singing and crying, a blaring of trumpets, and thundering of beaten shields. The din grew and grew, until it echoed on the walls of the house, and Cù threw his head back and howled, his eyes wild. As the noise died away to a last throbbing drumbeat, Eremon saw the Alban warrior close his eyes and murmur fervently to himself.
He did not need to ask what had happened, for in Erin they, too, drove the spirits of the dead away like this. Now the freed soul would heed the god Lugh’s call to fly away to the Blessed Isles.
Soon after, a shadow blocked the doorway: the old druid who had spoken on the beach. He was followed by a servant girl, carrying a bronze-rimmed horn cup, and the heavy, older warrior who had taken their weapons – a man almost matching Conaire’s size. The servant came straight to Eremon with the cup, its two handles cast as rearing horses. The workmanship was very fine, like that of the carvings, and to Eremon’s surprise the ale within was also good, with a musky flavour he’d never tasted before.
He must have betrayed himself, for the druid was smiling at him. It was not a warm smile. ‘Our women make the best ale in Alba. The heather flowers give it the flavour.’ The druid’s voice belied his age, ringing with power and authority.
Eremon nodded carefully, and the girl took the cup and turned to lift it to Conaire’s mouth. She was pretty, and Eremon saw her start and blush when she caught his foster-brother’s eye. After the cup had been offered to Eremon’s men, the druid wasted no more time. ‘Now,’ he said, gesturing to a screened alcove. ‘I wish to find what you are seeking here. Come, and we will speak.’
Eremon glared at Conaire, who pulled his eyes away from the girl and followed him, wiping the traces of grease from his mouth. They joined the druid and the old warrior, easing themselves on to fur cushions on the alcove’s earth floor.
Eremon began, as was his due as a guest. ‘I am Eremon, son of Ferdiad. My father is King of the great kingdom of Dalriada in Erin.This is my foster-brother Conaire, son of Lugaid. We come to make new trade alliances with our honoured neighbours.’
‘I am Gelert, man of the oak,’ the druid returned. ‘My cousin Brude, son of Eithne, is King of the Epidii, our tribe. The King is … away, collecting tribute in the north.’
The pause was slight, and Eremon saw the Epidii warrior glance at his druid, before turning to Eremon. Around one great arm was a fox-fur band, the same colour as his hair and moustache, though they were now frosted with grey. But his blue eyes were clear, cheeks ruddy with health. ‘And I am Talorc, son of Uishne, also cousin to Brude.’ He folded his arms on his barrel chest, chin thrust forward. ‘You are right to seek us out, prince, for we are the foremost tribe on this coast, with many riches.’
I did not seek you out, and I see few riches , thought Eremon, keeping his face still. And where, in truth, is your king?
‘I am surprised,’ he said out loud. ‘Your death rite was for a man of great standing, it seems – yet your king is not here?’
Gelert’s yellow eyes glinted with anger. ‘You seek trade alliances, you say?’ he barked.
Eremon blinked in surprise, and nodded.
‘Then your storm gods drove you to the right place, prince. Our fortress of Dunadd rules the trade route this side of the mountains. We exchange with the tin tribes in southern Britannia, and those on the Northern Sea. What can you offer us?’
Eremon took a deep breath: at least he was ready for this. ‘The gold you see is only a part of our wealth,’ he explained, throwing open his cloak to reveal his ornate belt and jewelled dagger-hilt beneath his mailshirt. ‘Our rivers run with it, and the hills are seamed with copper. And I have men joining us with more examples of our skill. We will call on tribes all over Alba.’
Talorc’s eyes were resting on the jewelled circlet on Eremon’s brow.
‘Of course, gold is not
He did not need to ask what had happened, for in Erin they, too, drove the spirits of the dead away like this. Now the freed soul would heed the god Lugh’s call to fly away to the Blessed Isles.
Soon after, a shadow blocked the doorway: the old druid who had spoken on the beach. He was followed by a servant girl, carrying a bronze-rimmed horn cup, and the heavy, older warrior who had taken their weapons – a man almost matching Conaire’s size. The servant came straight to Eremon with the cup, its two handles cast as rearing horses. The workmanship was very fine, like that of the carvings, and to Eremon’s surprise the ale within was also good, with a musky flavour he’d never tasted before.
He must have betrayed himself, for the druid was smiling at him. It was not a warm smile. ‘Our women make the best ale in Alba. The heather flowers give it the flavour.’ The druid’s voice belied his age, ringing with power and authority.
Eremon nodded carefully, and the girl took the cup and turned to lift it to Conaire’s mouth. She was pretty, and Eremon saw her start and blush when she caught his foster-brother’s eye. After the cup had been offered to Eremon’s men, the druid wasted no more time. ‘Now,’ he said, gesturing to a screened alcove. ‘I wish to find what you are seeking here. Come, and we will speak.’
Eremon glared at Conaire, who pulled his eyes away from the girl and followed him, wiping the traces of grease from his mouth. They joined the druid and the old warrior, easing themselves on to fur cushions on the alcove’s earth floor.
Eremon began, as was his due as a guest. ‘I am Eremon, son of Ferdiad. My father is King of the great kingdom of Dalriada in Erin.This is my foster-brother Conaire, son of Lugaid. We come to make new trade alliances with our honoured neighbours.’
‘I am Gelert, man of the oak,’ the druid returned. ‘My cousin Brude, son of Eithne, is King of the Epidii, our tribe. The King is … away, collecting tribute in the north.’
The pause was slight, and Eremon saw the Epidii warrior glance at his druid, before turning to Eremon. Around one great arm was a fox-fur band, the same colour as his hair and moustache, though they were now frosted with grey. But his blue eyes were clear, cheeks ruddy with health. ‘And I am Talorc, son of Uishne, also cousin to Brude.’ He folded his arms on his barrel chest, chin thrust forward. ‘You are right to seek us out, prince, for we are the foremost tribe on this coast, with many riches.’
I did not seek you out, and I see few riches , thought Eremon, keeping his face still. And where, in truth, is your king?
‘I am surprised,’ he said out loud. ‘Your death rite was for a man of great standing, it seems – yet your king is not here?’
Gelert’s yellow eyes glinted with anger. ‘You seek trade alliances, you say?’ he barked.
Eremon blinked in surprise, and nodded.
‘Then your storm gods drove you to the right place, prince. Our fortress of Dunadd rules the trade route this side of the mountains. We exchange with the tin tribes in southern Britannia, and those on the Northern Sea. What can you offer us?’
Eremon took a deep breath: at least he was ready for this. ‘The gold you see is only a part of our wealth,’ he explained, throwing open his cloak to reveal his ornate belt and jewelled dagger-hilt beneath his mailshirt. ‘Our rivers run with it, and the hills are seamed with copper. And I have men joining us with more examples of our skill. We will call on tribes all over Alba.’
Talorc’s eyes were resting on the jewelled circlet on Eremon’s brow.
‘Of course, gold is not
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