Highland Dragon Warrior

by Isabel Cooper

  “You’ve grown no less prone to exaggeration, I see,” said Douglas.

  “God’s not so pleased with you as that,” Moiread replied easily. “And so, I pray you, one of you reveal the purpose of this meeting before I recall how weary I am.”

  Two

  Bluntness from Moiread surprised none of her family. Cathal might have teased her about it, were he there, and Agnes might have expressed her disapproval in any number of ways, but Artair and Douglas only smiled. The stranger, the Welsh lordling, blinked eyes a shade darker and closer to gray than her own, but otherwise kept the same pleasant smile he’d had when he’d greeted Moiread.

  “We’ve won a great victory,” Artair said calmly. “You most actively among us, most of all at the end.”

  “The Bruce won a great victory. Our men and I helped. Sent enough of the English bastards to hell to make a difference, I hope.”

  “Take the edge off that anger soon, Daughter. We may need them in a hundred years.” Artair spoke as coolly as usual, a man advising builders on the best place for a stone or telling his child to lower her arm when she drew her bow.

  “Mmph,” said Moiread. She was old enough to check the protest that rose from her heart to her throat—that she’d call on the devil himself for aid before she turned to the kings of England and their men. She was too tired to say anything gracious in its place. “You didn’t summon me to the hall to tell me that.”

  “No. The English, I think, will not be long content with the truce.” Artair paused as the wine cup came around the table, raised it to his lips, and then handed it on. “We have won ourselves a space to breathe, to act, and to make alliances—particularly with those who have their own reasons not to love the men of the south.”

  He gestured to Madoc with one huge callused hand.

  “Without, however, involving ourselves in another war so soon,” Douglas said, forestalling Madoc’s question with exactly the same tone their father had used. He truly was turning into Artair’s mirror, though his hair was red and his face far less wrinkled. “Particularly one which, alas, I misdoubt we could help to win this time.”

  “You’ll have no quarrel with me on the matter,” Madoc said. “I’d never dispute your men’s strength, and it’s certain all the legends of your own are as honest as the day, but even that would not take the English rule from my land, I think. Not now.”

  Madoc smiled, speaking with gentle regret but no bitterness. Either he was more serene of mind than most priests Moiread had encountered or he’d learned diplomacy well. She was inclined to think the latter. For certes, his pretty face would make negotiation more pleasant.

  It was a pretty face, and sharp and thin-lipped enough not to be feminine either. His slate-gray eyes were big and his lashes long and black, like the faintly curling hair of his head, and when he smiled, it was slow and charming. He had a lean but strong body of Moiread’s own height and a smooth baritone voice. The whole combination probably had parted thighs from Cardiff to Dover, dairymaid to at least minor nobility.

  She sat cleaned and well-dressed, but no more than that, pinched and rough-skinned from hard travel and probably with shadows like the pits of hell under her eyes.

  Oh well. I wouldn’t have the strength for bedroom sport now if Adonis himself fell at my feet.

  Moiread took a bite of pork. Food, properly cooked food—not half-roasted bits of squirrel on sticks—was considerable consolation and added greatly to her store of patience. And yet the more she ate, the harder it would be to stay awake.

  “No,” Madoc went on. “I have in mind not rebellion but preservation, the concealment of our treasures and the strengthening of old ties”—he hesitated and glanced at each of the MacAlasdairs in turn—“as I believe and hope that such things may aid us in years to come.”

  That pause bothered Moiread until she looked at her father. Artair was good at reading people. He’d dealt in matters near and far for six hundred years and more, and his father had survived a youth in the snake pit that had been Imperial Rome at its end. When Artair met her eyes and smiled reassurance, Moiread calmed and reclassified Madoc’s hesitation from hiding something to doesn’t want to explain all the details right now.

  God love you for that, stranger, she thought. Whatever you need me for, pray be as quick about it.

  “Mystically speaking,” said Douglas, once the servants had moved off and the sounds of the hall covered his lowered voice. “Aye?”

  “That it is. It’s never a journey I would attempt while we were at war. Neither is it one I’d make were the English not still recovering themselves and thus distracted, for which I owe you all my thanks.”

  “Glad to be of assistance,” said Moiread, helping herself to a share of purple-red boiled beets.

  “And yet,” Artair said, “our victory has made the journey more necessary. Aye?”

  “I’d not say that so definitely,” Madoc replied with another of those diplomatic smiles. “It may well be that the English would seek to tighten their grasp on us no matter what. Conquerors are as they are, and ever shall be.”

  “World without end, amen,” said Moiread. “How does you wandering keep them off your people’s necks?”

  As Douglas had, Madoc made certain his words wouldn’t carry, then said, “The world contains places of power. Each has qualities of its own: independence here, say, and defense. Should I succeed in performing certain ceremonies at four of these sites, with the united efforts of their rulers, it will not free my country, but turn away the more harmful of England’s impulses, the more destructive whims of its lords. It will make my people as safe as they will ever be under such a rule. If I complete the journey before England acts, that is.”

  As a plan, it seemed sensible—but nowhere in it did Moiread see the importance of her presence. “Are you here for one of those ceremonies?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Madoc, “but we’d concluded that before you arrived, though I’m certain you would have enhanced it.”

  Unlikely.

  She wasn’t as inept with magic as her brother Cathal—how that one had managed to win himself an alchemist’s favor twenty years back was one of God’s greater mysteries—but she wasn’t as skilled as her father or her other siblings either. She certainly wasn’t a virgin, which was the only other mystical role she could think of where she would have made any difference, unless she’d been married to one of the participants or his lover.

  Quickly she glanced at Artair again, and this time saw nothing on his face. Marriage seemed unlikely. Dragon-blooded females couldn’t breed with human men, and Madoc appeared human enough. Besides, with Cathal gone to France twenty years before and Artair’s years advancing, she was of more use on the battlefield than in the marriage bed.

  Coupling during a few rites was helpful, Moiread knew, and essential for others—spring and fertility and whatnot. She’d never heard of it aiding defensive magic, however. Besides, the ceremony at Loch Arach was over, so it seemed unlikely that was her intended purpose. What in God’s name were they planning?

  Madoc went on. “I came here first. When I leave here, I must go to three other places. I’d not be a braggart,” he added, “but there are men who’d say I have no small skill at arms, mounted or afoot. I could make the journey alone, if there’s need.”

  “But,” Artair said, “one man is still one man. We have powers you lack, as you have skills we haven’t mastered. Best when men can shield the backs of their companions. And alliance wears better on many points. So—”

  He gestured to Moiread.

  “Oh,” she said, startled into further bluntness. “I’m to be his guard?”

  * * *

  “And why not?” Artair asked, while Madoc tried to weave a response. Moiread’s open dismay touched both his pride and his guilt at once. He believed himself no bad companion, nor his quest so loathsome, but he didn’t want an
yone forced into his service, least of all a woman of noble blood. Unencumbered by such considerations, Artair leaned forward and pressed his daughter on the subject, emphasizing each point by thumping a forefinger on the table.

  “His folk have long been friends of ours. I’m too old to go wandering the country. Douglas needs to assume command here. Cathal’s in France, and his ties are there now. Agnes is married wi’ bairns. I’ve already told Sir Madoc how you led our men against the English, if you hadn’t made that clear, so there’s no doubt of your skill. You’re the most suited to do it.”

  “I’m also,” Moiread shot back, “scarcely out of the saddle.” She turned to Madoc, the tips of her hair swinging against her cheek. “How soon would you need to leave?”

  “There’s no definite time to it. It’s best that I move quickly, as I said, so as not to give the English the chance to regroup.”

  Moiread nodded slowly, then held up a hand. “Very well. As a military asset,” she said, stressing each word, “I’ll need at least a night of good rest and three full meals before I’m in any real shape for fighting. Double that if I’m to keep watch for assassins and brigands and Christ knows what else. It’s no gift to send me at half strength.”

  Slowly, with a low noise of consideration, Artair nodded. “That’d have you leaving the morning after next. It sounds within reason to me, if you’re amenable,” he added, suddenly turning to Madoc.

  “Of course.”

  “Why do I think now that I should have started with a week?” Moiread asked her brother.

  “I’m sure I couldn’t say.” Douglas grinned, then winced; Madoc suspected the surreptitious application of either elbow or foot.

  “Now eat,” Artair commanded both his children. He might have included Madoc as well; he had that sort of voice. “We will discuss specifics afterward, in a place better protected from any sort of intrusion.”

  * * *

  That place was a small room high in the western tower, with a small well in one corner, a five-sided table in the middle showing Loch Arach and the lands bordering it, and no chairs at all. Madoc wasn’t surprised. He’d been in the room twice before—most recently to seal his bloodline’s bonds to the MacAlasdairs’, and twenty years before, when he’d played apprentice to Douglas’s master magician and cast the spell that let Cathal MacAlasdair save his lady. Anyone who’d done much magic could sense the layers of spells around the room, and many were protections. It was the natural place for a private conference.

  Moiread took a place by the wall as soon as they entered and leaned her weight against it, careless of what the rough granite would likely do to her clothing.

  “I’ll need my gear cleaned and mended,” she said, eyes half shut and voice slurred, “and we’ll need to find a fresh horse that’ll carry me. Unless—” She opened her eyes and looked at Madoc. “You know what we are. If I flew you there, it’d be a damn sight quicker.”

  “And more obvious,” said Douglas.

  “Nor possible, I fear,” said Madoc. He could have told them about the lines of force and the connection between mortals and the land, but he observed Moiread’s face and merely said, “The journey by land is part of the rite itself. It’s also why I cannot do this with those we know in France or Ireland.”

  Moiread laughed shortly. “Naturally,” she said. “Where will we ride, then?”

  “First to Hallfield, in the southeast, and then along the coast to Lancashire.”

  “England?” Spurred to alertness again, Moiread stared at him. “Hell and damnation, no wonder you want a guard. But you’re never trusting them with anything, are you?”

  Madoc shook his head. “An Englishman’s duty is to his king, and I’d not risk that. In Lancashire lies the entrance to another land, and I wish to have dealings with the folk there. They can add a great deal of magical power to the spell, and their disconnection from this world will help. You understand me?”

  Even with all he knew of magic and the unseen world—or perhaps because of it—he wouldn’t name the Fair Folk if he had a choice in the matter. He caught Moiread’s eyes instead and held them for a minute, marveling at their bright winter-lake color even when they were hazy with sleep. He couldn’t let his thoughts run for long; she comprehended and nodded swiftly.

  “And then,” Madoc went on, “back to Wales, and one of my mother’s uncles. Llanasef Fechan, that’ll be, in the mountains. Up there will be the center of the spell, the anchor of place and country.”

  “You’ll be on familiar ground there,” said Douglas.

  “I think I can picture it, though you’ll need to show me a map when I’ve slept. Will I need to do aught, other than watch your back?”

  “You shouldn’t, no,” said Madoc.

  “Good. Then one other thing.” She straightened up and fixed her gaze on him, suddenly alert and taking in every word, every shift of his expression. “Have you been in any danger yet? I’ll go with you if you say aye or nay—England’s not a place to risk alone—but it’s best to know.”

  Madoc sighed. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Or, I think so. There was a broken saddle band on the way here—or perhaps that was chance—and an arrow when I was riding. It missed, I ran, and it could have been brigands, but…” He splayed his hands.

  “Be suspicious,” said Moiread. “It’s hard to go wrong that way. If that’s all for now,” she added, with a glance at her father that was equal parts sardonic and affectionate, “I’m off to seek my bed. Try not to think of any urgent missions for me in the middle of the night, mmm?”

  She bowed as she left the room. The masculine gesture looked odd coming from her—particularly in her gown—but charming in a way.

  “She’ll give less trouble once you’re on the road,” Douglas advised. “She really is verra skilled.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Madoc, seeing again the way she’d marched down the center of the hall.

  Three

  Madoc didn’t see Moiread again until after noon the next day. The rain having stopped, he and Douglas had found their way outside and over to the practice yard. A short man with gray hair was yelling orders to a motley assortment of young men with spears, while another older collection of men shot at straw targets. He and Douglas found an unobtrusive corner and watched.

  “They’re quite a promising lot, to my way of seeing it,” said Madoc after a few minutes of companionable silence. He recognized one or two of the pikemen as the guards who’d challenged him when he’d ridden up to the gate. They were polite lads, if young.

  “Aye, more promise than fact just now,” said Douglas. “But the mountains are our best defense. It’s rare that an enemy gets this far…one with men and horses, that is.” A memory shadowed his face briefly, one that Madoc didn’t want to ask about. “The real soldiers will have just gotten back, having been out in the field with my sister. Speak of the devil,” he added, and raised a hand in greeting as Moiread wandered up to the yard.

  She wore men’s dress, plain in cut but not in color: emerald-green breeches and a knee-length tunic in a plaid that mingled the same green with dark blue and bright yellow. A belt around her waist held a long dagger, but on her shoulder she carried a sheathed sword nearly as long as she was tall.

  “Slander,” she said amiably. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have raided the kitchens for you.” Reaching into the pouch at her belt, she tossed a withered apple to Douglas, then one to Madoc, and grabbed a third for herself. “Seems we’ll miss the fruit in season this year. We can always raid the English pantries, mayhap.”

  The apple was sweet, though shriveled. Madoc swallowed a few bites. “And I’ve ample funds to pay,” he pointed out. “We’ll stay in as much luxury as we can. I give you my word on it.”

  “Oh, I’ve coin as well. Raiding’s better sport. But I’ll behave,” she said in answer to a glance from Douglas. Then she eyed Madoc and smiled rueful
ly. “And I should ask your pardon for last night, my lord. I’ve spent too much time among men-at-arms, and just then I’d spent too little in bed. Nor had I known anything of these plans.”

  “When could we have told you?” Douglas asked. “The messengers canna’ find you if you don’t stay in one place.”

  “We had been going on the double the last few days. And I know the air-sprites don’t do well in rain.” Having made these concessions, Moiread looked back to Madoc. “So I apologize, then, and I give you my word I’ll try to be more pleasant company.”

  “You’ve no need of my pardon, lady,” said Madoc. She did look better: no shadows under her eyes nor haze in them, more expression in her face, and a neat precision in her motions that had faltered the night before. Despite male attire and what he thought was some skillful binding, she looked female, and he hesitated, doubting—and then doubting how to voice his doubts. “Ah… Had you thought to travel…in this manner?”

  “More or less,” Moiread said, taking his meaning so quickly that Madoc worried she’d caught his glance at her breasts. She frowned, though not at him. “Men don’t take it greatly amiss in the field.”

  “Not when you’re commanding, no, and not our men,” Douglas said.

  Moiread grimaced. “Aye. There were a few who raised a fuss when the fighting was done. Times have changed, and in some ways not for the better.” She made another face, then shrugged away philosophy. “Illusion before we leave, then, if you or Father would be helpful. The question is which way.”

  “Which way?” Madoc asked.

  “Aye. They can enspell me to be more manly to the eye, though I do pass as is half the time.” She laughed at his carefully blank expression. “You knew already. And it’s a bonny bright day here, with me not in a cloak or half covered in mud. But a touch of magic can help. Or I can dress as a fair maiden, wi’ you escorting me to all eyes, and the illusion can cover my sword. Only one, though, aye?”