Read Online The Dragon Bard (Dragon of the Island) by Mary Gillgannon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Gillgannon
Tags: Historical fiction
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enchantments,” she told him curtly. “I seek knowledge and power, not fanciful explanations of the gods’ benevolence.”
“But doesn’t all magic come from the gods? They shape the patterns of our lives. If we wish to change our destiny, we must access their power.”
“I don’t know what you mean. I’ve never considered such things.” As soon as she spoke, Dessia knew a sense of chagrin. Now he would guess how unskilled and ignorant she really was.
He shrugged. “In truth, I haven’t considered these matters much myself. All my knowledge of enchantments and spells comes from my mother, who I haven’t seen in many years. Yet when I speak of these things, it’s almost as if her voice is inside my head, whispering things I thought I’d forgotten.”
There was something wistful in his face as he spoke. She pounced upon it. “Why haven’t you seen your mother for so long?”
The breach in his defenses seemed to open even wider. She observed genuine grief in his expression, a kind of desolation.
“Is she dead?” she pressed.
His smile was quick. “Nay, the Lady Rhiannon is not dead. I’m certain she remains young and beautiful, like her namesake, the goddess of dreams and enchantments.”
“Then why don’t you visit her?”
Bridei’s expression grew bitter. “Because she lives with my father, and I have no desire to see him .”
“Why? Did you quarrel over something?” To her—who would give nearly anything to see her family again—his attitude was baffling.
His blue eyes glittered like cold, hard jewels. “One does not ‘quarrel’ with the Dragon. When the Dragon gives an order, it is obeyed.”
“The Dragon—is that what they call your father?” She remembered what had happened in the hall—how the emblem of a golden dragon had appeared behind Bridei.
He nodded. “The Dragon of the Island, the fiercest warlord in all of Britain.”
“And you are his heir?”
He gave a harsh laugh. “Not likely. I have an older brother who my father dotes on. Rhun can do no wrong, and is brave and noble beyond belief. Of course . . . ” His expression darkened. “. . . he was killed in battle this past sunseason, so I suppose some would think me next in line for the kingship. Not that I would even consider such a thing.” He gave a dramatic shudder. “I have no desire to be a king. It sounds like a very disagreeable life. And my father would never name me as his successor, even if I were the last of his line. He’d rather have his favorite hound rule after him than his cursed, evil-tainted second son.”
“Cursed?”
His countenance grew even grimmer. “It’s a long tale, and one I don’t choose to bore you with.” He gestured impatiently. “Since you refuse to allow yourself to enjoy the beauty of this place, we might as well return to Cahermara.” He executed a low bow. “After you, milady.”
Dessia retrieved her sword and sheathed it, then started toward the thick woods. This man’s moods seemed to change as swiftly as the clouds in the winter sky, making conversing with him was as exhausting as physical combat. He constantly left her feeling off-balance and wary. At any moment she feared to make a fatal misstep and find herself with blade of his wit at her throat.
The sound of his voice from behind her made her jump. “And as we make our way back, will the mist rise again?”
“Nay. The mist doesn’t guard the way back, only the way here.”
He was right behind her. So close he could reach out and touch her. The thought affected her profoundly. She thought of him watching her. His gaze taking in the shape of her body, clearly revealed by her attire. A bolt of anger pierced her. Never before had she concerned herself with how she looked in trews and tunic. It was a functional way to dress, and with most men it made her feel powerful and in control, knowing that if she drew her sword, she was more than a match for them. But with this man, everything was different. He
“But doesn’t all magic come from the gods? They shape the patterns of our lives. If we wish to change our destiny, we must access their power.”
“I don’t know what you mean. I’ve never considered such things.” As soon as she spoke, Dessia knew a sense of chagrin. Now he would guess how unskilled and ignorant she really was.
He shrugged. “In truth, I haven’t considered these matters much myself. All my knowledge of enchantments and spells comes from my mother, who I haven’t seen in many years. Yet when I speak of these things, it’s almost as if her voice is inside my head, whispering things I thought I’d forgotten.”
There was something wistful in his face as he spoke. She pounced upon it. “Why haven’t you seen your mother for so long?”
The breach in his defenses seemed to open even wider. She observed genuine grief in his expression, a kind of desolation.
“Is she dead?” she pressed.
His smile was quick. “Nay, the Lady Rhiannon is not dead. I’m certain she remains young and beautiful, like her namesake, the goddess of dreams and enchantments.”
“Then why don’t you visit her?”
Bridei’s expression grew bitter. “Because she lives with my father, and I have no desire to see him .”
“Why? Did you quarrel over something?” To her—who would give nearly anything to see her family again—his attitude was baffling.
His blue eyes glittered like cold, hard jewels. “One does not ‘quarrel’ with the Dragon. When the Dragon gives an order, it is obeyed.”
“The Dragon—is that what they call your father?” She remembered what had happened in the hall—how the emblem of a golden dragon had appeared behind Bridei.
He nodded. “The Dragon of the Island, the fiercest warlord in all of Britain.”
“And you are his heir?”
He gave a harsh laugh. “Not likely. I have an older brother who my father dotes on. Rhun can do no wrong, and is brave and noble beyond belief. Of course . . . ” His expression darkened. “. . . he was killed in battle this past sunseason, so I suppose some would think me next in line for the kingship. Not that I would even consider such a thing.” He gave a dramatic shudder. “I have no desire to be a king. It sounds like a very disagreeable life. And my father would never name me as his successor, even if I were the last of his line. He’d rather have his favorite hound rule after him than his cursed, evil-tainted second son.”
“Cursed?”
His countenance grew even grimmer. “It’s a long tale, and one I don’t choose to bore you with.” He gestured impatiently. “Since you refuse to allow yourself to enjoy the beauty of this place, we might as well return to Cahermara.” He executed a low bow. “After you, milady.”
Dessia retrieved her sword and sheathed it, then started toward the thick woods. This man’s moods seemed to change as swiftly as the clouds in the winter sky, making conversing with him was as exhausting as physical combat. He constantly left her feeling off-balance and wary. At any moment she feared to make a fatal misstep and find herself with blade of his wit at her throat.
The sound of his voice from behind her made her jump. “And as we make our way back, will the mist rise again?”
“Nay. The mist doesn’t guard the way back, only the way here.”
He was right behind her. So close he could reach out and touch her. The thought affected her profoundly. She thought of him watching her. His gaze taking in the shape of her body, clearly revealed by her attire. A bolt of anger pierced her. Never before had she concerned herself with how she looked in trews and tunic. It was a functional way to dress, and with most men it made her feel powerful and in control, knowing that if she drew her sword, she was more than a match for them. But with this man, everything was different. He
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