The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One by Jules Watson Page B

Eremon’s attention was caught by a bloom of flame along the dark rocks that cupped the bay, and he stopped as his men carried on without him. The painted curraghs were being burned!
    Though born and bred a warrior, Eremon had always had, in his father’s eyes, an unmanly attraction to the mysteries of the druids. If he’d been a commoner he might have followed that path, though any such tendencies had been driven away by Ferdiad’s beatings. So he stood and watched the burning for a moment, intrigued that something so beautiful was being destroyed.
    Suddenly he became aware of another standing nearby who also watched; someone with the unmistakable air of a druid, draped in asapphire cloak, its hood up. Struck by an impulse, he opened his mouth to ask what the symbols on the boats meant, and why they were being burned.
    But before he’d uttered a word, the druid whirled to face him, and he saw snapping blue eyes, huge in a white face, and a nimbus of the most extraordinary hair. ‘Keep your hands off me, man of Erin!’
    Her voice cut through him like a shard of ice. No one had ever looked at him like that, with blazing eyes in a face of such tense coldness. Women did not look like that. Not at him. Gaping, he stood there like a fool, as she clutched her cloak closer and hurried away. By the gods, have I insulted a druid? How? Why?
    Conaire was suddenly by his side. ‘Eremon, I’ve been calling! We have our guides and we’re waiting for you.’ A loud belch sounded in Eremon’s ear, and then Conaire paused, watching the slim figure retreating down the beach. He cocked his head at Eremon and chuckled. ‘You don’t waste time, my brother.’
    Eremon shrugged helplessly, and put the encounter out of his mind as he followed Conaire to the water. Their boat was already afloat in the pale shallows, and one of the Epidii guides was directing some of Eremon’s men to hold it steady while the others boarded.
    A pack of curious children jostled each other in the foam, and further back, young women eyed Eremon with interest, whispering behind their hands, as he waded through the water. He placed his sword carefully in the boat and hoisted himself in, and the women’s murmuring grew louder. One of the Epidii guides shot him a sullen look.
    ‘I am not used to your local speech.’ Eremon’s voice was friendly as he stowed his blade and settled to the oar. ‘What are they saying?’
    ‘They call you mac Greine, lord.’ The man’s voice held a hint of scorn. Plainly, he thought little of the women’s fancies.
    Mac Greine. Son of the sun. Eremon did not know whether to be flattered or embarrassed, for that was a name given to the god Lugh of the Shining Spear. Then he shrugged to himself, practicality winning out. If they were in awe of him, that was no bad thing.
    And, though he was sorry for startling the druidess, if some were afraid of him, then that was no bad thing either.
    The Alban boats were timber built, as sleek and curved as spear points, with painted animal prows. The horse was foremost among the carvings. What had Talorc said over the ale? We are the People of the Horse . It was a noble creature indeed – Eremon just hoped that this tribe lived up to its totem.
    Despite his concerns, he could not help but feel excited. Behind him lay great darkness, and he would have to face the pain of it all soon. Toosoon. For now, though, they were on an adventure in an unknown land, with a new day’s sun in their faces and swords by their sides. The Boar knew what glory might come his way here; what paths might open …
    Steady on, my boy. Just focus on getting home .
    His eyes were drawn west, to where Erin lay over the horizon … Erin, his land, his love, with her rounded, lush hills and soft winds. A stab of longing pierced him, but then he shut the door firmly in his mind. He could not go back, not yet. The time would come, one day, and it would be the right time, under the right circumstances.
    He caught the eye