Dragons from mankind are kept
In dark deep caves where none have slept.
Locked in peace, protected, left
Until the time of their resurrection.
When myths shall pass,
And fables be exposed.
Once more shall beast and man align.
Not for destruction, nor human direction,
But for the revelation
Of truth’s intention.
ORAL TRADITION OF DÁL CRUINNE
PROLOGUE
For what price a soul?
All the wealth and fame a world and time may bring
Can be forfeited in but a moment.
An act written in the indelible ink of one’s own lifeblood.
SAGE GLIOCAS
(2870-2962 POST DRAGON WARS)
The World of Dál Cruinne
Eastern Clanlands of Dál Gallain,
Post Dragon Wars Year 6053
Thirty Years Ago
Ciarán waited, just as the lady mage had instructed.
Brilliant silver summer sun lit the long glen and a flowing burn slashed argent through the wide expanse of velvet green. Eagles soared high above, and red deer trotted in and out of the woodland skirting the edge of the valley. Ciarán sat astride his stallion upon the ridge, adjusting his soft buckskin breeches and the tartan plaid that lay across his shoulder. He had travelled another day’s journey eastward, almost as far as one could go before the saw-toothed mountains cut off the world.
He tightened his grip on the reins and touched the handle of his sword, Dearg, that rose above his right shoulder. Warmth seeped into him, and he closed his eyes. A male capercaillie drummed out his territorial warning, and a stag honked in the distance. Behind him—close—the jingle of a horse’s tack grew louder.
Ciarán opened his eyes. Clouds billowed in the east, a darkening blotch on an otherwise pristine sky. The approaching horse nickered, its rider drawing the beast to a halt, then light footsteps landed next to Ciarán.
“Shall we?” The speaker, a young man wearing tight velvet breeches with lace frilling the cuffs of his jacket, dangled a basket from one hand and held a bottle of wine in the other. “I do so love a picnic. Grab the blanket, would you?”
Ciarán dismounted, pulled the rolled blanket from behind the saddle and followed, leaving both horses nibbling the sweet grass surrounding the rock-lined outcrop that became a natural viewing platform.
Ciarán’s brow tightened. The man dressed strangely and spoke in an odd manner. He had reached the edge of the ridge where he took the blanket from Ciarán, spread it on the ground, and placed the basket and bottle upon it. The man moved with youthfulness and grace, and his slight figure belied a strength and ease for physical things. He lowered himself, sitting on the blanket with the elegance of a dancer. His gingery-blond hair, a mass of curls, framed his perfect face; his features arranged in faultless beauty.
“You are the one I am to meet, yes?” Ciarán asked.
“I am he. The mage directed you to this very place, did she not? Come! This wine is from France.” He gave a flick of his head. “You don’t know France. It’s a world away from here. Ha!” He hugged the bottle and closed his eyes, and his lips turned into a dreamy curve. “Ah, Paris.” He opened his eyes with a start. “Believe me, you’ll love the sweet berry flavours mixed with spicy hints of oak. Even if you don’t, I will.” He patted the rug beside him. “Sit.”
Ciarán lowered himself onto the rug and the man poured wine into two glazed cups he had withdrawn from the basket. He handed one to Ciarán, then drank from the other, his cheeks sucking in, and an expression of rapture filling his face.
“Try it.” He held the cup in salute.
Ciarán sipped the deep ruby-red liquid. Sharp-but-sweet filled his mouth, and the taste of spicy berries lingered on his tongue.
“Try this.” The young man’s inflection rose as he brought a wheel of cheese from the hamper.
He unwrapped the cheese from the cloth, cut a triangle, and passed it to Ciarán. The piece stuck to the knife; soft, white with specs of blue. He nodded encouragement, so Ciarán tasted. Soft-creamy cheese melted in his mouth, cutting away the berries and oak. Crisp flecks of flavour burst on his palate. They were sharp, strong, and drew want from his taste buds. Ciarán took another mouthful.
“Ah, yes. It’s good, isn’t it?” He cut another piece and held it out to Ciarán.
The delicate aroma tugged at Ciarán’s mouth, which now filled with palate juices. He licked his lips and kept his narrowing gaze on the man next to him.
“Yes, you’re right.” His companion returned the cheese to the plate and brushed his hands together. “Down to business.”
Ciarán sucked the last of the creaminess from his lower teeth.
This one had more than culinary delights to discuss. By Cernunnos, get on with it!
“This”—the youth lifted his cup in a casual manner to the valley below— “is all mine. I understand you wish to purchase it.”
Ciarán blinked. The youth owns it all?
Out loud, he said, “Yes, I do. For how much are you asking?”
Its worth sat on the fringes of Ciarán’s mind. He would give all he had for it—although it would be but little since his banishment from Dál Gaedhle and the loss of his clan chief title and lands.
“So, you’d give all you have for it?” his host said, pouring more wine.
Ciarán stifled a flinch. Does this one hear my thoughts? “Tell me your price, lord.”
“You may pay me what you can for this, but I wish you to work for me.” He smoothed down his velvet breeches with a delicate hand.
Ciarán narrowed his eyes. “What would the employment entail?”
“Acquisitions.” His rose-bud mouth opened, and he placed a triangle of soft cheese on his pink tongue, eyeing Ciarán from the corner of his eye.
“Acquisitions?” Ciarán grasped wildly at the possibilities of what this young lord wished to possess.
“I collect things.” The glazed cup rested on his lips once more, and now his direct gaze did not leave Ciarán.
“What manner of items, my young lord?”
“Everything.” Holding the cup, he made a circular journey with his hand, as though to encompass all things and ensure Ciarán had understood. “I want it all, and I can share it with you if you work for me.”
Ciarán squinted. “Is there a condition?”
“A catch, do you mean?” He topped up Ciarán’s cup with more wine.
“Aye, for it sounds fantastical.”
“I’m a powerful man, Lord Ciarán.” He reached for Ciarán, the jewels of his rings glinting in the sunlight. “Don’t let my age fool you. I can return to you the power you crave, and more. Get you the realm you so rightly deserve. The kingdom denied you by that cheater in the Quest and his crafty wife.”
Ciarán’s pulse joined the thudding in his head from the wine. Could this man know my past? The lady mage had said he would meet the one who truly reigned in this land. Perhaps he also had knowledge of everything.
“It can cost you all to get it all, but then you have it all, don’t you?” The man’s smile was angelic.
Ciarán pressed his lips together.
“You’re thinking it’s too good to be true,” his host continued and leaned forward. “No. It’s true you have been prepared for this since birth. Your wet-nurse saw to that when she sacrificed your infant blood to the fire in your sire’s Great Hall.” His youthful voice hardened. “You’re mine, anyway. I’m just claiming you now and offering an impressive deal.” The beatific face drew closer. “Take it. You know you want it. Let’s start small, like this valley, then we’ll work up to bigger things.”
Ciarán leaned back from the intense stare.
Ah, but this may be his opportunity to have what he so rightly deserved. Hot resentments re-surged inside him as his hands locked into fists. This could mean wealth and power. More importantly, it would be his opportunity to regain everything that breugaire who had wed his love had snatched from his grasp at every turn of his life.
I will take this chance, for none other may come.
“Deal?” The young lord offered a bejewelled hand.
“The mage assured me I could trust you.” Ciarán put forth his own hand. “Deal. May I have your name, young sir?”
“Lucien.” He drew the knife from the cheese, his hand moving in a haze of lace, and pain flew across Ciarán’s palm, leaving his blood dripping with enthusiasm. “You’re mine.” Holding fast to Ciarán’s bleeding hand, his face came close to Ciarán’s once more, so near, Ciarán’s vision blurred. “I also go by my other name. You may have heard it. Cumhachd adhar.”
The day dimmed, pressing onto Ciarán so that he could not move, and the distant cloud, having drawn close, now surrounded their picnic.
Cumhachd adhar. The words echoed in his head. The Power of the Air.
Darkness enveloped Ciarán. Pain wracked his body. He turned ice cold with fear. His heart broke as though betrayed, heated with anger, then hatred consumed him. The oppressive feelings weighed like lead upon him.
The lord rose, youthfulness and gingery-blond curls replaced by a man of impressive stature with blood-red eyes and raven-black hair. His beauty was retained in height, strength, and power. Authority emanated from this being now towering over Ciarán, and it was as though his garments dripped anguish aching in horror and dread. Wailing surrounded this fearsomely beautiful creature, reaching a crescendo.
The being vanished, filling the ridge platform with an abrupt silence.
Ciarán gasped in the fresh mountain air and lifted his shoulders, now free of the invisible weight.
On the rug beside him sat a scroll. The deeds of ownership of the land… and his soul.
