Only the Stones Survive: A Novel by Morgan Llywelyn Read Free Book Online

world.”
    Fodla whispered, “A world almost too beautiful to bear.” Her husband, Cet of the Laughter, nodded agreement.
    Banba the Brave dropped her hand to the hilt of the obsidian blade she carried in her belt. “What you hear is a trick,” she pronounced.
    Ladra and Samoll, the king’s ceremonial spear carriers, immediately took up defensive positions on either side of Greine. He waved them away. “I see no danger yet. Wait until I summon you.”
    “Children,” murmured Eriu. “There are children on the boats.” She turned her luminous gray eyes on the fog, the luminous gray fog that swelled and shifted above dark, cold water capable of swallowing an entire fleet. Without hurrying, she began to follow the muffled sounds of the fleet as it drifted along the coast.
    The rest of the party followed her.
     
     
    “The fog is lifting!” cried a hoarse voice aboard one of the galleys. The voice that had been shredded by hysteria as the fleet drifted blindly through the mist. Perhaps days had passed; no one could tell. Amergin had the disturbing sensation that time was being held in abeyance. In a bid to force its return, he had taken Clarsah from her case in spite of the humidity that could damage her strings. His strong, sure fingers had strummed an insistent rhythm. The rhythm of days and nights, of seasons and years.
    The fleet had remained together by following the sound of the bard’s harp.
    Now the fog was blowing away like a bad dream. When the voyagers caught glimpses of land ahead, they shouted and cheered. Some of the women began to weep with relief.
    “I told you I would bring you here,” Éremón stated repeatedly. “I told you.” But no one was listening. All attention focused on the radiant island emerging from the mist.
    The clear light of a summer’s afternoon illumined a fretted coastline heavily populated by great flocks of puffins. The endearing, comical faces of the seabirds seemed to smile a greeting to the newcomers.
    A flock of delighted children grinned back at them.
    The fleet drifted closer to shore, where rocky cliffs descended toward the mouth of a river. On the far side was a long beach of firm sand and shingle, and beyond that a sloping upland crowned with forest.
    When he saw the trees, Éremón’s boast turned into a glad cry. “There will be game in those woods. Fresh meat!”
    The sons of Mílesios reached for their hunting spears and whistled to their dogs.
     
     
    Afterward Mongan would wonder if he should have felt an intimation of the future then. Had any of the elders been with them, they might have recognized the portents. But the elders were not required for situations such as this; the Danann nobility were responsible for guarding the sacred island. And even the wisest of the nobles, as Mongan ruefully reflected later, had failed to observe the true nature of the invaders until it was too late.
    Standing among the trees, one with the alder and ash, the holly and hornbeam, blending into the landscape so the strangers could not see them, the Dananns had been distracted by the arrival of the bard.
    A tall dark-haired man had been the first stranger to set foot on Ierne. He leaped off one of the galleys and ran high-kneed through the foaming surf, carrying a leather case raised at arm’s length to be clear of the water. The satchel was a work of art in its own right. Cut from the finest hides, it had been shaped to fit its contents, then embossed with curvilinear designs and brightly painted. As soon as the man reached dry land, he knelt to open the case. With reverent fingers he turned back a fold of white silk and lifted out his treasure.
    The watching Dananns were transfixed.
    There had never been such a beautiful harp. Even at a distance they could tell that the workmanship was exquisite. Bow-shaped and small enough to be cradled in the man’s arms, the wooden frame was richly gilded. The neck and body formed sinuous curves that were perfectly balanced by the