Dragonsong

Prologue

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Moira fought the clinging blackness that draped her like a shroud. No, no, wait, she wanted to cry out, but her mouth couldn’t form the words.

Voices muttered over her, echoing strangely, but she could attach no meaning to the sounds. The disembodied voices faded and she redoubled her struggle back to awareness.

Where am I?

Her eyelids fluttered, but all she saw were macabre shadows dancing along slime-slick rock walls. She was lying on her side, her hands bound behind her, in a puddle of wetness. Blood? No, she decided, not sticky enough. Merciful Heaven, it couldn’t be her birth water. The babe wasn’t due for some months yet. Her swollen belly shifted, a light tremble reassuring her of the continued presence of that beloved Other. She breathed deeply and inhaled the salt tang of the sea.

A coracle. She was in a small boat.

Someone help me, for Christ’s pity, Moira finally managed to say, her words slurring together as though she’d drunk too much ale.

Get ye gone, Seamus. The decision is mine. I’ll see it through. The thud booted feet on stone steps reached Moira’s ear where it was joined by another noise—the boom of surf on unsubmissive rock.

Cedric? Relief flooded through her as she recognized the voice. Surely her husband’s brother would come to her aid in her bewildering circumstance. How came we to this ill-omened place? My head is spinning so, the last I remember is dining with ye in the main hall. Ye put a silver cup in my hand and the torches started burning too brightly and . . .

Her voice trailed away with foreboding when she realized she was no longer wearing the stiff court clothing Fearghus had always insisted upon. Someone had borne her from the hall and stripped off her finery, leaving her shivering in her woolen nightshift. If she were ill, why was she not in her own bed? Her head pounded. It hurt to think through the haze swirling in her brainpan.

Why am I bound so?

First question first, dear sister. Cedric sank to his haunches on the sagging dock beside her boat. "Ye have a right to know where we are, since few have been privy to its existence, and only those of ruling blood. ‘Tis a secret as old as Conaill Murtheinne itself. We’re beneath the keep in an ancient bolthole. In times of mortal danger, the kings of Ulaid fled through this portal for the untender safety of the sea. A swift current passes by our coastline, ye see, bearing wayfarers far from land with no effort on their part at all. A wry smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Content yourself, Moira, that ye will follow the path of kings."

His words cut through the fog in her mind with clarion crispness. Moira struggled to sit up, fighting both her ungainly body and the swaying craft. But she managed it, for she was determined to look Cedric in the eye. Ye don’t intend to honor your brother’s line.

Fearghus is dead, lass, Cedric said, his voice almost kindly. When he died in the hunt, his kingship died with him.

No! The heir to Ulaid grows in my belly. My son will succeed his sire. We need only wait a little. She saw no mercy in Cedric’s peat-colored eyes. Panic reduced her to pleading. I promise the lad will heed ye in all things as he grows. Ye’ll be king in all but name—

Till the boy comes of age, Cedric interrupted as he untied the boat’s line. Why should I settle for that when I can put my own issue on the throne? No, wee Tiernan will be King of Ulaid after me. He gave the coracle a shove and it bobbled away from the rickety wharf.

But the bairn may be a girl-child and no threat to ye. Moira strained against her bonds, but they were cinched tight.

‘Tis a risk I’m not prepared to bear, Cedric said simply.

Then are ye prepared to bear the curse of Cain? Your sin is like to his—the murder of your own blood. The child I bear is your brother’s, a king of Ulaid rightwise gotten. Murder us at your peril. Fear gave way to anger as Moira leveled a wrathful stare at him.

Murder? Not I, he said. Royalty ye claim and royal ye are. Think ye I’d stain myself with your blood? No, the sea will tend to ye and your wee unborn king.

A curse upon ye, Moira said, tugging at her bonds till the hemp cut her skin. A vagabond and a wanderer on the earth may ye be, and may any who find ye, kill ye. My father, Brian Ui Niall will not wait to avenge me, I promise ye.

Even now, ye spit and hiss like a wildcat. Cedric grinned at her sardonically. Proud, canny and fearless. Ah, ye’re a grand woman, Moira of Donegal, I’ll not deny it. My brother didn’t deserve ye. If I had no son of me own, I might toss out my milk-sopping Brigid and take ye for my queen. The rough edges of his voice softened. Aye, ye’d have been my match and no mistake.

For a moment, Moira saw regret flicker over his cold features in the wavering torchlight. Then his face hardened, more unyielding than the black stone at his back.

But sheath your claws and save your curses, woman. I fear neither man nor God. Donegal is afar off. I’ll be bearing the sad tidings to your kingly father that the unexpected death of Fearghus brought ye to early childbed. Even now, a low-born woman is birthing in your chamber, surrounded by servants loyal to me. Alas! Both mother and child will die in childbed. It happens often enough, ‘twill not be questioned. When Brian Ui Niall arrives to mourn ye as a father should, he’ll find naught but a moldering corpse with a wee bairn wrapped in a shroud. After a few weeks, all the dead look alike.

The small candle of hope in Moira’s chest guttered entirely. Cedric’s plan neatly tied up all the loose threads.

As for the curse of Cain, Cedric went on, that holds no terrors for me, since I believe in naught but what my own hands bring me. And now, they’ve brought me a crown. The line of Fearghus will bear the curse, if such things be. Ye are the one set for wandering, Moira. He folded his arms across his chest. Though I fear your sojourn will be a short one.

A tidal surge caught the tiny craft and Moira’s boat was sucked through the seacave, knocking against the darksome rock on its journey over this narrow finger of the sea. Cedric’s torchlight faded. When the coracle shot into the surf, the night sky was strewn with brittle stars.

Cedric’s voice called out to her once more. Go with your God, Moira, onetime Queen of Ulaid.

Sleep with one eye open, brother. I’ll be back, do ye hear me? She shrieked to be heard over the dash of waves on rock. My son will sit on the throne of Ulaid and I’ll have my foot on your neck before ye go to your grave, by all that’s holy, Cedric, I so swear. Do ye hear me?

The only answer was the boom of unforgiving sea pounding against the stubborn shore.

Chapter 1

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During the night, the sky clouded over, dark billows obscuring pinprick stars. Even the thin scythe of a moon no longer cast its wan light on Moira’s voyage. The grey swells of the sea bobbled the small craft about like a cork and doused her with freezing spray.

She worked furiously at the knot binding her hands and finally as the sky paled to slate grey, Moira wrenched one wrist free. She unwound the length of rope from the other, salt water stinging the lacerations on her delicate skin. Through the dark watches of her sleepless night, she’d told herself all she need do was free her hands and all would be well.

Now she knew her heart for a liar, for her plight was better by only the slimmest of measures. She tugged off a boot and baled as much water as she could from the hull of the hide-covered craft. Her foot was blue with cold by the time she plunged it back into her sodden boot.

Shivering violently, Moira pulled her arms inside her shift, letting the sleeves hang limp, the better to warm herself and the unruly bairn somersaulting in her womb. The babe must have felt some of her panic, for he wouldn’t settle, drumming his tiny heels on her insides.

She squinted into the distance, trying to catch a glimpse of land. Purling water and grey sky greeted her everywhere she looked. A sea voyage left no trail, so she couldn’t tell in which direction her beloved Erin lay. Even if she could, Cedric—May God rot him—had neglected to leave her so much as an oar to paddle. A thick bank of fog curled toward her, a frigid wet curtain that soon engulfed her little coracle completely.

Oh, God, she prayed as her head drooped, unable to utter more.

Moira fought against the sleep threatening to steal over her. If she once went down into blackness, she knew there’d be no coming back. She rubbed her cold palms over her swollen belly. She had to keep moving. The babe quieted under her touch and she sang to him, a soft, sad lullaby. The tune floated over the water and returned to her in choppy, sibilance.

After a time, her shivering stopped. Truly, she didn’t even feel cold any longer, only bone-weary. The grey fog swirled wraith-like about her, wrapping her so completely, she could barely make out the prow of her tiny vessel. Sleep draped its mantle over her. Her eyelids sagged, then closed and she jerked them open again only by force of will. She heard voices, rough-edged and raucous, and wondered if her wits were leaving her.

Then out of the mist, a phantasmal image loomed.

She held her breath as the monster drew nearer. She’d heard the sea was filled with fearsome beasts, so foul and loathsome they were terrifying enough to melt the bowels of the bravest warrior. Moira’s heart leaped to her throat, choking off her scream. A leering dragon-head burst over the coracle’s hull, flooding the tiny vessel, and sending her flailing into the icy waves.

There was a shout as the water closed over her head. Then a hand shot down from the beast’s back and grabbed her by the scruff of her tunic, yanking her upward as the splintered spars of her vessel sank. She landed on solid planking in a sodden heap.

Not a sea-beast, after all, Moira realized as her vision swam uncertainly. It was a drakar, one of the dreaded Norse dragonships.

What is it you’ve fished out there, Regin? A male voice asked, in the sing-song cadence of the Ostmen’s tongue. Not a sea-maiden surely?

Moira silently thanked the saints and angels that she’d let her sister’s husband, Jorand—a Northman himself—teach her some of his native language. She didn’t speak it well, but even through her soporific haze, she understood most of what she heard.

If it is one of the mer-people, ‘tis no maiden. Moira was surprised to hear a woman’s voice, low and strangely pleasant. Can you not see the girl is breeding?

Whatever she is, she’s chilled to the bone. The man they called Regin stood over her.

Moira’s mind wavered uncertainly. Was it a man and not part of a monster that had pulled her aboard? Now he scooped her up and laid her down on something soft. She watched numbly as he unfastened her boots. She couldn’t feel her feet, even though he rubbed one with vigor.

Come, Aud, and help me get her out of these wet things or she’ll never make old bones, Regin said.

The mist snaking about the drakar touched everything with nightmarish vapor. A woman’s face appeared above her, sharp-featured and angular with wiry white brows and laugh lines creasing the leathery skin around her cobalt blue eyes. The woman put a waterskin to Moira’s lips and dribbled the tepid liquid into her slack mouth. Moira was too weak to resist as the woman rucked up her nightshift and pulled the sodden wool over her head.

‘Tis but a night-phantom. At any moment, I’ll wake to find myself in the Queen’s chamber at the top of Conaill Murtheinne.

Still, even if it was but a dream, her nakedness before these strangers troubled her. If she concentrated very hard, Moira was able to move her arms. She used them now to cradle her bare breasts and slide one icy hand over her belly to cover her sex.

Here now, lambkin, Aud said as she pulled one of Moira’s arms to the side and rubbed her blue skin. None will do you hurt here. Old Aud will see to that. There’s no need for false modesty when a body’s fighting frostbite. She’s aware of herself, Regin, the woman said to the man at Moira’s feet. ‘Tis surely a good sign. Will she lose any toes, you think?

Not if I can help it. Regin lifted one of Moira’s feet to his mouth and sent his warm breath over it. Pain shrieked up Moira’s shin as life flowed back into her toes. Farald, fetch that wolfskin and cover her with it.

Never thought I’d hear of a man wanting to cover a woman’s nakedness, Farald said with a leering grin as he tucked the skin, fur-side down around Moira. She knew she should feel comforted by the thick pelt on her bare skin, but she felt nothing.

Where do you suppose she’s come from? Farald asked.

She might be a Pict, Regin said. She’s certainly blue enough.

No, we’re too far from Pictish lands. Aud started rubbing Moira’s other arm.

Moira had the odd sensation of watching herself from outside her body. Her gaze rolled from the woman at her side to the man at her feet. Both of them swiftly massaged her limbs, but her senses were blunted, numb with cold.

Regin grimaced at Aud. That supposes we know where we are, old woman, he said with obvious affection. Not for nothing do men call you Aud the Nimble-Minded, but even you cannot know everything. Until this weather clears and we get a clean view of the stars, where we are is anyone’s guess.

He slid his hands under the wolfskin, running them up Moira’s calves. A furrow appeared between his dusty brown brows.

The color of a raptor’s wing, Moira thought as her eyelids drooped once more. She forced them open, staring slack jawed at her unlikely savior’s head of dark hair.

‘Tis not working, she heard Regin say. "She’s too far gone with cold. Bring my hudfat, Farald. We’ll try to warm her in a sleeping sack."

Aud worked the catch of the brooch holding her cloak about her. I’ve barely enough warmth in me for my own bag of bones, but I’ll do my best.

No, Aud, I’ll do it, Regin said.

"Ja, you’ve a better chance for success than me. Linnea always said crawling into a hudfat with you was like snuggling up to a roaring fire."

An odd look flitted over Regin’s face. Aud bit her lower lip as if she wished she hadn’t let those last words slip out. Then she shrugged matter-of-factly.

You’ll have to strip as well, Aud told him. Your padded tunic and cloak protect you from the cold well enough, because they hold in all your body’s warmth. If you hope to share your heat with her, t’would be best not to have damp wool and oiled leather between you.

Farald chuckled as he held out one of the large two-man sleeping sacks. "It’s about time you warmed a woman in your hudfat again. Still, I volunteer for the duty if you feel yourself unequal to the challenge."

‘Tis no cause for jesting. Regin shrugged out of his cloak. The girl’s nearly done in. Besides, Farald, unlike you, I prefer my women conscious.

He wounds me.

Farald clutched at his chest and staggered about the swaying craft to the merriment of a full two dozen other bearded and cloaked figures. Did Moira imagine it or was there a large shaggy beast weaving in amongst the crewmen? It reminded her vaguely of her father’s hounds, but who would take a dog to sea?

Then her wavering gaze was drawn to Regin’s form. He’d doffed his tunic. His chest was pale in comparison with the wind-bronzed skin of his face and neck. His brown nipples puckered against the cold.

The Northman lowered his leather leggings. Regin’s legs were lightly furred with dark hair as well and when he straightened, his ballocks drew up tight in the tangled thicket of brown curls between his legs.

Moira knew she should look away. She’d never seen any other man in the altogether but Fearghus. Northmen dwarfed the sons of Erin for height and weight. She’d never considered that they might be out-sized in other ways as well.

Well, Aud, at least Regin is sparing us the sight of your bony backside, Farald said.

Ah, but turn back the sun thirty winters or so, you’d be lining up to see my behind in all its glory, Aud returned with tartness. Wait till you’ve seen as many turns of the seasons as me and then you can talk to me of bony backsides. Even now, you’ve not enough meat on you to tempt a half-starved wolf cub.

Moira lost interest in their banter as Regin snatched the hudfat from his friend and walked toward her, straight-limbed and seemingly oblivious to the cold wind whipping his shoulder-length shock of hair.

Can you move, girl? he asked meeting her gaze directly with eyes the color of light ale.

She tried to sit up, but couldn’t make her body respond to her will.

Never mind. I’ll make do. His voice was soft and low-pitched, as if he were trying to calm a frightened child. He slid her feet into the leather sack and eased it up her legs. Regin climbed into the sack with her and spooned his big body around hers.

Tie it off, Aud, so my breath will have a chance to warm the space, he said as he drew Moira down into the bag with him. When she starts shivering again, I’ll let you know.

The faint grey light at the mouth of the sack was snuffed out and Moira was alone in the dark, naked as the day she was born, with a wolf pelt clutched to her chest and a strange Northman at her back.

* * *

The girl’s skin was smooth and cold as polished amber. Regin ran his hands from her shoulders down her arms to lace his warm fingers with her icy ones. One by one, he squeezed her fingers, as if they were cow’s teats, trying to coax blood back into them.

He was encouraged when her fingertips finally pressed a little against his hand in return.

That’s better, isn’t it? He hoped to get some kind of response, but the girl was silent.

He clasped her cold feet between his warm ones, then drew his leg up over hers, letting the frisson of skin on skin do its work. He rubbed his palms over her in quick circles, stroking her hips and then her belly. The child in her womb made her flesh rise to meet his hand and he nodded in satisfaction.

The skein of more than one life might be snatched from the Norns’ shears this day.

His fingertips brushed the underside of her breasts. She stiffened and then struggled. Good. As Aud had suspected, the girl was aware of herself.

Have no fear of me, he whispered against her temple. I only seek to warm you. I swear it.

Whether she understood him or only caught his reassuring tone, she quieted in his arms and didn’t resist as he continued to claim every inch of her skin with his calloused palms. He’d nearly forgotten how soft a woman’s breasts might be, how tender the skin of her inner thigh.

Ah! A moan escaped her lips and she trembled violently.

She shivers again, Regin said loudly enough for his shipmates to hear. A muffled cheer went up. The mouth of the hudfat was untied and a tiny puff of fresh air sneaked into the sack with them.

The girl cried out again.

Hush, now, he said, redoubling his efforts to send blood screaming back into her arms and legs. ‘Tis just life coming into you again. Only the dead feel no pain.

Was that true, he wondered. Did Linnea rest easy in the Shining Lands? Was she waiting for him there? It was said there are pleasures aplenty for those who reach Freya’s capacious hall. Perhaps Linnea had forgotten him entire in the feasting and lover’s games the goddess Freya urged her guests to enjoy. He wished he could be sure what lay beyond this world.

Hurts. A small voice roused him from his morbid reverie.

You speak our tongue, he said amazed.

Only little. My brother— A fit of tremors seized her. He wrapped his arms around her to still her frenzy. She gave several shuddering gasps and snuggled back into him, seeking his warmth.

The girl’s buttocks were cold, but soft and round as a ripe plum. He felt himself quicken.

Bridle yourself, Regi, he ordered his rioting cock. Have you no more control than that? By Loki’s hairy seedbag, the girl’s far gone with another man’s get.

Still, he couldn’t deny it felt good to hold a woman again. It had certainly been long enough.

Inn mattki munr—the deep passion he’d known with Linnea was a rare gift. The shallow lust his body clamored with now paled in comparison to the white-hot brilliance of the love he and his wife had shared.

Surely that flame burned a man but once.

He ignored his aching cock and concentrated on rubbing the girl’s arms. The muscles under her skin bunched and flattened as they fought their way back to life. He’d suffered his own brush with cold while walrus hunting in the frostlands one year. He knew from bitter experience that the girl was in agony.

Her skin was still cool to his touch when she finally stopped trembling. She’d live, he decided. She’d probably always be prone to frostbite, but this time at least, she’d escaped with all her fingers and toes intact.

"A man usually knows a woman he takes to his hudfat. I need something to call you, Regin said as her body relaxed against his in the warm sleeping sack. What’s your name, girl?"

Moira, I be—I am Moira, Queen of Ulaid, she said haltingly. Your name?

Regin, son of no man of Trondheim, he said with a wry smile. It seemed a bit silly to introduce himself so formally to a strange naked woman, even one who claimed to be a queen. Ridiculous, he decided. What woman of noble birth would be bobbing in the Norse Sea in a flimsy fishing boat wearing nothing but a woolen shift and soggy boots? How long were you adrift?

Night, then day, she said. Then you come.

Much longer and it wouldn’t have mattered if the Fafnir’s prow stoved in the side of her miserable little coracle. Regin had caught a brief glimpse of the vessel before it sank. It was a shallow-hulled contraption of hide and willow withes, not suitable for anything more than fishing in a sheltered cove. How did you find yourself so far from land in the first place?

She didn’t answer, but he felt her body tremble. At first he thought she wept. Then she tried to find the Norse words and failed. The girl rattled off a stream of invective in her own tongue and even if he didn’t understand the words, her tone was unmistakable.

She wasn’t near tears. She was shaking with rage.

Never mind, girl. However you came to us, you’re safe now. He placed a hand on her head and pulled her cheek to his chest. Lay your head, Moira.

She settled almost immediately and her regular breathing told him she’d slipped into exhausted sleep. Her curling hair tickled against his cheek and he was aware of her unique musky scent. His body roused to her again.

He hadn’t looked for this. Didn’t want a woman in his life again. Especially not one great with child, fated to a dance with death in the birthing room e’er long. How strange must that be, a woman’s war with her own body, struggling to emerge not only with her own life but with a new one as well. No wonder so many failed to survive it. A warrior’s chance in battle was arguably better.

No, he wanted nothing to do with this woman. The risk was more than he was prepared to bear. Once he was sure her danger from cold had passed, Regin was getting out of this hudfat so fast, Farald would probably think he had a snake in the sack with him instead of a strange naked woman.

Chapter 2

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Moira floated on a dark sea of warmth, bobbing and dipping, but so bathed in blessed heat, she didn’t mind the rocking movement. Her eyes opened for a moment and she peered into the dim cocoon of the hudfat. She closed them again with feline satisfaction.

So must the babe in my belly feel, she thought drowsily. He lay quiescent now, asleep in the hidden waters of her body, surrounded by her sheltering blood and bones and lulled by the steady beat of her heart. She wasn’t far enough from sleep to escape it herself.

The door to the Queen’s chamber swung open so hard, the hinges threatened to give way. Fearghus swaggered in and slammed the portal behind him.

"Prepare yourself, woman, the king of Ulaid slurred drunkenly. If the princes of Conaill can service a white mare in order to claim their crown, I can force myself to mount ye, though it does me cock no favors."

Then as Moira watched in stunned silence, the tips of her husband’s sparse russet beard began to glow. One by one, the tiny hairs alighted. Before she could cry out a warning, his whole face was ablaze. Fearghus ignited like a torch, though Moira smelled roasting meat, not pitch.

"Ye Donegal witch, ye’ve cursed me," he screamed and lunged toward her, the flames spreading across his chest and dancing along his outstretched arms.

Moira jerked to full wakefulness, the terror of her nightmare leaving her disoriented for several beats of her racing heart.

She was alone in the hudfat with the wolf pelt wrapped around her. The Northman, Regin, must have slipped away while she slept.

She put a hand to her chest and breathed deeply, trying to push the bizarre vision from her mind. Did her dream mean that Fearghus was burning in hell’s fire? Part of her heart could wish it true.

Before her marriage, she’d had no inkling of what passed between a man and a woman beyond what she pieced together