Free Chalice 2 - Dream Stone by Tara Janzen Page A

the
Quicken-tree, and her father had died in the same battle as
Mychael’s mother and father fifteen years past. Like him, she must
have heard of Gwrnach’s unholy death by his son’s hand and felt
avenged. The son, Caradoc, the Boar of Balor, had disappeared into
the weir with Morgan ab Kynan, ending the Balor line. The other men
of Balor had indeed been slaughtered, but not all by his hand. He’d
killed only three and those with his bow, not a sword—and he’d
killed them to save the maid, not for blood.
    So ’twas not the battle behind him, but
mayhaps one he yet faced that could make him a butcher. ’Twas what
he feared more than death, this blood-drenched thing he could
become, for therein lay the loss of God’s will and the true heart
of madness, should he live his life as a ravening beast.
    As restless as his thoughts, the wind
changed, slipping over the seaward wall and causing the fields of
grass to sway to the east. He followed the rippling stalks,
watching them crest in dark, golden waves across the bailey, until
his gaze came to the keep’s well.
    His steps slowed.
    She was there, the elfin maid, standing alone
in a pool of light cast by a small lantern, drawing a bucket of
water. He’d never seen a creature so fair, nor even imagined
one—the dark tumble of her hair, more knotted than tangled,
deliberately tied in a thousand intricate twists and braids and
laced through with leaves; skin that shimmered, begging a touch;
and a face that defied him to remain unmoved. Flowers were pressed
into the Quicken-tree cloth of her tunic and leggings, bright stars
of meadowsweet and rose petals as softly pink as her mouth. Woad
tattoos encircled her wrist and twined upward around her arm in a
pattern of runes and leaves, marking her as a warrior of the tylwyth teg , a Liosalfar, utterly pagan. And utterly amazing
that one so seemingly delicate could fight. Yet he’d seen her wield
a blade.
    Five months he’d lived with the Quicken-tree
and met many a pretty maiden, and he’d known that whatever he took
from any of them, he would have to give like in return. So he had
taken nothing. He would have none make a claim on him, however
slight, be it for a kiss or more—until now. In Riverwood, at dawn,
this sprite had held his gaze no longer than one moment, but it had
been enough to ensnare him, for he’d seen a single truth in the
verdant depths of her eyes: she was as wild as he, mayhaps even
more so.
    Reason enough to steer clear of her, he told
himself, though he slowed his steps just the same. He needed no
more wildness in his life. If he would take a woman, the commonest
of sense and his heritage dictated that she would not be an untamed
elf-maid. Rhuddlan needed no more suzerainty over him.
    Aye, she was a complication he did not need,
except for the kiss Shay had taken and he had not. He’d envied the
boy that one brief touch of lips to fair cheek. He envied him
still, but for himself he would have taken more, much more. He knew
the way of a kiss well enough, the melding of mouths and the
sharing of breath and where it could lead. Yet there was no quick
tumble to be had with the elfin maid.
    As he watched, she dipped a cup into the
bucket and turned away from the well, unconsciously bringing
herself into silhouette against the luminescence cast by the
lantern, and he faltered to a stop. For an instant she looked as a
dark flame cleaving the light, until the graceful continuation of
her movement clarified the outline of her body—the limned rise of
her breast flowing into her torso and the gentle curve of her hip,
the slender length of her legs. There was naught of darkness about
her, he told himself, disgusted at his wayward thoughts. The only
darkness lay in his own black heart, for like the perilous dragon
vision, she quickened his blood, though with a far different
result. He was in truth a boy that he could be aroused so
easily.
    He had only to follow his course and the
shift in the wind to arrive at