Read The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One for Free Online Page A

off leading the King’s chariot and the bier that held the body, so Rhiann let Liath drop back. But, sunk in a chill reverie, she suddenly realized that the chief druid had appeared silently on foot by her side. ‘You should be with your uncle’s body, doing your duty.’
    She hunched her shoulder away. ‘I do my own will, not yours.’
    ‘Always so disrespectful!’ he spat, and grasped her bare ankle in a bruising grip, making Liath shy. In the jostling crowd, no one could see. ‘But not for much longer, girl. I have plans for you.’
    ‘You have no power over me!’ she hissed back.
    ‘You and I both know that’s not true.’ Gelert’s voice was a sibilant murmur. ‘You’re not witless, though you make me believe so. I’ve watched you shirk your duty for too long. You should have given us another heir years ago, instead of sailing off to that witch camp to dig up roots and weave your petty magic.’ He inclined his owl-head staff towards the King’s bier. ‘Now he is gone, and it is time for the snare to tighten on you at last.’
    ‘The people won’t force me to marry!’ Rhiann bit out. But they were only fine words, and her fear was a live thing fluttering in her breast.
    ‘Try them, child! Without a king we are in grave danger from the other clans – and other tribes. Danger makes people think of their own skins, not that of a pale, bony wraith like you.’
    She followed his eyes, seeing the nobles of the lesser clans of the Epidii riding so high on their horses, gaudy with their wealth, proclaiming their power. She knew they were circling for blood, hungering to take the kingship from her royal clan, even as they paid their respects. One of the contenders was right in front of her, a young hot-head called Lorn, with hair so fair it shone silver under the moon. He and his father boldly raked the other warriors over with the same slate-grey eyes as they rode.
    Suddenly Gelert released her ankle, and though it throbbed, she made no move to ease it.
    ‘I am no child, druid.’ She strove for control over her voice. Priestess training was good for some things, that was certain. ‘You cannot force me.’
    ‘Perhaps not. But you always were a dutiful girl. And don’t think thatI haven’t sensed the guilt that rides your shoulder. Duty and guilt … a potent mix. One that will do my work for me.’
    He glided away, and she pulled her fur wrap closer about her throat.
    As the wailing of women faded away, and harp string, pipe and drum were stilled, Rhiann stood with Linnet on the beach on the Isle of Deer, the waves lifting the hull of the King’s boat as it rolled in the shallows. Gelert’s voice, distorted by his horse-head mask, rang out as he sprinkled water from the sacred spring to the four directions, calling on his gods.
    The sky over the island’s dark slopes was aflame with the approaching sunrise, though they still stood in cold, purple shadow. In the faint light, Rhiann saw a mother hush her babe’s strident demands, and Aiveen, daughter of Talorc, the King’s cousin, smiled slyly at a warrior behind her father’s back. Brude’s tear-streaked daughter rubbed her nose, smearing ashes on her cheek, as her mother, hair cropped in grief, bowed her head.
    Suddenly Rhiann realized that Gelert had paused, and everyone was looking at her expectantly. Talorc now waited by the bier in the boat with the dead man’s sword in his hands. Rhiann stepped forward as if in a dream, taking the great scabbard flat on her palms and wading into the foam to lay it on the King’s body.
    The water was bone-jarring cold, but Brude himself still blazed, with silk thread and exotic cloth, amber, jet and glass rings, his beard oiled and braided, his torc as thick as his wrists. Two gold coins from Gaul lay on his closed eyes. Yet as Rhiann rested the sword across him, her hand brushed his arm, and she jerked back at the chill heaviness of his flesh.
    As Rhiann returned to her place she felt the force of