Riona Read Online Free Page A

sound. Indeed, it was Bran who put the sounds together so that sword and body executed movement in a continuous, lethal harmony of aggression and defense.
    “Aye, so I did. But that was desperation, friend.”
    Most of the warriors in training scoffed at the curious tune the bard hummed as he faced off with their seasoned tutor. But after an hour had passed and neither had gained more than a nick of the flesh, Murtagh called a truce, curious as to his poetic nephew’s secret. Most agreed it was some sort of bardic spell, but Bran would not take credit for it. It was a gift from the Almighty he said, to protect those with willing ear to listen, faith to follow, and heart to praise Him for it. Something incredible, be it faith or bardic spell, allowed the cleric’s son to remain a sword’s length from Gleannmara’s champion for an hour without a sound thrashing.
    It was ironic that Heber, for all his piety, had tried his best to hear Eimar’s song and succeeded only now and then, while Kieran, a prodigal if there ever was one, picked it up at once, amazed at what his ears reported. Even in the thick of battle, the haunting song of Melchior—the sword his late father bestowed upon the prince in his thirteenth year—rang and sang. The vengeful hymn of steel was not unlike the monks’ bells accompanying their melodic chants. One invoked death; the other, life. Both claimed victory.
    But when Eimar ceased to sing, Heber ceased to live. Eimar’s last sound was a scream, or had that been Kieran’s own voice slicing through the air as he severed Heber’s head in Celtic tradition. After he wrapped it with the tenderest of care in his own blood-stained cloak, Kieran turned and carried it past his men, no longer able to hold back the tears streaming down his unshaven, battle-weary face.
    Faith, he still bled from the raw memory. Through the haze that stung his eyes afresh, Kieran glanced over at his companion. He couldn’t make out Bran’s face, but he knew he’d not revisited the past alone. He heard the bard’s whispered words—shapeless, at least to the human ear.
    Kieran swallowed the gall that rose to the back of his throat, certain it contained shards of glass razing him from stem to gullet. “Best speak to that nag of yours, friend, for all the good your prayers will do. I wager that silver brooch you admired among Gleannmara’s reward that Gray and I will be waiting for you at the ford.”
    With a click of the tongue, Kieran signaled the roan to the race. The warhorse, a breed for which Gleannmara was renowned, plunged ahead with a mighty leap that would have unseated any but the most skilled equestrian. That horse and rider had been inseparable since the first was foaled showed, for they were bonded—poetry of motion. Living up to his namesake—Gray Macha, the loyal steed of the Tain’s warrior hero Cuchulain—the stallion plowed up clods of soft earth with his hooves and cast them in his wake.
    This was more like it. Give him the fingers of the wind through his hair to soothe his tortured mind … give him the response of the powerful horse at the slightest pressure of his knees and the jar of the earthbeneath them over the hopes that a fickle God might grace him with favor. Young and naive, Kieran had given God a chance once, and for all his earnest submission and belief, he’d watched his mother and father die of the plague that made him a king at twenty. Heber’s faith rewarded him with becoming a corpse, run through with wounds, his life’s blood soaking a foreign soil.
    Nay, Kieran swore silently, give him the sword song for victory today, not a chant reserved for the next life. Today was for the living. Tomorrow was for dreamers.
    True to Kieran’s prediction, he and Gray Macha were waiting by the ford when Bran and his smaller steed caught up with them.
    “If you keep this up, Kieran, I’ll be looking for yet another mount before we reach Kilmare,” Bran complained. “Mayhap another friend