The Chalice and the Blade (The Chalice Trilogy) Read online

  The Chalice and the Blade

  The Chalice Trilogy – Book One

  Tara Janzen

  First published by Bantam Dell, 1997

  Copyright Glenna McReynolds, 1997

  EBook Copyright Tara Janzen, 2012

  EBook Published by Tara Janzen, 2012

  Cover Design by Hot Damn Designs, 2012

  EBook Design by A Thirsty Mind, 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Titles

  The Chalice Trilogy

  The Chalice and the Blade – Book One

  Dream Stone – Book Two

  Prince of Time – Book Three

  River of Eden — “One of THE most breathtaking and phenomenal adventure tales to come along in years! [Tara Janzen] has created an instant adventure classic.” ~ RT Book Reviews

  Steele Street Series — “Hang on to your seat for the ride of your life... thrilling... sexy. Tara Janzen has outdone herself.” ~ Fresh Fiction

  For more information about Tara Janzen, her writing and her books please visit her on her website www.tarajanzen.com; on Facebook http://on.fb.me/mSstpd; and Twitter @TaraJanzen https://twitter.com/TaraJanzen.

  To my parents

  Richard and Lois Gillis—

  always in my dreams,

  never far from my heart.

  Acknowledgments

  For the generous gifts and loans of historical, astronomical, and ofttimes magical tomes, and for other various bits of whimsy, inspiration, support, and knowledge, the author would like to thank: Margaret Aunon, Sandra Betker, Debra and Tom Catlow, Victoria Erbschloe, Margaret Frohberg, Joy Hopely, Jane Ronald-Houck, Mary McReynolds, Jean Muirhead, Susan Parker, Olivia Rupprecht, Debra and Tom Throgmorton; Dean and Kerrie, for making some magic; also, Rebecca Kubler and Lance Gills, for their enthusiastic reading of the manuscript; Cindy Gerard, lovely muse, for not only reading the manuscript with enthusiasm (over and over again), but for doing so with a pencil in her hand, which she used; and Stan, Kathleen, and Chase McReynolds, for contributions too numerous to list—all of them from the heart.

  My special thanks and appreciation go to Elizabeth Barrett, for her empathy, her insights, her patience, and for taking what was and making it better. ’Twas ever thus—namasté.

  Author’s Note

  Writers doing research are a sojourning breed. We spend our days wandering through other people’s work, diligently searching when we know what we want, exploring for epiphany when we don’t; dallying for a short time between one set of bound pages, practically setting up house in the next.

  In the writing of this novel, I incurred some rent, most notably to Giraldus Cambrensis and his Journey Through Wales 1188. It was also with great pleasure that I discovered the work of Mircea Eliade; in particular, his book The Forge and the Crucible: the Origins and Structures of Alchemy, and an article he wrote for Parabola, “The Myth of Alchemy.”

  On a historical note, during the Middle Ages the frontier between England and Wales was known as the March. The March lords, originally followers of William the Conqueror, were barons whose holdings comprised the borderlands. They were laws unto themselves, subject to the king of England, but not to English Common Law. What they had, they kept by the power of their swords, building castles and warring on their neighbors—the Welsh—and ofttimes on each other. On the other side of the border, the Welsh did the same, their disunity being their greatest flaw, with the Welsh princes as inclined to war on each other as on the land-hungry barons. The March was an integral part of the history of Wales for over four hundred years, reaching its demise under the reign of Henry VIII with the act of February 1536, statute 27 Henry VIII clause 26 (in this century referred to as the Act of Union), whose purpose was to incorporate Wales into England.

  One historical fact that I turned to fancy concerns the Thief of Cardiff. The story is true, though the nom de plume is not. A Welshman, Ifor Bach of Senghennydd, did steal a Norman earl from his bed one night in retaliation for the confiscation of some land. Over a hundred men-at-arms and an even greater number of archers guarded the castle keep at Cardiff while the “immensely bold” Ifor scaled the walls and made off with William of Gloucester. Ifor did not release the earl until the stolen estates were returned.

  A number of Welsh names and words appear in the book, and I would offer two notes on pronunciation: c always has the “k” sound, as in candle; dd is pronounced like the English “th,” as in those.

  On the map of Wales, Merioneth has been resurrected to an autonomous principality from an earlier time. The River Bredd, along with Carn Merioneth/Balor Keep, and Wydehaw Castle, have been conjured from imagination, the caverns beneath Carn Merioneth even more so. As for the tylwyth teg I cannot help but believe, so sure am I that I’ve met a few. Amor... lux... veritas.

  Glenna McReynolds/Tara Janzen

  October 1996

  Cast of Characters

  Carn Merioneth

  Rhiannon—Lady of Carn Merioneth from the matriarchal lineage of a Magus Druid Priestess from Anglesey

  Ceridwen ab Arawn—daughter of Rhiannon

  Mychael ab Arawn—son of Rhiannon, twin brother to Ceridwen

  Arawn—Lord of Carn Merioneth

  Nemeton—famed bard of Brittany, Beirdd Braint of the Quicken-tree, builder of the Hart Tower

  Moriath—daughter of Nemeton

  Wydehaw Castle

  Dain Lavrans—the mage of Wydehaw

  Lord Soren D’Arbois—a March lord, Baron of Wydehaw

  Lady Vivienne D’Arbois—wife of the baron

  Elixir and Numa—Dain’s hounds

  Ragnor the Red—captain of Wydehaw’s guard

  Madron—witch who lives in Wroneu Wood

  Edmee—daughter of Madron

  Morgan ab Kynan—Thief of Cardiff; a Welsh Prince

  Morgan’s Band of Men:

  Owain—the captain

  Rhys

  Drew

  Rhodri

  Dafydd

  Balor Keep

  Caradoc—the Boar of Balor, ruler of the keep

  Helebore—excommunicated priest, Balor’s leech

  Snit—minion of Helebore

  Gwrnach—destroyer of Carn Merioneth, father of Caradoc

  Gruffudd—a guardsman at Balor

  The Quicken-tree:

  Rhuddlan—leader of the Quicken-tree

  The Quicken-tree:

  Moira

  Elen

  Aedyth

  Naas

  Llynya

  Shay

  Nia

  Trig—captain of the Liosalfar

  The Liosalfar:

  Wei

  Math

  Bedwyr

  Others:

  Llywelyn—ruling Prince of Gwynedd from 1194 to 1240

  Jalal al-Kamam—Saracen trader, slaver

  Kalut ad-Din—Saracen trader, slaver

  The Chalice and the Blade

  In the year 1190, Richard the Lionheart set forth from Europe on a divine mission to wrest the Holy Land from the infidels. A vast host of Christian soldiers took the cross and followed, and failed. Some survived, many died, and a few—either by their own wishes or forced through the will of others—disappeared in the deserts then under the dominion of the great Saladin.

 
Of those that were lost, three found their way out of the wasteland and home. One, scarred beyond redemption, made his way north into the mountain fastness of his father to wreak his vengeance on strong and weak alike. Another bound himself to God, family, and country as a balm to his wounded body and heart. The last took all that he had learned of pain and mystery and bliss, of magic and medicine, of desires and acceptance and power, and set himself up as a sorcerer... the Blade.

  Seven years before the Lionheart’s crusade, England’s battles had been fought closer to home, in sweet grass meadows and shallow fens, through dense stands of the king’s forests and deep in the mountains of Wales. The Welsh people, Cymry in their own language and warriors in any language, took up arms against the invading English and one another with equal vigor. Palisades were burned, villages ransacked, and new lords proclaimed where others had reigned.

  Only three, a woman and two children, survived the battle for Carn Merioneth, a prize on the coast of the Irish Sea. The woman, wise beyond her years in ancient ways—a fey creature—made her way south, hiding the children from the destructive force unleashed on their home. For the first, she found sanctuary in a monastery, and over the years he lost himself in a life of quiet contemplation. For the second child, the woman chose the abbey of her own youth, knowing well the secrets hidden there and trusting the girl to find them. The child did not fail, and in time she became the catalyst of her own destruction and the key to her own salvation... the Chalice.

  Prologue

  October 1183

  Carn Merioneth

  Merioneth, Wales

  For the third night in a row the harp played upon the cliffs overlooking the Irish Sea, the strings caressed to life by delicate, ring-bedecked fingers that wove secret melodies and set them free to float like feathers upon the wind. In the northern sky, a single star fell toward the water in a glittering arc of celestial dust, enchanted unto death by the sweet music.

  Rhiannon, daughter of Teleri, daughter of Mair, created the enchantment. She nurtured it and cherished it, listening to her heart, and the song, and the waves crashing into the rocks hundreds of feet below, for every moment of enchantment was one less of fear in the endless night of Calan Gaef.

  An errant breeze caught on the headland and curved around the natural bowl where she played, tangling through her hair and bringing the ocean mists up to the land. Flames from a fire of yew, oak, and ash lit the cavern walls behind her and flickered over the dark, sinuous lines etched into the stone by a people long lost to memory. As a child she’d traced those paintings, standing on tiptoe, touching the strange, ancient creatures and feeling their power and beauty echo through time and her fingertips.

  Dragons, her mother had called them, sea dragons, guardians of the gates of time who lived in the deep beyond, rolling their mighty bodies to churn the tides and keep the moon coming back to the sun. Her mother had seen them and had promised Rhiannon she would see them too. In time, in time.

  And so, in time, she had.

  The wind gusted, and Rhiannon’s fingertips swept across the harp strings, plucking each in turn with blinding speed, matching her song to the rhythms of the storm brewing far out to sea.

  ~ ~ ~

  Inside the keep at the top of the cliff, Ceridwen awoke with a start. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all this night, but her mother’s music had lured her into dreams without so much as the tiniest struggle on her part.

  “Damn,” she whispered. ’Twas her new word, “damn,” a daring choice for a child of five years.

  The harp played no more outside. Its melodic tones had been replaced with the driving rhythms of a hundred bodhran drums. The ceremony in the caves had already started, and they were going to miss it, if they didn’t hurry.

  “Mychael, wake up.” Ceridwen rolled over in the bed and shook her twin. “Wake up.”

  ’Twas fair dark where they slept at the end of the great hall, still well before sunrise, though Ceridwen felt the difference in the air that told her the night was rising toward day. The low flames of the hearth fire helped to cut the gloom, but she still wished the maid Moriath had left them a candle. They were going to need light to get where she wanted to go, or risk a few stubbed toes.

  “Come on, now,” she said to Mychael. “Here’s our chance, sweeting.”

  A muffled grumbling was all the got for her effort, and the sight of a tousled blond head burrowing deeper under the covers.

  “You sleep more than a suckling babe,” she said in disgust, giving up her crooning tone and flouncing back on the bed.

  “Do not.”

  The reply was near useless without accompanying movement, but she took heart. At least he was awake. How he continued to play slug-a-bed when the very heart of the earth was pounding beneath them was a mystery to her. Most everything Mychael did was a mystery to her. He was quiet, she was not. He was thoughtful, she was not. He behaved, she most definitely did not. She had no intention of staying put all night while everyone else in the keep ate and drank and danced in the caves.

  She bent her head close to the covers. “Like a suckling babe,” she said.

  Nothing happened, and she sighed.

  The caves were the most wondrous part of Carn Merioneth—the labyrinthine tunnels, the still-water pools, the pillars of stone. These things lingered in her imagination long after each brief expedition into the caverns. She and Mychael were never allowed to go alone, and ofttimes —as on this night—they were not included when others went. Occasionally, their mother took them down into the caves open to the cliffs, to the Dragon’s Mouth of the Light Caves, or to the Canolbarth, the midland caves, but occasionally wasn’t enough for Ceridwen, and neither were the upper caves. She wanted to see the deeper caverns, the ones beyond the Canolbarth, the ones she was sure were filled with treasures and mayhaps dragon bones. Her mother told wonderful stories about dragons and the tylwyth teg, Welsh faeries who lived in the mountains and no doubt in the caves too, though her mother had not exactly said as much.

  Ceridwen would dearly love to see a dragon or a faerie. She could spend days exploring the tunnels, and she would, if Mychael would just show more interest in the grand adventures she devised. Instead, he preferred to sit and dream. Going without him was unthinkable. She never went anywhere without him.

  “Babe,” she said, loud enough for him to hear even under all the coverlets, and at last, she got her reaction. The covers whipped up, revealing an angry face remarkably like her own.

  “I am not a babe.” He scowled at her.

  His eyes were blue like their father’s, a pale, silvery ocean blue that all the women cooed over. So were Ceridwen’s, but no one cooed over her except their mother.

  “Can you hear it?” she asked, too relieved that he had finally roused himself to be piqued over his scowl. “Listen!”

  From deep below them, the primal rhythms of the bodhrans rose and fell. The sound in the hall was faint, barely discernible. Ceridwen hardly heard the rhythms herself, but she felt them strongly, pulsing against her skin and slipping inside to course along her veins. The rough-hewn timbers of the keep resonated with the richness of the drums; the bed trembled.

  “They’re finished with the dancing,” Mychael said after a moment of thoughtful silence. “I’m sure of it.”

  “There’ll still be food. Let’s go see.” She scrambled off the bed, pulling him with her. They wouldn’t get as good an opportunity as this again for months, maybe years, with Mother and Father and everybody busy down in the caves, and no Moriath watching them like a hawk.

  “Ceri, stop.” Mychael balked before she could get him completely off the bed. “It’ll be cold.”

  “I’ll let you wear my cloak.” She gave him another pull, but he didn’t budge. “The one with the white fur and the little black spots on it.” She coaxed again, still to no avail.

  “I don’t think we’re s’posed to be in the caves tonight,” he said, his face scrunched up with doubt.

  “We’re ne
ver s’posed to be in the caves,” she said, thoroughly exasperated with his lack of vision. “I’ll get you a honey-pie from the kitchen. I saw where cook hid them.” The bribe was her last resort, and she had hoped not to need it so soon in their adventure.

  In the end, it took two honey-pies, her ermine cloak, and her new deer-hide boots, and a close call with a roaming guard before they made it to the south side of the bailey and the entrance into the caverns. Inside the opening were two paths. One led to the Light Caves and the sea cliffs, the other snaked deep into the bowels of the earth. Ceridwen didn’t hesitate. She followed the steeper tunnel, encouraged by the torches blazing in the iron sockets bolted to the rock walls and lured by the pulsing sound of the bodhran drums.

  ~ ~ ~

  She could not.

  Rhiannon held the sacred cup of dragon wine to her lips, but she could not drink. All around her, the wild folk of the mountains and meadows and caves mixed with the people from Carn Merioneth. “Quicken-tree,” the wild ones called themselves, lone descendants of an ancient race. She oft thought of them as tylwyth teg and knew she wasn’t far from the mark, though they made no such claim themselves. They gathered in groups along the ledges of stone that circled the floor where the scrying pool bubbled and steamed at her feet. Their leader, Rhuddlan, stood next to her as guide of the threefold union she and he and the Druid would make. Across from her, glimpsed through the slowly swirling mist, stood Nemeton, the grove priest himself, He waited, his hands raised in supplication, his auburn hair streaked with one stripe of gray flowing down onto his shoulders, his sky-blue robes shrouding him to the floor, and still she could not drink.

  Nemeton was an imposing man, tall and gaunt, with eyes of a rich, verdant hue, a famous bard from Brittany brought by his lord to the March of Wales because of his healing powers and the high art of his divinations. Rhiannon’s mother had recognized him as even more, just as he had recognized Carn Merioneth as being more than it seemed.