Dreaming the Eagle by Manda Scott

Author:Manda Scott [Scott, Manda]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Speculative Fiction
ISBN: 9780307365781
Publisher: Knopf
Published: 2002-12-31T13:00:00+00:00

She would not believe he was gone. Kneeling, she held his hand between her palms and pleaded with him to talk to her. His eyes were open, his face folding in on itself, exchanging pain for peace. A man so at ease with himself could not really be dead. She kissed him and tasted the salt of her own tears mixed with blood that was not all his.

“Breaca, let him go.” Airmid came to kneel at her side and pressed a finger to the wide-open eye. The surface was clear but the lids did not close at the touch. A cool hand closed over both of hers and drew them away. The one voice she could hear said, “He is gone. You must leave him for Briga. We have the living to care for, else he died for nothing.”

The words reached her slowly and made little sense. She was in a different place, walking with her father to the river. His shade walked with the resilience of youth and there was a joy about him she had not seen since the death of her mother. She watched him with awe and wonder and felt herself smile.

Airmid said, “Breaca, listen to me. Macha is still alive. If we can get her home, she may remain so. He would want her made safe.”

She frowned. She cared for Macha. Her father had cared for Macha. “How badly is she hurt?”

“A spear took her in the chest. She can breathe but only with great pain and she can neither walk nor ride.”

“We will make a litter and drag her.”

“Sinochos has made it. You have to come. We can’t leave you.”

So she had been with Eburovic longer than it seemed. She tried to think. Airmid was there to help. Brown eyes searched hers. Cool hands gripped her wrists. She looked up from her father and met a strength that shamed her. Making an effort, she said, “How many others wounded?”

“Eight who will live. ’Tagos is the worst. He will lose his sword arm, but he will live if we can stop the bleeding and the stump does not rot. The others’ wounds are deep but not fatal. I can begin work on them here, but we should take them to the roundhouse immediately. Forgive me, but there is no time to build platforms for the bodies. We will take their shields and honour them as battle-dead. Eburovic would have understood.”

Eburovic. The voice swam and faded. Her father stood on the bank of a river. Water the colour of moonlight hushed past his feet. Hazels, nine-stemmed for Nemain, dipped their leaves to brush the surface. An otter swam midstream. A salmon rose, bearing an acorn in its mouth. The far bank was hidden in mist although Eburovic stepped out as if it were only a stride away. He turned and waved to her, his face alight with memory and the promise of home. Weeping, she lost her sight and when she found it again he was gone.

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