The Salamander's Smile (Three Wells of the Sea Book 2)

by Terry Madden

  Lyleth met Dylan on the headland. Since the day Nechtan died, Dylan had spent his life protecting her, and the task had aged him quickly. She depended on both Dylan and Elowen more than she should. They had grown into such strong adults. Lyleth knew he was casting about for Elowen. He still pretended there was nothing between them, but such feelings as they shared were hard to hide.

  “She’s with Angharad.”

  “Stars and stones…” he said. “The king himself’s come, Lyl.”

  “Aye, and as I recall he bore you little friendship.” She gave him a smile, knowing he remembered as well as she the scuffles that had occurred between the two boys when last they met. But neither were boys any longer.

  Three dories were beaching far below. One bore the standard of the clan of Black Brac, a red water horse on white, the sigil Talan had inherited from Nechtan and their forefathers.

  “Return to the hive,” Lyleth told Dylan, “and see that the hall is prepared to receive him.” When Dylan hesitated, she added, “What can he do to me here on sacred ground?”

  “It’s not you I fear for.”

  She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “He has to get past me to find Angharad. Take the archers with you and send Gwion and Breaca back to me.”

  The two druada had studied with Lyleth under Dechtire. Gwion was a fine weapons master, drawing students from as far away as Tartessos. Breaca taught bardic verse. They were the only ones Lyleth had told about Nechtan’s fatal wounding, knowing that if something happened to her, the truth about Talan’s murderous rise to power would still burn brightly.

  Gwion brought Lyleth her staff, a simple twisted branch, cut from the distant forest of the Old Blood. It was supposed to impart some kind of gravity to her position as the head of the hive. She found it ridiculous.

  “Perhaps he simply seeks shelter,” Gwion said.

  “That I doubt.”

  The required cups of water and mead were prepared just as the first warriors crested the headland. Talan followed, his personal guard forming a phalanx through which he strode. He was pale, his broad cheekbones sunken and his blue eyes bloodshot, his brows lowered as if the sun hurt them.

  Behind Talan came Pyrs, chieftain of Arvon, laughing in response to an unheard jest of Talan’s. A stab of betrayal slipped between Lyleth’s ribs. Pyrs had been Nechtan’s closest ally, and now he raided the ice-born without provocation, taking their children as slaves. This was not the man she once knew.

  “My lord king,” Lyleth said. She opened her palms in respect and watched the sea pinks dance at Talan’s feet. “Your visit honors our simple hive.”

  The water horse tattoo on her left wrist was uncovered, and when she looked up, she saw his eyes flit to it.

  “I know better,” he said, slightly winded from the climb. He grinned. “There’s nothing simple about the skills of the druada trained here.”

  Pyrs took Lyleth in the embrace of an old friend, and she willed herself not to stiffen, but by the look in his eyes, she failed. Perhaps it was time Pyrs knew whom he served.

  Talan had become a man since she’d last seen him. He still wore Nechtan’s circlet of Finian silver, but his features had lost their childish fullness, his nose and cheekbones sharp and hawkish. He looked more like Nechtan than Angharad did, certainly. It was a startling resemblance, the lines of his face, the way his arms fell from his shoulders. His eyes were his mother’s, though, blue as a wild bird egg, alight with the same spark of impulsiveness. He was strangely pale for having come from battle, and he repeatedly cast glances over his shoulder as if someone whispered to him. Beneath the smell of the sea and unwashed warrior, Lyleth detected the faint odor of rot about him.

  “Do you come from an early raid on Sandkaldr?” she asked.

  His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Ah, your senses are finely tuned, sister. Pyrs joined me on a short foray into ice-born lands. Even Nechtan believed that it was battle alone that keeps a king’s sword sharp.”

  Talan motioned for one of his men to bring forth a chest. He opened it, revealing ingots of silver and a crude statue of the one-eyed all-father of the ice-born. “A gift for the hive,” he said.

  Lyleth just said, “Come, rest yourselves.”

  She turned to lead them back to the hive, but Talan took her arm and grasped her hands. His were cold and damp from the exertion of climbing the cliff, and his skin was neither soft nor calloused, but somewhat like the skin of a shark, or the crust of decomposing stone.

  She tried to quiet the images that flooded her—his solás Maygan falling at his feet, her head bloodied, Talan’s palm gripping the shaft of a spear and taking aim as Nechtan turned. Lyleth tried to pull her hands away, but he held them firmly, forcing her to see into his memories as clearly as if she’d been there. What she saw was the look on Nechtan’s face as he turned from the body of a dead ice-born warrior to look at Talan. Nechtan had known what Talan intended before he’d cocked the spear back. He had accepted it. For in death he could let the reins of this headstrong horse, this land that owned him, fall from his hands to Talan’s.

  Lyleth knew he had killed Nechtan, but Maygan? His own solás? She glanced again at the statue of the one-eyed god and found Talan’s wild squint turned on her. He knew she could see it all with a touch. He was showing her. But why?

  “You are… unwell, my lord.”

  His face contorted and he began to sweat. His mouth worked around as if he chewed tough meat, then he finally said, “And she could do nothing to heal me.”

  But there was something else, a shadow that peered at her from behind Talan’s soul.

  Pyrs was beside them and placed a hand on both their shoulders. “Come,” he said, “Lyleth’s cooks serve a fine salmon. You must be as starved as I am, my lord.”

  Lyleth slipped her hand from Talan’s, who squinted at her with a half-smile playing at his lips. He swabbed at the sweat that gathered on his brow.

  “Too much time has slipped from us, solás of my dearest uncle,” he said. “Shameful, I would say.”

  Breaca offered the cup of water and Gwion followed with the cup of mead. Talan drank of each, and Lyleth did the same, toasting long life to one another, and pouring the last of it on the turf as an offering to the green gods.

  “May the gods share our friendship and good will,” Lyleth muttered the prescribed blessing. “Come.”

  She took Talan’s proffered arm, and they started up the path to the gate of the hive, his guards falling in behind them. “You must be weary.”

  She would play the game; say what was anticipated, for Pyrs would surely wonder. She asked, “Does your solás remain on the ship?”

  “No,” Talan said. “The green gods, fickle as you well know, for you have suffered at their hands, Lyleth…” As he rambled, he repeatedly glanced over his shoulder as if someone fed him the words and he merely spoke them. “The green gods, blind and deaf to my supplications, saw fit to take her from me in Sandkaldr. And so you know the reason for my visit, it’s not purely out of affection.”

  Certainly not. She caught him measuring her response and made certain not to give him any.

  **

  The Isle of Glass was the safe haven Lyleth had needed to birth her child in peace and live free of the questioning eye of the world. Yet there was a restlessness in her, a feeling that she had neglected an important part of her destiny as she worked at the simple act of teaching others to trust in gods she had long since spurned. They must see the falseness in her. Breaca and Gwion surely saw it. She had no business leading the hive, no business pretending at being the chosen of the green gods. She’d been collecting their scorn these six years, and now Talan had come to deliver the blow. She just didn’t know what it might be.

  The cooks had scurried into action and soon baked salmon and fresh bilberry bread came to table. Ewers of mead replaced the usual ale, yet the druada and their students weren’t their usual boisterous selves.

  The hall was a simple structure, a long stone building wit
h a sod roof upon which the druada grew their culinary and medicinal herbs. Half the hall was below ground, and the narrow windows near the rafters looked out at the grass and flowers that hung from the roof. A hearth ran the length of the chamber, cold now that summer had come, and trestle tables lined either side.

  Lyleth motioned for one of the young initiates to come to her.

  “Sing for us, Ysbal.”

  The girl turned pale. “What shall I sing?”

  “The Summer Bird.” Lyleth offered.

  The girl showed her palms and took the bard’s position and began singing.

  “The voice of a god, for gods are what you farm here on this island,” Talan whispered to Lyleth. “Godlings all, ready to step into the world and bring order from chaos, light from darkness, justice from the arms of despair. I’m certain my little cousin sings with such a voice.”

  “Your cousin?”

  “Your daughter.” That half-smile again. “My uncle left his mark, I understand. The get of a resurrected king… what manner of child she must be? One far beyond the feeble workings of gods, aye, something much more powerful.” He raised his cup of mead, the wildness in his eyes never leaving hers. “Where is the sweet child?”

  “I’ve sent her to Drustan’s hive in Cedewain—”

  “You lie poorly, Lyleth. This island is not so large. What I fail to understand is why you think I would do her harm. She’s my kin, after all.”

  Pyrs, sitting to her right, let his hand fall idly over hers. He squeezed slightly. What was he saying? Her mind was too rattled to feel his thoughts.

  Talan said, “Shall I send my men to play hide-and-seek with her?”

  Her breath caught. How did he know where she Angharad was?

  Lyleth cast about the long tables. Ysbal stopped singing, Gwion had stood and now moved toward the door, his hand on the hilt of a sword that never left his side. The others fell silent. Talan had read Lyleth as surely as she had read him that moment by the cove. Was he a greenwood babe? Or something else entirely?

  If Talan’s men went after Angharad, Dylan would put an arrow through as many as possible before letting them take her.

  Lyleth finally said, “I shall send Breaca after her, my lord.”

  **

  Angharad stood before the table with her hands knotted before her, her cheeks red from the hasty return. She had retrieved the basket of mushrooms Lyleth had dropped and held them out to her. “For supper, Mama.”

  Talan was on his feet, pacing around Angharad, a hand on her cheek as if he judged a prized lamb.

  Lyleth wanted to sweep Angharad into her arms and flee, take ship and sail for Cadurques, lose themselves in the cities of the south. But it was too late for that. She should have left this place years earlier.

  The child stood straight as if she prepared a recitation.

  He mused, “She hasn’t the look of my uncle, does she?”

  “Fiach’s looks—”

  “Oh, no, no, let’s not use that story, Lyleth. I can’t imagine that while he had you bound to Nechtan’s rotting flesh, he took pleasure with you. Fiach is known for savoring his women, but that’s beyond my imagining. Far, far beyond.”

  Angharad’s green eyes met Lyleth’s, her face a worried pout.

  The druada were quietly ushering their students from the hall, casting worried glances over their shoulders as they left.

  Talan knelt beside Angharad. “You’d like to serve the king, would you not, little cousin?”

  Lyleth knew that Talan could have had Angharad killed quietly. But she also knew he had fathered children of his own on two brides in six years, the first having died in childbirth. His children, however, were not sired by a king who had died and lived again, nor were they born of the union between a king and his solás.

  It was Angharad who circled Talan now as he knelt there on the flagstones. “If you know the names of the seven sisters, I shall serve you.”

  “Angharad.” Lyleth’s voice was ragged and sharp. “This is not a game, child.”

  “Let the girl speak,” Talan said. “We all like games.” He looked back at Angharad and began reciting. “Afanen, Alon, Aislin, Aifric, Anwen, Andraste and little Ceinwen, fathered as she was by another star.” He smiled, and Angharad returned it.

  Talan stood. “I shall take Angharad as my solás.”

  So that was what he’d come for. Not to kill her, but to bind her to him. Lyleth was on her knees, her arms around her daughter. “But she is not of age—”

  “There is no proper age for one such as she.” Talan placed a cold palm on Lyleth’s cheek. “I’ll care for her as my own, for she is my kin.”

  “My lord, her training has but begun. Think of the druí she will become.”

  “She far outshines any druí living right now. And what she becomes will be shaped by her lord king and loving cousin.”

  Angharad cupped her hand to whisper in Lyleth’s ear, her words coming warm and moist. “I shall go with him. The gods wish it.”

  Lyleth looked up to meet the void behind Talan’s eyes. Who was this man? Where had he learned his cunning? Certainly not from the green gods.

  “The gods will it,” he echoed.

  Whose gods?

  **

  “Talan would never harm Nechtan’s child,” Pyrs whispered to Lyleth. She had found him asleep in the corner of the hall, his men snoring beside him as tightly packed as sausages. He had followed her into a night blistered with stars.

  “She is a threat to him,” Lyleth said. “Pyrs, Nechtan did not die at the hands of an ice-born raider. It was Talan’s spear.”

  “Talan?”

  Even in the dim glow of a distant torch, she could see Pyrs’ disbelief.

  She turned to go, saying, “Go back to sleep, coward. Nechtan had no friend but me.”

  He caught her arm. “Talan has brought untold wealth to the Five Quarters, Lyleth. Our shores are unassailable. We know a true and prosperous peace for the first time in centuries. And you would weep for the ice-born who raped our women and stole our children?”

  “I weep for no one. Tell me, Pyrs… how did Maygan die? Was it in battle as Talan claims?”

  He turned away from her, hands on his hips and staring into darkness.

  “You won’t answer because you know he killed her,” she said. “He let me see it all when he held my hands. He doesn’t care that I know, in fact, he uses it as a threat. He’ll do the same to Angharad if she’s not to his liking. And yet, you serve this man. I hope your wealth is worth it.”

  She left Pyrs standing in the dark, but once she reached her own quarters, she stood in the doorway and listened to the rhythmic breathing of her sleeping child. Then she climbed into the bed and held her close.

  Angharad turned and roused, whispering, “Where were you, mama?”

  “Looking at the stars. Go back to sleep.”

  **

  In the cove, the sea mist warmed with morning. Lyleth watched it swallow Talan’s ships and leave nothing behind but their wakes. Dylan and Elowen had been permitted to go with them, to act as servants to the child. At least Angharad would have someone she knew watching out for her.

  As Breaca’s arm closed around hers to lead her up the path, Lyleth looked down at the scuffled black sand where the dories had launched. There at her feet was a child’s scribble. Angharad had scratched into the sand a caricature of the water horse. It had a smile on its face

  Chapter 3

  Dish rang Bronwyn and told her that he would be late, he and Connor had some catching up to do. Waiting in the car while Connor moved some things in Merryn’s cottage so the wheelchair could move easily, he wiped at the fog inside the car window but could see only the yellow glow of the porch lamp. The darkness was complete, and the rain now fell in earnest. Dish couldn’t understand how Connor’s lengthy visit at Merryn’s place had escaped Bronwyn. Surely Mr. Peavey, the old gaffer who managed Merryn’s sheep, would bring it to her attention. There were bills to pay and mail to
fetch. Who was seeing to it all? Connor?

  Dish would move into Merryn’s cottage tomorrow and tell Bronwyn that Connor had agreed to stay on and help him out with Merryn’s care. He had failed to tell Connor about the plan as yet. Dish had taken paperwork to fill out, requesting Merryn’s release to home care and hospice. The sooner the better.

  A good ten minutes had passed before Connor fetched him. The car door sounded like it would fall off the hinges and the seat of his wheelchair was soaking from the ride in the bed of the lorry. Connor had to bump the wheelchair up the three steps to the front door. The small drawing room of Merryn’s cottage was the only room big enough for a hospital bed and all the equipment.

  “Tomorrow we’ll move the sofa and the cabinet.” Dish pointed at the furniture. “The sooner we have her home, the better.”

  “It shouldn’t be too hard,” Connor said, parking Dish in the middle of the room. “I can store some of her things in the shed.”

  Connor gathered up a sketch pad from the tea cart and tucked it under his arm. It wasn’t so much the action as his body language. He was definitely hiding something.

  “Light up the heater, if you please, Connor.” In his wet clothes, Dish was cold to the bone.

  Connor flicked the switch, and the fake coals in the fake hearth glowed and danced with simulated fire. But heat came out, and Dish warmed his hands.

  “You’ve been here longer than a few days, haven’t you?”

  Connor was stuffing the sketchpad into a backpack in the corner. “Yes.” That was it. Just, yes.

  “Right. Well, I know Merryn keeps a supply of whisky hidden in the cupboard beside the stove. How about you fetch us some?”

  No discussion, Connor just set to the task in the kitchen. Dish could hear him fishing for ice in the freezer, so he rolled over to the backpack, pulled at the zipper and took a peek inside. One sketchpad with pages warped from exposure to water and a Tupperware cube filled with round brown clods of some kind, all of different size. He zipped it closed and turned his chair as Connor arrived with two mismatched glasses of whisky, at least two fingers and then some.