ’twas no coincidence that their stirring in the earth stirred him as well. The balance of power had shifted within the wormholes when Ceridwen and Lavrans had broken the emerald seal on the Weir Gate. The holes he’d had access to, the smaller ones, had all closed up, been sucked back into the great wormhole, drawn by its growing strength and the steady hum of activity. ’Twas a lure for any man, a beckoning to come nearer and partake of its secrets.

  He needed those secrets, needed the power conjured by the warm, swirling clew of worms that ringed the abyss and grew ever more golden the deeper one went, into the place where “whatever was” and “whatever will be” met
and mixed. ’Twas there, in the timeless flux, that he’d found his only peace since coming north.

  Rhuddlan had taken that away from him. The Quicken-tree leader had sealed the tunnels to the Weir, gate of time, forbidding anyone to go near the wormhole, saying it had become far too dangerous.

  ’Twas true. Mychael had felt that for himself, that the one great hole would as soon burn him alive as let him in, but the way would not be barred forever. Trig had taught him to read the ancient common tongue and elfin runes lining the passages of the deep dark, and told him that somewhere therein lay the keys to all the secrets of the abyss, though none had found them for a thousand thousand years: how to control the worms and the temperature fluctuations caused by their activity, how to direct their course and thus the course of the one who would enter the Weir and descend into the wormhole, how—in the end—to place one’s self in time.

  He could find the keys, he knew he could, and after the last bout of madness, he dared not delay. He would take what knowledge he had and begin his search. Unlike the Quicken-tree, he could stay below for sennights on end, following one hint of script to the next. Trig had shown him the way, how to read the marks in the rock and where things in the dark were not what they seemed but led to places stranger than what he’d already found.

  Rhuddlan said there were times and ways to enter wormholes, and as a man bided the one, he must learn the other, or the rewards were not worth the dangers. Rhuddlan said he was lucky to have survived thus far. Rhuddlan said there had been only one dragon keeper in living memory of the Quicken-tree, and that was Rhuddlan himself.

  Rhuddlan said. Rhuddlan said. Mychael had long since reached the point where he cared not what Rhuddlan said. He’d been called. The truth of it could not be denied, not even by the Quicken-tree man. He’d been called, and he had come. He would know why the wormhole and the Weir Gate and the dragons were all tangled in this maze of a puzzle that had become his life.

  He reached the painted cavern before Shay, but not by much. A thin crescent of blue light appeared in the dark ahead of him, illuminating the curve of a passage that lay beyond the glow of his own dreamstone blade. ’Twas high on the wall above a scree slope that led down into the cavern.