The Dragon Bard (Dragon of the Island) by Mary Gillgannon Read Free Book Online Page B

He’d had a good look at the area when he’d been up on the scaffolding the day before. Rolling hills all around, except for a dark swathe of oakwoods extending deep inland. His mother loved the forest, he recalled. She’d told him she never felt more content than when she was among the trees with their spirits all around her. Did Queen Dessia have a similar affinity for the wildwood?
    Bridei started walking. It was only a hunch, but better than nothing. If he were wrong, he’d at least see another part of the Fionnlairaos’ territory. Again, he puzzled on the name of the queen’s tribe. He’d seen no horses since arriving in Eire and certainly no white ones. Did the name hail from a time in the past when Dessia’s ancestors possessed horses? Or was it an allusion to a supernatural animal?
    This Irish queen and her world intrigued him. Ireland reminded him of the wild hills of his homeland, yet this realm was subtly different. There was less darkness here, as if the ancient forces of land and sea and sky were not quite so harsh and primeval. This seemed to be a place of more sunshine and less shadow than Gwynedd.
    He entered the woods, thinking his quest was probably hopeless. In this wild tangle of old oak, elm and hazel, it would be next to impossible to find her. Unless she’d kept to the pathway. For there was a trackway here, very narrow but clearly visible among the undergrowth of the autumn woods.
    Along the path, bryony and rowan bushes glistened with red berries, while overhead great, ancient oaks spread their boughs, their dull gold leaves half fallen. There was still plenty of greenery here, the yellow green of hazel, darker hues of the ivy and vivid mosses, as well as a few late flowers—yellow agrimony and purple loosestrife. He heard birdsong; chaffs and warblers staying late in the season. The Blood Moon was waxing. In his homeland, the excess stock would soon be butchered in preparation for winter. But the grass here was still green, so perhaps they didn’t have to cull their herds.
    As he progressed deeper into the woods, he encountered pigs rooting among the acorn mast, calling to mind the rich pork in the stew he’d eaten the evening before. Like his people, the Irish appeared to eat more meat and cheese than bread. Although he’d seen some fields of barley and wheat, they were relatively small compared to the rich pastureland where cows and sheep grazed.
    The path grew even narrower, then disappeared altogether. Bridei peered into the dense, nearly impenetrable foliage. Why would the trackway simply end? It was almost as if the woods were urging him to turn back. Then he heard the sound of water, a little runlet trickling over the ground. He decided to find the stream and follow it.
    The ground sloped downward as he set out through the underbrush, and he had to struggle over many fallen branches. It was dark here, as if the sky overhead had grown overcast even as dawn broke. He glanced upwards, wondering if it would rain. When he returned his gaze to the pathway, the ground had disappeared beneath a layer of mist. In a few moments, he was completely surrounded by whiteness. He could still see, but not well enough to be certain of his footing. A prickle of fear crept along his spine and he turned around, contemplating heading back. But he couldn’t do that either. The mist was even thicker that direction.
    His sense of unease increased. It was as if the forest conspired to make him lose his way. Ridiculous. A patch of woodland couldn’t reason or plan. Holding out his hands, he started forward, determined not to give in to his growing sense of alarm. His progress was painfully slow. He must first determine the size and location of the trees and bushes ahead of him, then climb over them or go around. It was terrifying to feel like a blind man. His heart beat faster and faster and his skin grew clammy with sweat. Where would he be when he finally reached the end of the mist?
    His body trembled