Chapter 2
IT SEEMED TO be a strange day.
Rain and fog came to the western shoreline near Tara often enough, but today something seemed different about the fog. It didn’t feel as damp as it should, and the air itself seemed infused with tiny silver specks. Different, but then again, everything about today was different.
And it had started with the attack last night.
Blood. He’d worn too much blood and despite the darkness, the hour and everything, he’d bathed in the little stream that ran behind his father’s house. The cold water had done a number with keeping him awake, but he’d slept at last. And when he had fallen asleep . . .
The strange dream had come.
There was a man, silver-haired, carrying a huge walking stick, completely encompassed in robes. And he’d told Kylin to find the cauldron, that it was needed, and more would come, but not until he found the cauldron. The man directed him to a hill just to the southeast of Tara.
This was where Kylin now found himself. The area was richly forested, beautiful when one took the time to listen to the birds, smell rich earth. éire. People said that it was green. And it was. The forests were incredible.
He’d always loved the country of his birth.
But he’d also learned at an early age that while his mother was a native, his father was not.
He had come seeking sanctuary.
While Sigurd had loved his homeland, he hadn’t loved the extended family into which he had been born; his uncle had ruled the warriors and done so heedless of the very concept of mercy.
Jansen had believed that they’d been born to attack, to sail the seas, to kill without remorse, to seize all that could be taken.
Sigurd had longed to live in peace, but, of course, the world wasn’t geared for peace.
Still, he didn’t want to fight unless in defense of the land and people he was sworn to protect—and as a young warrior, he had come and thrown himself upon Deidre’s father’s mercy, swearing that he would defend the land with his life when necessary.
Sigurd had never broken that promise. He had married Bridget and they’d produced three children: Kylin and his sisters, Maeve and Maureen.
They had worked hard. They had taken the ruin of the old stone home that had been granted to them, welcomed others from near and afar, and created a true village that bordered Eamon O’Connor’s own land.
He’d grown up knowing that his role in life was to defend Eamon O’Connor.
While it seemed that every few years a new man was declaring himself ard-rí, chieftains such as Eamon were known as rí of their area.
Sigurd was sometimes referred to as rí as well, though he had never claimed the title and was never officially granted it.
Sigurd considered himself an honored guest.
And sometimes, in Kylin’s opinion, his father offered the world too much humility; he was a man of high honor in a place and time when even fighting strictly in defense, a man could go to battle time and time again.
And not be truly appreciated.
Eamon O’Connor had never behaved in any way that showed a lack of friendship, nor had he ever failed to acknowledge Sigurd and his people when they banded together, united against usurpers.
But Eamon’s daughter . . .
She could fight. He’d give her that. But there had been something about her sword that was quite incredible.
She could lift the thing as if it was a feather.
She could wield it and crack it like a whip.
He was sure that many a time a huge invader looked at her and thought that slim girl might be easily dispatched.
And that invader would realize quite the surprise when he went down.
But she was also capable of mercy.
Even his father preached mercy. But Kylin had seen the practice of it backfire.
They were right, of course. Mercy was preached in the church created by the great Father Patrick—a man who had been a slave but who had returned to the people who had enslaved him to preach kindness to one’s fellow man as taught by Jesus.
He wanted to be kind, merciful, a good man. The first time he’d been forced to take a life in battle had weighed heavily on him. But he’d seen as well what the invaders could do, to women, even little children, though most often they’d be taken as slaves.
He gave himself a mental shake. He was in the woods, his great horse, Darragh, happily nibbling on the long grasses, and he was looking for a cauldron. Because of a dream. He was, perhaps insanely, looking for a cauldron! He shook his head, deciding to give it just a bit longer.
He left Darragh in the clearing filled with long grass and made his way on foot, through a slim trail that wound through the trees, thinking there was only so much time to be given to this endeavor.
He was afraid that the attack yesterday might have just been a forerunner to something far worse to come.
There were rumors that one of the rís of the midlands north and east of Tara had been secretly meeting with “traders” who’d slipped through the coast and down along the river freely because, if they had been noticed, they were just traders. Something easily accepted.
The Romans had invaded England and climbed their way to parts of Scotia, or Scotland, a land named for the Gaelic people who had crossed the sea and inhabited her.
The Gaels had also been a predominant people in much of éire, named for Eiru, an ancient matron goddess who had once ruled a people who came to honor druids here.
But while the Romans had tried a few times, they’d never conquered the emerald isle.
But they had traded in areas off the western coast often enough. So now much could be done that was evil in the guise of trading.
What was it about man that he should be so eternally plagued by war?
Would it ever change? Even the legends about the Tuatha Dé Danann—filled with the wonder of magic, great intelligence, love of nature and all good things—also came with the legends of their wars against the Fomorians, great monsters who threatened to overwhelm them, causing the very earth to tremble when they battled.
Again, he reminded himself that he was seeking a cauldron. In the middle of the forest. Perhaps it was insanity. Even magical insanity.
Except that he had seen Deidre’s sword . . .
Darragh suddenly let out a snort, one so loud that the sound traveled through the trees.
Kylin carefully hurried through the woods, using the trees as cover to avoid prying eyes. After yesterday’s attack, he couldn’t know what was out there.
Tuatha Dé Danaan. Legends . . . stories!
His father’s people still had all their “old” gods and the magic of Odin, Thor and Freya!
Christianity was coming to most of the known world, but before heading out on a raid, the invaders still cast their runes.
Many followed the magic of seidr. There were many out there in the world who believed that sorceresses and sorcerers could reach out to Odin, the god above the others, known for his wisdom, healing, poetry, knowledge and so much more.
And, of course, Thor, the god of thunder, the one who helped them win their battles with the energy of the heavens.
Is magic real? Nice to believe that it might be, especially good magic, the kind that protected the vulnerable and the innocent.
And Darragh was as good as the best of hounds when he sensed that someone was there, someone who hadn’t been there before.
He found a great oak and slipped behind it, watching the clearing where Darragh had now given up the pleasure of munching on the grass and stood still, as if sensing something in the very air, seeing something, perhaps even smelling a presence.
Kylin waited, watching. He was armed with his sword, knife and axe—he never left home unprepared. There had been years when they had lived in peace, when life had been beautiful, but now the very air seemed to whisper that brutal times were to come.
And someone was approaching. He could hear the faint sound of underbrush crackling, not in the careless way they did when animals were moving through the forest, but rather in the manner one might hear when human feet tiptoed over fallen bracken and leaves.
He held his position and watched and waited.
He leaned against the tree, relieved and even slightly amused as he saw a head peeping out from behind a birch that rose high and broad with drooping branches across the clearing.
Deidre.
Did she also dream about a cauldron?
He waited for a long moment, watching her. But she had been well trained by her father and brother.
She was careful.
And she was armed. She carried what seemed to be the magical sword from last night.
Even without magical properties, it was a remarkable sword that any warrior would appreciate.
It was long and silver gray with an elegantly etched handle, again, a damned good sword even if there was nothing special about it.
But sometimes it glowed with a magical light. Not his imagination; he had seen it.
She had been trained to battle. He had heard about that from his father long before he had seen it. Yes, she was certainly a force, one not to be taken lightly.
He also noticed that a long knife was sheathed in a scabbard at her hip.
No, she was not the customary lass a man met every day.
Of course, they had seen one another before, but only in crowds, only on feast days, those times when their fathers and the noble families greeted all who came to celebrate a holiday, or to gather in relief when a danger had passed. They’d not spent time together.
She didn’t like him. Because of his father. And he saw that as wrong, terribly wrong, since his father had offered nothing but help and peace.
She was watching his horse, Darragh, and she most likely had no idea that he was Kylin’s steed, but seeing him there informed her that she was not alone.