Dreaming the Eagle by Manda Scott

the mound, lying as they were now, with a garland of beech leaves, to keep them together for eternity. Airmid drew a sword and a shield in the doorway, to ward off enemies. She added another Breaca, a smaller one, sitting in the distance with her back to a beech tree, watching the moon rise over the horizon, but that was dangerous and she wiped it out as soon as it was complete.
    Because they needed to talk of it, but not directly, Airmid asked, ‘Have you asked your brother how he came by his dreaming? Ban was not on his longnight when it happened. He could tell you everything.’
    ‘I’ve asked.’
    ‘What does he say?’ ‘He says it wasn’t a real dreaming.’
    They were done with drawing. Breaca lifted a broken reed from the bank and tickled the top of the water. A small fish reached up to kiss the surface where it touched. ‘His heart is set on passing his warrior’s tests and nothing beyond. He doesn’t want to be a dreamer.’ It was inconceivable to Breaca that her brother should not share her heart’s need, but she had recognized it to be so. She helped him, when she could, with his warrior training.
    Airmid was behind her, resting her chin on her shoulder, watching the reed and the fish. ‘What does Macha say?’
    ‘To him? Nothing. To me, she says that if the gods want a person to hear them, they will shout louder until he does. Or she does.’
    The fish saw a water beetle just beyond the tip of the reed and snatched for it instead. Beetle and fish vanished together beneath the surface. Breaca laid the reed on the bank where she found it. She reached back and found Airmid’s hands and wrapped them around her. The mood of the morning had passed and the fear was returning. She said, ‘What happens if they only whisper? I might not hear them.’
    ‘You’ll hear. I promise it.’
    The kiss on her ear was as light as that of the fish on the reed. The breath was warm on her neck. The sun moved lower on the water and the dazzle of its reflection coloured the world gold, even after she had closed her eyes. The earlier mood was not, after all, irretrievable.
    Some time later, Airmid said, ‘Everyone fears the same thing. It is only the arrogant who believe the gods will speak to them - and so they hear nothing, because they have not learned to listen. You are not arrogant.’
    ‘But I am still afraid.’
    ‘Which is how it should be. But still. However quietly the gods speak, you will hear them. Be patient. They will tell you everything you want to know. All you have to do is listen.’
     
    V.
    RAIN SHIVERED ON THE LEAF IN FRONT OF HER. FINE DROPS gathered together and rolled forward to splash heavily onto her knee. Above her and to the side, other leaves dripped their loads onto her neck, her hair, the bare skin of her arms and legs. It was warm rain, heated by the thunder and lightning, tempered in the forge of the gods, and the feel of it was a relief after the pressing heat of the morning. Now that the first cloudburst was over, Breaca could pick out single drops, pattering briskly through the upper branches, louder than the receding thunder.
    Lightning flashed again and lit the group of riders huddled at the edges of the trackway below her. They had run for shelter too late and were drenched, and their horses with them. She counted thirty but there were probably more. They were travelling on the eve of the midsummer solstice, which made it certain that they had not come simply to trade or to visit kin. She eased closer, pushing through the clinging leaves to a place where she could see but not be seen. There were two groups, that much was clear. She had watched them riding in from the southern trackway and there had already been two separate factions before ever they ran for the trees. Those who stood on the near side of the path were led by a big, blackhaired man mounted on a solid brown gelding. He was young, less than twenty, but he sat quietly and looked around him with the steadiness of age. If