Read Online Chalice 2 - Dream Stone by Tara Janzen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tara Janzen
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hours
earlier, yet Mychael had stayed out, letting the night come to him
in the forest. He’d been restless since the morn and would have
slept in the woods as well, wolves or nay, if not for the necessity
of preparing for the coming journey into the caverns. Aye, that and
mayhaps one other thing had brought him back inside the wall, a
teller of tales with forest green eyes and shimmering curves.
Passing through the gate, he greeted the
guard in the elfin tongue and resheathed his blade. Lanterns
flickered throughout the upper bailey, casting amber light and
shadows on the trees and the willow huts built by the Quicken-tree,
the only structures left inside the wall. A few women were gathered
about the hearthfire, serving the evening pottage, a not unpleasant
stew of grains and berries. He and Owain had roasted squirrels over
a campfire in the woods for their supper. ’Twas an act of barbarism
to the Quicken-tree, but one he and the Welshman indulged in
regularly.
Owain had served Morgan ab Kynan, a Welsh
prince, and had been the captain of Morgan’s warband during the
battle of Balor. When the Boar of Balor had vanquished the prince
into the abyss of the great wormhole, a saddened Owain had pledged
his sword to Merioneth. A telling choice, for he’d picked no man—or
Quicken-tree—to follow, but the land. ’Twas what Mychael had
pledged himself to as well, including the land below Merioneth,
where he knew his destiny lay.
Of the women at the hearthfire, ’twas Moira
stirring the cooking cauldron. She mended his clothes when they
needed it, and was the one he and most of the Quicken-tree went to
when they were ailing. Her brown hair was plaited in a crown around
her head, framing a face of gentle curves and rosy cheeks, but in
her own quiet way, Moira wielded nearly as much power as Rhuddlan.
Elen, next to her, was younger with darker hair, and was growing
heavy with a child conceived during the Quicken-tree’s Beltaine
celebration. Three little girls sat by the fire, giggling over a
game played with seashells and sticks, and Fand, a Liosalfar of the
Ebiurrane clan from the north, lean and blond like the elder
warrior she was, stood talking with Moira and Elen. The one he
sought was not near, though he looked all around.
On his way to the lower bailey, he passed
more Quicken-tree and Ebiurrane, some in groups, some not. He
greeted a few, mainly the Liosalfar at the portcullis, and avoided
others, keeping to the shadows. Still he did not let any go
unnoticed, and the maid was not to be found. Nor was Shay.
Well, there was his answer then, and he
supposed they made a fine enough pair, though he doubted if Shay
had much more experience with women than he did himself. Still, if
that morn’s adventure was anything to judge by, Shay was eager to
learn, and the boy was a quick study. ’Twas no concern of his
either way, he told himself, but Shay was to the deep dark on the
morrow as well, and Mychael would as soon not have the boy mooning
overmuch while they were below.
He passed through an open gate in the inner
curtain between the baileys, heading toward the southwall on the
other side of the great apple orchard. He kept a room in the tower
on one of the lower floors. In spring, he’d awakened one morning to
a shower of fragrant petals falling outside his window and known
he’d truly come home. The orchard was as old as the demesne and
made up of trees as mighty as any oak grove.
A stone chapel nestled against the seaside
wall of the lower bailey, between the orchard and the fields of
grass planted by the Quicken-tree, but Mychael had not had the
courage to enter it. ’Twas a pagan life he led now, searching for
his mother’s gods among the wreckage of the ancient glory of
Merioneth, and ’twas to this end that he devoted himself. Falling
back upon the God he’d forsaken could do him no good.
Upon reaching the tower, he slipped inside
and took to the stairs. ’Twas a matter of course that a man’s
weapons
earlier, yet Mychael had stayed out, letting the night come to him
in the forest. He’d been restless since the morn and would have
slept in the woods as well, wolves or nay, if not for the necessity
of preparing for the coming journey into the caverns. Aye, that and
mayhaps one other thing had brought him back inside the wall, a
teller of tales with forest green eyes and shimmering curves.
Passing through the gate, he greeted the
guard in the elfin tongue and resheathed his blade. Lanterns
flickered throughout the upper bailey, casting amber light and
shadows on the trees and the willow huts built by the Quicken-tree,
the only structures left inside the wall. A few women were gathered
about the hearthfire, serving the evening pottage, a not unpleasant
stew of grains and berries. He and Owain had roasted squirrels over
a campfire in the woods for their supper. ’Twas an act of barbarism
to the Quicken-tree, but one he and the Welshman indulged in
regularly.
Owain had served Morgan ab Kynan, a Welsh
prince, and had been the captain of Morgan’s warband during the
battle of Balor. When the Boar of Balor had vanquished the prince
into the abyss of the great wormhole, a saddened Owain had pledged
his sword to Merioneth. A telling choice, for he’d picked no man—or
Quicken-tree—to follow, but the land. ’Twas what Mychael had
pledged himself to as well, including the land below Merioneth,
where he knew his destiny lay.
Of the women at the hearthfire, ’twas Moira
stirring the cooking cauldron. She mended his clothes when they
needed it, and was the one he and most of the Quicken-tree went to
when they were ailing. Her brown hair was plaited in a crown around
her head, framing a face of gentle curves and rosy cheeks, but in
her own quiet way, Moira wielded nearly as much power as Rhuddlan.
Elen, next to her, was younger with darker hair, and was growing
heavy with a child conceived during the Quicken-tree’s Beltaine
celebration. Three little girls sat by the fire, giggling over a
game played with seashells and sticks, and Fand, a Liosalfar of the
Ebiurrane clan from the north, lean and blond like the elder
warrior she was, stood talking with Moira and Elen. The one he
sought was not near, though he looked all around.
On his way to the lower bailey, he passed
more Quicken-tree and Ebiurrane, some in groups, some not. He
greeted a few, mainly the Liosalfar at the portcullis, and avoided
others, keeping to the shadows. Still he did not let any go
unnoticed, and the maid was not to be found. Nor was Shay.
Well, there was his answer then, and he
supposed they made a fine enough pair, though he doubted if Shay
had much more experience with women than he did himself. Still, if
that morn’s adventure was anything to judge by, Shay was eager to
learn, and the boy was a quick study. ’Twas no concern of his
either way, he told himself, but Shay was to the deep dark on the
morrow as well, and Mychael would as soon not have the boy mooning
overmuch while they were below.
He passed through an open gate in the inner
curtain between the baileys, heading toward the southwall on the
other side of the great apple orchard. He kept a room in the tower
on one of the lower floors. In spring, he’d awakened one morning to
a shower of fragrant petals falling outside his window and known
he’d truly come home. The orchard was as old as the demesne and
made up of trees as mighty as any oak grove.
A stone chapel nestled against the seaside
wall of the lower bailey, between the orchard and the fields of
grass planted by the Quicken-tree, but Mychael had not had the
courage to enter it. ’Twas a pagan life he led now, searching for
his mother’s gods among the wreckage of the ancient glory of
Merioneth, and ’twas to this end that he devoted himself. Falling
back upon the God he’d forsaken could do him no good.
Upon reaching the tower, he slipped inside
and took to the stairs. ’Twas a matter of course that a man’s
weapons
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