The Dragon Bard (Dragon of the Island) Read online

  His curiosity grew until he couldn’t help questioning his closemouthed captors once again. “What tribe are you from?” he asked. “What’s the name of your chieftain? At least tell me the name of the man who will decide my fate.” When they still didn’t answer, Bridei made his voice pleading. “Think how you would feel if you were cast ashore in a strange land and had no idea what was to become of you.”

  At last, the auburn-haired man stopped and fixed him with a stony gaze. “Our leader isn’t a man, but a woman, Queen Dessia.”

  Bridei was startled. No women wielded such power in Britain, although he’d heard things were different before the Romans came. His next reaction was delight. His mind began to whirl with plans of how he would beguile this Queen Dessia. He’d compose a tale extolling her greatness, her kindness and beauty. Then he would ask her to put him on a boat back to Britain, his passage to be paid when he arrived.

  Perhaps fortune had smiled upon him when the slavers’ boat was carried off course and landed in this place. He thought again of the storm. Had he caused it? And if he had, did that mean the gods had planned for him to come aground on Eire in the kingdom of Queen Dessia?

  A tingle of foreboding moved down his spine. Dolgar had sold him to the slavers so they could murder him, and they would have done so if he hadn’t cursed them using the most potent forces he could conjure. Bridei recalled the moment he spoke the names of the gods, the strange sensation he’d experienced, as if some energy moved through him. Was that the power of the deities? It was rather unsettling to think about. Better to attribute his rescue to simple good luck.

  For that matter, he still didn’t know that everything was going to work out to his satisfaction. Queen Dessia might ignore his protests and make him a slave. The feel of the chains on his wrists and ankles reminded Bridei of how trapped and helpless he was. What if Queen Dessia refused to listen to him?

  He tried again to question his captors. “What sort of woman is Queen Dessia? Her lands appear very fertile and rich. How does she keep them safe?”

  The auburn-haired man stared at him. Then a faint smile formed on his lips beneath the heavy mustache. “The queen is a sorceress. She uses magic to fend off her enemies.”

  Bridei suppressed a laugh. Perhaps this Queen Dessia possessed some wit and cleverness after all. He wondered how she maintained the ruse, what tricks she used to convince her subjects—and her enemies—of her power. “What sort of magic?” he asked. “Have either of you ever seen her work a spell?”

  “Nay,” the younger warrior answered. “She does her conjuring in secret.”

  “Then how do you know her powers are real?”

  The young warrior spoke patiently, as if explaining something to a child. “Of course her powers are real. Otherwise, Cahermara would have been overrun by our enemies long ago.”

  He had a point, Bridei thought as he glanced around at the peaceful landscape of farmsteads, pastures and harvested fields.

  A few moments later, Bridei spied the tower the man had mentioned. In the center of the circular fortress, a large stone column rose several dozen cubits above the rest of stronghold. Bridei had seen similar high, round structures in the lands north of the Brigantes, although none of them had been surrounded by fortifications. He saw a small, narrow window in the highest part of the tower. From that vantage point Queen Dessia would be able to survey her kingdom and keep watch for any enemy attack. But these men hadn’t spoken of her keeping watch in the tower, but working magic. Was she truly a sorceress?

  Bridei considered the witchwomen he knew: His mother, although that was more rumor than truth. Morguese, his cousin and Arthur’s half-sister. He could almost believe Morguese was able to see the future and perhaps even do a few things to influence it. But she obviously hadn’t possessed the ability to work a spell of protection. Her son, Mordred, had died at the battle of Camboglanna, despite all her efforts to keep him safe.

  Thinking of magic, Bridei was again reminded of the storm. He still experienced a sense of awe when he recalled what had happened. Was it possible he had powers he’d never guessed at? What if the tales of his mother’s sorcery were more than tales? What if she possessed magical abilities and had passed them on to him?

  The thought intrigued him, but he remained wary. All his instincts told him sorcery was dangerous, especially when used by someone completely untrained, as he was. When he returned to Gwynedd, he would have to visit his mother and ask about these things. By the gods, he missed her. It had been near ten years since he’d looked upon her face.

  He pushed the thought from his mind and focused on his surroundings. The overgrown earthworks of the fortress had obviously been constructed some seasons ago, but a section of the stone wall remained unfinished. This was a relatively new dun, which made the story of Queen Dessia’s “spell of protection” even more interesting.

  Bridei glanced up at the tower. Was she watching from that hawk-like vantage point even now? Did she already know of his arrival? Thinking of his disheveled condition, he turned to his captors. “I would like to wash before I meet your queen, as a courtesy to her.”

  The auburn-haired man grunted his assent.

  Chapter 2

  They had a visitor. Dessia stared out the window of the tower facing into the hillfort. Keenan had come up a short while ago and made the announcement. The man wore iron shackles, Keenan said, but he didn’t look like most of the miserable wretches brought ashore by the slavers. This man held his head high, and was even now washing at the cistern.

  She could see the captive now. He’d stripped off his tunic and was dousing his head and upper body with water. He had a long, lean torso, with broad shoulders and well-defined muscles. His shoulder-length hair was as black as raven feathers. Gazing at him, a strange sense came over Dessia. She felt like she knew this man, yet she couldn’t imagine where they might have met. Perhaps it had been when she was a child, when her parents were alive and the old Cahermara a bustling fortress. But nay, this man was young. If she were a child, then he would also have been a child.

  Dessia chewed her lower lip, wondering why the look of him aroused such a strong feeling of familiarity. He was a foreigner, certainly. The leather trews he wore, the blue tunic he was now rinsing out in the cistern—neither garment looked like something belonging to a man of her people. And Keenan had mentioned the visitor had been brought in wearing heavy shackles. Clearly, his captors had considered him dangerous. Perhaps he was. Observing his graceful movements, she sensed he would wield a sword with strength and quickness.

  The thought made Dessia uneasy and she moved away from the window. Perhaps she’d made a mistake when she told Keenan to have Scanlan and Flann remove the man’s fetters. But she hated the slavers and was eager to be rid of any sign of them. They raided the coasts of foreign lands, stealing their victims away from their homes and forcing them into cruel servitude. Usually their captives were women and children, helpless to defend themselves.

  She moved back to the window. How had this strong, apparently healthy young man been taken by the slavers? She saw no marks of violence upon him. He was still leaning over the cistern, rinsing out his tunic, and she could see that the skin of his back was smooth and unblemished, with fine, sleek muscles beneath.

  Once again, she forced herself away from the window. Her wits must be addled. It was absurd for her to regard this man with such keen interest. She would listen to his tale and send him on his way.

  A moment later, she was back at the window. Keenan had said something about the visitor claiming to be the son of a British king. She could imagine that possibility. Although the man wore no torc or other ornaments, the slavers would have stolen such things. His tunic was richly colored and no crude warrior or farmer would make such an effort to clean himself. But if he was a prince, how in the world had he ended up in the hands of the slavers?

  Dessia chewed her lower lip. What a puzzle this man was. The sense she’d seen him before gnawed at her. Whenever she l
ooked at him, her body seemed to tingle with warning. She’d felt this way only one time previously—the day her mother and father were killed and Cahermara burned to the ground. All these years later, she was convinced it could only be magic that allowed her to survive. There must some sort of force guiding her life. She could feel it. Yet, so far, she’d never been able to control the mystical power that seemed to surround her.

  Not that she hadn’t tried. She glanced at her scrying bowl, resting on a table littered with copper bowls, manuscripts, stone jars and dried herbs. How often had she stared at the gleaming surface of the oil in the scrying bowl, seeking a vision? How often had she perused the ancient manuscripts, seeking out the ingredients and procedures necessary to work a spell of protection? She’d encountered hints and tidbits of information, but nothing she could really use. As for the scrying bowl, it remained empty and dark. The few times she’d thought she’d caught glimpse of something, it had turned out to be her own wretched face staring back at her. She was a fraud. No charm or spell she evoked had ever done anything. Yet she kept trying. The power she sought seemed so tantalizing near. If only she could find a way to access it. Find the right words to chant, the proper combination of ingredients.

  Fortunately, no one guessed at her failure. The tale that she was capable of great sorcery had worked wonderfully to keep her enemies at bay. If not for her reputation, Tiernan O’Bannon would have long ago stormed Cahermara, taken her captive and forced her into marriage so he could claim her lands for his own. Her skin crawled at the thought of her greedy neighbor and her heart felt like a stone dropped into an icy mountain pool when she considered losing her lands, all that remained of the heritage of the once proud Fionnlairaos.

  She clenched her hands in anguish at the thought, then deliberately relaxed them. Worrying over these things wouldn’t help her. She had to be patient, to keep trying to unlock the secrets of the unseen forces around her. In the meantime, she used more traditional means to guard her lands. Her men constantly patrolled the area around Cahermara, and eventually stout stone walls would encircle all of the rath, creating a formidable barrier.

  If only the walls were finished. Their construction seemed to progress with painful slowness. She needed more men to do the work, but she couldn’t spare any warriors for the task, and the youth of her people were needed for farming, herding and fishing to ensure they had enough food to eat. But it was so frustrating to wait. So hard to be patient. She wrapped her arms around her body. The feeling of foreboding grew stronger. Something is happening, her instincts seemed to say.

  Dessia shivered, then returned to the window. She could no longer see the visitor. He must be on his way to the hall. Keenan had said he would bring him shortly.

  The thought aroused Dessia to frantic activity. Why had she spent the last few moments contemplating the past instead of preparing for the future?

  She strode to the door and called down the stairs for Aife. When the maidservant entered, Dessia was waiting in her shift. “I need you to help me dress and comb out my hair. We have a visitor.”

  Aife assisted Dessia in putting on a fresh gown and fastening a gold and green enamel belt around her waist. Then Dessia seated herself on a tall stool and the maidservant began combing Dessia’s hip-length tresses. “What sort of visitor?” the maidservant asked. “A trader?”

  “Nay, not a trader. A foreign man captured by slavers. Keenan and Flann ran the slavers off, then brought the man here.”

  Aife stopped combing, her slender hands poised over the dark red strands. “You’re having me fix your hair so you can meet a slave?”

  “Of course he’s not a slave.” Dessia motioned that Aife should resume combing. “The visitor appears to be well-born. Even if he were not, I have no desire for him to return to his homeland thinking the people of Eire are crude savages.”

  “Certainly not,” Aife responded.

  “Besides, as queen, I must always present an image of power and authority. You never know what might get back to my enemies. Any sign of weakness would bring them down upon me like a pack of wolves on an unprotected flock.” Dessia wondered if Aife saw through to the truth—that having observed how attractive the visitor was, pure female pride made her want to greet him looking her best.

  “You think this man is a spy?” Aife asked.

  “He could be. I’ll know more after I meet him.” The thought hadn’t really occurred to her until Aife mentioned it, but now Dessia considered the matter, it was a possibility. What if O’Bannon or some other chieftain had hired this man to discover if her magical abilities were real?

  Her heartbeat quickened. She must be very careful of this visitor.

  Aife arranged a circlet on Dessia’s head and placed the matching gold and emerald torc around her neck. Still feeling nervous, Dessia made her way down the stairs to the feast hall.

  The large round chamber was empty except for a serving woman tending the main hearth. Climbing the low platform at the end of the hall, Dessia quickly took a seat in the massive carved oaken chair where her father had once sat. It was one of the few things she’d been able to salvage from the ruins of the original fortress. She smoothed her green linen gown, decorated with red and yellow braiding, and straightened her spine.

  A short while later, Keenan entered, the raven-haired man following behind him. At last Dessia could see the visitor’s face, and it was as fine and comely as she’d expected. He wore only the hint of a beard, a dusky down outlining the square shape of his jaw. His nose was straight and narrow, his mouth, full and sensual. And his eyes—by the gods, it seemed unfair that a man should possess such amazing violet blue eyes, surrounded by thick black lashes!

  Shaking off such thoughts, Dessia forced herself to meet the visitor’s gaze. “Who are you?” she asked.

  The man bowed low, then straightened, his movement as graceful as a cat’s. His dazzling eyes glinted with warmth. “I’m Bridei ap Maelgwn, lately of Britain, although I have lived many places.” He paused and a slight smile touched his well-formed lips. Then he continued in his rich, vibrant voice, “I play the harp and musical pipe. I compose poems, sing songs and recite a hundred different tales. I can write Latin and a little Greek, decipher runes and tally accounts. I would be a most useful and entertaining addition to your household, Queen Dessia. In exchange for my services I would ask only that you provide me with a small chamber of my own, food and drink such as you give your warriors, and the freedom to come and go as I please.”

  As he finished his speech, Bridei felt rather startled by what he’d just said. He’d intended to entreat Queen Dessia to help him return to Britain. But somehow, at the last moment, different words had formed on his tongue. Why had he offered to serve her? Had she put some sort of spell on him? Or was it simply a response to her remarkable beauty? For Queen Dessia was stunning. Masses of dark red hair cloaked her tall, voluptuous form. Her face was a pale, delicate oval, set with gleaming jewel-green eyes and a coral mouth. She was a goddess. As bold and magnificent as Epona, lady of horses. As radiant as Arianrhod, queen of the moon and stars. Merely looking at her made Bridei’s loins grow tight.

  But he’d encountered beautiful women before and never been so profoundly affected. This woman stirred not only his body, but his spirit. Being in her presence brought all his senses to life, forcing him react with true emotion, instead of the cynical detachment with which he usually regarded the world. It was unsettling. Unnerving. But he had no intention of enduring the situation for long. He would beguile her and make her seek do his will rather than the other way around.

  At the same time, he told himself that there really was no reason why he shouldn’t remain here over the winter. There was nothing left for him in Britain. Nothing except the darkness and confusion that Arthur’s death would have wrought. He was well out of it. Well out.

  He repeated the phrase in his mind as he waited for her response.

  She shifted her body, then licked her lips, a gesture of stunning erotici
sm. At last, she said, “You appear far too young to possess the skills you boast of. And you haven’t told me how you came to be here. My man, Keenan . . .” She motioned to the warrior who’d escorted him there, making Bridei feel a sudden surge of jealousy. “He says you were wearing slave chains when he found you. How came you to be captured by those loathsome men? Where is your family? Your clan? Why would you offer your services to a stranger?” Her green eyes narrowed. “You’ve been brought to Eire against your will. Why would you choose to stay here rather than returning to your homeland?”

  Good questions, all of them. Bridei felt a surge of admiration. Queen Dessia’s mind was keen as her beauty. She might be young, but she wasn’t naïve. Life had tempered this woman, as heat strengthens a sword blade. He remembered the tale the one warrior had told him, of how the rest of the queen’s family had been killed when she was a child. All at once, he knew exactly how to win her sympathy.

  He made his expression sorrowful. “If you haven’t heard, there was a great battle in my homeland last summer. Our brave, valiant leader, Arthur ap Uther, was defeated and killed by the Saxons. Fighting at his side was my older brother Rhun.” He hung his head dramatically. “I’m still mourning my loss. While the remainder of my family yet live in the mountain kingdom of Gwynedd, I haven’t the heart to visit them. I can’t bear to look upon my father’s face and tell him that his eldest son is dead.”

  He slowly raised his gaze and assessed the effect of his words. She looked stricken, as if he had been speaking of her family rather than his own. Pain creased her fair brow and her mouth trembled. He quickly bent his head again, repressing a smile of satisfaction. For a moment, he had been unsettled, but now he was back to usual self. The perfect tale to melt this lady’s heart had sprung effortlessly to his lips. Now he had only to move in for the kill.