The Dawn Stag: Book Two of the Dalriada Trilogy by Jules Watson Read Free Book Online Page A

heaving, it was as if she had fallen into a pool of molten silver, as moonlight spilled through the trees. The clearing held an unnatural stillness, too, as if the land was holding its breath, as if all the night sounds of wind and the stirring of the creatures had been suspended.
    With fumbling fingers, Rhiann unrolled the deer-hide on the lip of the spring, setting out the flowers and bronze finger-ring Linnet had given her. Then she dug in her pack, her fingers closing on her goddess figurines, wrapped in their soft linen bag. One by one she reverently lined them up on the spring: Andraste, war goddess, with her spear and shield; Flidhais of the woods; Rhiannon the Great Mother on her white mare; and Ceridwen with her cauldron, bringer of life and death. Finally, Rhiann knelt on the lip and opened the tiny vial of scented oil. With trembling hands she anointed her spirit-eye.
    Calm down! she told herself, almost laughing aloud. Then she realized she ought to try to be serious, and so she folded her hands together. The most important part of freeing the sight was the priestess breathing, which centred mind and body into one flowing whole. It certainly would not be summoned by a pounding heart and heaving chest. So Rhiann closed her eyes and bit her lip in concentration, striving to subdue her pulse.
    First, she took charge of her breath: one slow inhalation down to her feet, then up out of the crown of her head. Gradually, the breathing took up a rhythm of its own, and that in turn quietened the riot of her blood, until Rhiann began to feel the edges of herself merging more naturally with the steady glow of the moon on her skin.
    When Rhiann was calm enough, she sprinkled the flowers on the water, murmuring her invocation to the spirit of the spring, and sent the ring spinning into the darkness of the pool. Then she sat for a moment longer, letting the slight undercurrent take the flowers out to the pool’s edges, and using her breathing to expand the silver cord that ran through her body, anchoring spirit to flesh.
    With each breath, so her spirit cord swelled and brightened, until it seemed behind her closed eyes that she was a fluid stream of moonlight, like a cup, overflowing … That was how she’d always felt, when the Goddess came to her as a child. As she remembered this, warm relief began to course through her veins alongside the silver light.
    ‘Great Mother,’ she murmured. ‘Moon on the Water, Lady of the Three Faces, your daughter comes to you in love. If it be Your will, may Your light this night be revealed to me, illuminating what is darkness. By Your grace, so shall it be.’
    Now Rhiann fixed in her mind what she most needed to see:
    … the sun glancing off bright Roman helmets; the swirl of red cloaks; the ranks of painted Roman shields …
    … and her breath stilled as she leaned out over the pool, her eyes closed, muttering the prayers under her breath …
    … the eagle standards held aloft in rows; the blast of foreign trumpets; the harsh cries of men …
    … and somewhere inside, with the softness of a sigh, she opened her soul and surrendered all will so that she could see at last; really see …
    She hadn’t even opened her eyes when it hit.
    A bright flood of images erupted from inside her: a man running at her with his sword raised, his black hair dripping seawater into dark, burning eyes. She felt herself rear back, stifling a cry, and turned desperately to run away. Yet she had just reached the hillside when a bruising hand grabbed her ankle and pulled her down … and then there were three of them, their eyes feverish with lust … and a greasy beard suffocating her, and a crushing weight across her chest, and callused hands closing around her neck, and the pain … the pain …
    She screamed, as she had not been able to do then, and screamed again, and suddenly something took hold of her shoulders and Rhiann arched and flung herself backwards. The impact of her body jarring the ground