Read Online Chalice 2 - Dream Stone by Tara Janzen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tara Janzen
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were sharpened before going into the caverns. Mychael would
gather up his iron dagger and his leaf-bladed short sword and go
work with the others bound for the journey ahead.
~ ~ ~
Llynya held her breath as she stretched out
over the battlements, craning her neck to keep Mychael ab Arawn in
view until he stepped inside the tower at the far end of the
orchard. Even with moonlight and lanterns to see him by, and with
her vantage point on top of the inner wall-walk, he’d been
difficult to track across the wards. He moved like a flicker of
shadow and light through the darkness, providing only an elusive
silhouette. She’d lost him a time or two when he’d seemed to
disappear into thin air, but now she knew exactly where he was.
She released her breath and dropped back down
onto her feet. Aye, she knew exactly where he was. She’d waited for
his return the whole afternoon long, but again had missed her
chance to speak to him by hesitating.
Or had she? No other had approached the
southwall tower. He was alone.
The truth of that gave her pause. ’Twould be
a simple thing to present herself at the door to his chamber, and
she would have the privacy she needed for all she would say.
Rhuddlan would banish her farther north to the Ebiurrane or south
again to Deri if he divined even a hint of what she was about. To
breach a wormhole was dangerous beyond reckoning and forbidden to
all. To breach the time weir itself was tantamount to death.
Tantamount—but not death itself, and therein
lay the nature of its terror. To pass through the Weir Gate and
find no purchase on the other side was to spend eternity falling
through the ages. If Morgan had survived the cutting blow that had
sent him over the edge, she feared such had been his fate.
A chill rippled through her at the thought.
She’d seen the flash of the Boar of Balor’s blade and watched in
horror as it had sunk into the Thief. She’d seen the blood fill
Morgan’s mouth—too much blood—and she’d been too late, too late to
save him.
Sticks! She caught her lower lip with
her teeth. Her hand came up to rub at a spot above her left breast.
Damnable ache. Her place had been at his side. She’d been sworn to
such not just once, but twice by Rhuddlan. Yet during battle she’d
thought only of Ceridwen’s safety, and for that mistake, Morgan had
paid.
And so did she still pay.
She looked to the tower beyond the orchard,
its walled rampart silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Mychael ab
Arawn had walked the tenuous line between the tantamount and death.
If she would do the same, she must deal with him. She’d known that
from the beginning.
So what had stayed her? she wondered. She had
no fear of men, but then neither had she ever had need of one—until
him. Edmee, Madron’s daughter, was not so wary of Mychael, but she
was the granddaughter of Nemeton himself and like Mychael had her
own share of Druid blood running in her veins. Edmee had confided
earlier that day that Mychael tended to keep to himself, being even
more of an outcast than others would make him. Yet Llynya had
spoken with some at Carn Merioneth who were not at all comfortable
with a man who had spent so much time alone in the deep dark; and
others whose discomfort edged toward open hostility, like Bedwyr,
blade-master of the Liosalfar. No Quicken-tree could have survived
the isolation endured by Mychael, not for the months he’d spent in
the caverns, but—Bedwyr had been quick to say—it had not been so
long since the Dockalfar, the Dark-elves, had lived in the deep
dark, and wasn’t there trouble in Riverwood?
The blade-master’s accusations had fallen
just short of naming Mychael ab Arawn consort of the ancient enemy.
More foolishness, she’d told herself, yet twice her own instincts
had warned her off her chosen course.
The Liosalfar tolerated him, for he was
skilled with a bow and proving out with a blade, according to Wei,
Trig’s second in command. He had even mastered the art of
gather up his iron dagger and his leaf-bladed short sword and go
work with the others bound for the journey ahead.
~ ~ ~
Llynya held her breath as she stretched out
over the battlements, craning her neck to keep Mychael ab Arawn in
view until he stepped inside the tower at the far end of the
orchard. Even with moonlight and lanterns to see him by, and with
her vantage point on top of the inner wall-walk, he’d been
difficult to track across the wards. He moved like a flicker of
shadow and light through the darkness, providing only an elusive
silhouette. She’d lost him a time or two when he’d seemed to
disappear into thin air, but now she knew exactly where he was.
She released her breath and dropped back down
onto her feet. Aye, she knew exactly where he was. She’d waited for
his return the whole afternoon long, but again had missed her
chance to speak to him by hesitating.
Or had she? No other had approached the
southwall tower. He was alone.
The truth of that gave her pause. ’Twould be
a simple thing to present herself at the door to his chamber, and
she would have the privacy she needed for all she would say.
Rhuddlan would banish her farther north to the Ebiurrane or south
again to Deri if he divined even a hint of what she was about. To
breach a wormhole was dangerous beyond reckoning and forbidden to
all. To breach the time weir itself was tantamount to death.
Tantamount—but not death itself, and therein
lay the nature of its terror. To pass through the Weir Gate and
find no purchase on the other side was to spend eternity falling
through the ages. If Morgan had survived the cutting blow that had
sent him over the edge, she feared such had been his fate.
A chill rippled through her at the thought.
She’d seen the flash of the Boar of Balor’s blade and watched in
horror as it had sunk into the Thief. She’d seen the blood fill
Morgan’s mouth—too much blood—and she’d been too late, too late to
save him.
Sticks! She caught her lower lip with
her teeth. Her hand came up to rub at a spot above her left breast.
Damnable ache. Her place had been at his side. She’d been sworn to
such not just once, but twice by Rhuddlan. Yet during battle she’d
thought only of Ceridwen’s safety, and for that mistake, Morgan had
paid.
And so did she still pay.
She looked to the tower beyond the orchard,
its walled rampart silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Mychael ab
Arawn had walked the tenuous line between the tantamount and death.
If she would do the same, she must deal with him. She’d known that
from the beginning.
So what had stayed her? she wondered. She had
no fear of men, but then neither had she ever had need of one—until
him. Edmee, Madron’s daughter, was not so wary of Mychael, but she
was the granddaughter of Nemeton himself and like Mychael had her
own share of Druid blood running in her veins. Edmee had confided
earlier that day that Mychael tended to keep to himself, being even
more of an outcast than others would make him. Yet Llynya had
spoken with some at Carn Merioneth who were not at all comfortable
with a man who had spent so much time alone in the deep dark; and
others whose discomfort edged toward open hostility, like Bedwyr,
blade-master of the Liosalfar. No Quicken-tree could have survived
the isolation endured by Mychael, not for the months he’d spent in
the caverns, but—Bedwyr had been quick to say—it had not been so
long since the Dockalfar, the Dark-elves, had lived in the deep
dark, and wasn’t there trouble in Riverwood?
The blade-master’s accusations had fallen
just short of naming Mychael ab Arawn consort of the ancient enemy.
More foolishness, she’d told herself, yet twice her own instincts
had warned her off her chosen course.
The Liosalfar tolerated him, for he was
skilled with a bow and proving out with a blade, according to Wei,
Trig’s second in command. He had even mastered the art of
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