Dalriada: Destiny's Stone: A Novel of Love, Honor, and Fury

By Christopher H. Connor

In rising above their enemies, Alpin and the clans of Dalriada secured their sacred freedom from tyranny. Yet, how long can such a priceless treasure be safeguarded while enemies still loom – from without and within!
Destiny’s Stone unfolds the climactic conclusion of the epic tale of Dalriada. Enjoy the final book in C. H. Connor’s heart-wrenching trilogy of the Scots and their passion for family, peace, and freedom in their beloved land of Dalriada.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Nov 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665751865

Christopher H. Connor

Christopher H. Connor lives in Tullahoma, Tennessee, with his wife, Gina, and their four children, Colton, Casen, Cassidy, and Caryss. Dalriada: The Dawn of a King is his debut novel and the first book in a trilogy.

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Book III

Copyright © 2023 Christopher H. Connor.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images. Stone of Destiny image permitted under license, © Historic Environment Scotland.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-5185-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-5186-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023919708

Archway Publishing rev. date: 11/09/2023

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

EPILOGUE

GLOSSARY

This book is dedicated to the men and women of the world who have aspired to use their gifts for the good of others to the glory of God. May the legendary tale of Alpin and his sons inspire courageous individuals to pursue such heights.

Brittania, 820 A.D.

PROLOGUE

I found him, Coric said, his hair blowing gently in the cool autumn breeze. He gazed at his father with an unnatural ease.

Coric, Alpin replied entranced. His son’s name fell from his tongue and an odd sense of longing crept over him. You found who?

My brother.

Kenneth? Alpin asked, trying to understand.

Drostan, Coric replied and smiled at his father.

Alpin reached for his son and Coric slowly disappeared. Alpin’s eyes sprung open to the black night sky and its countless twinkling stars hovering above. Coric, he whispered softly to the heavens.

But Coric was gone.

He was gone, yet the pain of his loss remained. Surviving the loss of one son had pierced a hole in his soul that could never be fully mended. Having survived now the loss of a second son brought more than a hole, it brought an utter emptiness, a void that could only be satisfied with retribution—a retribution he would exact upon the savage who took his son from him. The savage’s name was Kodran.

Alpin blinked several times to clear his mind, giving himself a moment to tuck his anger into the deeper compartments of his heart for safekeeping. Then, he lifted his head from his bedroll, sat up, and stared across the dark field into the distance, eyeing the small wooden home Coric had built for his bride. Ceana was there. As was Ena.

Alpin exhaled a deep breath and glanced over his shoulder toward the burnt ruins of the structure his own family had called home for so many years. He cursed the Vikings and the madness they’d brought upon the people of Renton. Alpin would sleep his nights under the stars beside the blackened remains, in the elements, until he was able to put the broken pieces of his home back together.

Easing back to lie down, Alpin pulled his lambskin cover to his shoulders and closed his eyes. He would try to find sleep. The thought of his dream replayed in his mind. The image of his son had seemed so real, the face, the voice, if only it were him. He opened his eyes one last time and gazed in the darkness at the wooden cart not far from where he lay. There, the four-wheeled coffin rested with a haunting silence below a large oak tree, at least for the night. At sunrise, it would be pulled to the abbey, along with the body of a once noble son. Dalriada’s son. His son. Coric.

Standing in the sun’s glowing rays, Beauxmus finished his words and brought his eulogy to a close. He peered over the quiet gathering of somber souls. He uttered a peaceful prayer of a distant hope. He had prayed the prayer many times before in the small abbey where he’d previously served in Milton. The prayer was a Latin poem, one that paid homage to fallen warriors. Kenneth was familiar with the prayer, and though he didn’t understand its words, he understood its meaning. It was the cleric’s final words to God, beseeching Him to care for and keep watch over his brother, Coric.

Kenneth glanced down at the cold, still body of his older brother lying motionless in the open box in the ground. Though Coric’s body lay before him, he believed his brother was in a happier place. He regretted the times past when he’d angered his brother. He regretted that Coric had done so much and had given so much to find him and save him, even scouring the western mountains of Dalriada to rescue him from the Vikings, while Kenneth had done so little in return to protect Coric in his time of need. Maybe he had felt Coric was invincible, indestructible, but now all that had proven false. In hindsight, Kenneth recognized he had devoted so much passion and zeal to finding and protecting Arabella, while at the same time had shown so little concern for Coric. He missed his brother.

Kenneth stirred from his daze and assisted Aiden in placing the wooden lid upon the sunken box. His eyes fell upon Coric one last time, and he realized he’d never see him again. Then he and Aiden stepped from the pit and lifted their shovels. With heavy hands, the two began the painstaking task of lifting one shovel-full of earth after another and placing the soil upon the humble box that held the lifeless frame of their fallen hero.

Coric would now find peace, sleeping beside his own hero, Drostan, whose body had been laid in the ground seven years prior, not ten feet from where Coric rested.

CHAPTER 1

Kenneth’s eyes traced the edges of the small rectangular headstone. The rugged surface of the light gray stone, bearing the scars of the blacksmith’s chisel, properly spoke of his brother and the brazen attitude he’d brought to the world. Coric had been rugged. He had been strong—strong-minded and strong-willed. And he would have his way, even if it brought a few scars in the process. Still, the honorable headstone did little to offer sufficient peace or comfort to Kenneth.

It still doesn’t seem real, Coric, Kenneth finally muttered. His brother was gone. He had filled the world with his presence yet had emptied it with his departure.

A cool breeze blew and pulled Kenneth from his trance. He swallowed and glanced at the thinning clouds overhead. He sat in silence thinking of his brothers. He had never envisioned Coric lying in the ground beside Drostan. He recalled that rainy day several years prior when he, along with Coric and Aiden, had buried Drostan. Now his two older brothers rested side by side like sleeping warriors in the shadow of Renton’s small abbey.

Kenneth gazed at Drostan’s headstone. Rich green fescue dotted with tiny white clover blossoms had spread around the stone and covered the gravesite. A handful of dandelions stood here and there, making the area look much like any other patch of grass and weeds allowed to grow as nature willed. Only the weathered remains of Drostan’s small headstone spoke of his presence in the earth below.

Taking a deep breath, Kenneth returned his attention to the vellum parchment clutched in his hands. He wanted to write something. He needed to write something. He would pen a letter to Coric’s son. The boy must know of his father and what his father had done for his family – for his people. Though the boy, Duncan, was only a babe of a few months, he’d eventually grow to be a man. And it was Kenneth’s duty to tell Duncan of the great courage of his father. For in time, the grass would advance and fill the fresh dirt over Coric’s grave just as it had Drostan’s and would forever veil the valiant deeds of one of Dalriada’s finest men.

Kenneth’s heart stirred. His thoughts ran amid jagged peaks and dark valleys, searching for words to capture the fullness of Coric and his indomitable spirit, words that must be recorded or else lost forever with the passing of time. Kenneth muttered a sentence under his breath, laboring with what he’d say.

Frustrated, Kenneth stood and gazed at the sidewall of Renton’s abbey. The small building sat silent, offering no clarity to Kenneth. He turned and walked to the front of the abbey, then slowly paced the dirt path running alongside the small building. He stopped after a couple of steps. He remembered the spot. It was where he’d found Gilchrist, slain by the Vikings—his belly cut open and left for dead. It had been the cruel and evil day when Kenneth’s life had been turned upside down. The day Renton had been burned to the ground by the murderous barbarians.

Kenneth hurried back to Coric’s grave. He sat again in the shade of the abbey and picked up the vellum parchment and dipped a feathered quill in the round bottle of iron ink. He knew now what he wanted to say to Duncan. He would refuse to be a prisoner of doom, he would spurn death and dare it to make him a servant. Coric, as well as Drostan, would not be endlessly mourned in what was lost, but rather they’d be celebrated in what they gave. There was evil in this world, but his brothers proved that life was not meant to be lived in fear, cowering behind would-be walls of protection. No, life was meant to be lived in the pursuit of things far more noble—protecting the weak, conquering the villainous, and clearing the land of evil so that families could thrive, children could laugh, and life could be lived. Duncan must know this. He must be told and retold of his father’s bravery and courage. For Duncan was free to live and give because his father had truly lived and freely given.

Kenneth found the words he was looking for. He penned them one by one, finding a certain satisfaction in boasting of his brother and the deeds he had done.

As Kenneth brought his letter to a close, he set the quill on the grass beside the bottle of ink. He was sad that he had lost so much, but he determined that he would not live in his sadness. It would pass with time. And when it did, Kenneth knew what he would do.

Kenneth allowed his thoughts to settle and clear. He gazed once again at the quiet abbey. He pondered the paradox of the abbey and the graves—an abbey erected to speak of life amidst the inevitable reminders of mortality and death. The former a cure for the latter, though a cure too few would find.

Kenneth peered down at the parchment in his hands and read over the words he’d written. He was grateful for the vellum sheets and the small bottle of purplish-black iron ink he’d found in Gilchrist’s small study in the abbey. The cleric had been fond of writing and helping others to learn the skill, but the poor man passed before he’d written all he’d hoped to say. Kenneth’s time with Gilchrist was painfully cut short. Still, Kenneth found a certain solace in penning the letter. He hoped in some way Duncan would find solace of his own in learning about his father. Kenneth had tried to capture all that was honorable in his brother, Coric—the father Duncan would never know, except from the memories shared and the few words Kenneth had been able to pen.

Nessa said I might find you here.

Kenneth startled and lifted his head to see Arabella. I wanted to come and say a few words to Coric. Kenneth slowly folded the vellum in half and rested his hands at his side.

I know you miss him, Arabella said.

Yes, I miss him.

Do you want to talk about it? Arabella asked.

Not really. I suppose I should, but it won’t bring him back, Kenneth replied.

It won’t. But it may help you to move past it all.

There’s a lot to move past, Arabella. He saved my life. He traveled across the entire countryside to find me … and free me from those Viking devils, Kenneth said. And in the end, it cost him his life. It cost Ceana her husband and Duncan his father.

Kenneth, Coric knew what he was doing. No force on earth could have stopped him. Arabella paused for a moment and then drew close to Kenneth. She stared into his eyes, finding his pain. And we both know that if Coric could do it all again, he would.

But now he has a son, Kenneth replied. The little boy won’t have a father to teach him how to ride or fish or shoot a bow. Kenneth peered down and mused at a thought, then somehow found the ability to smile, … or how to fight, he muttered. A tear hung in the corner of his eye as his gaze found Arabella’s.

Yes, your brother was a fighter. Arabella returned a smile, and she lifted her hand to Kenneth’s cheek. But Duncan has you. You are a good man, Kenneth MacAlpin. I have no doubt you will watch over that baby boy and see to it that he grows up to be big and strong. And he has Alpin and Aiden and a whole host of strong men who will teach him all those ghastly things you boys seem to hold dear.

How’s Duncan doing now? Kenneth asked.

He’s well, Arabella replied. When I left Ceana, she had fed him and laid him down. Don’t worry about Duncan, he’s in good hands. And your mother and Nessa will see that he is tended to every waking moment that Ceana is not holding him.

I suppose you are right, Kenneth replied. But I still miss Coric.

I know you do. Arabella grasped Kenneth’s hand. Let’s go home. They’re waiting on dinner for us.

Oengus poured a single glass of sherry. He lifted the dark red drink eye level, allowing it to settle in the incoming beam of sunlight. There, he held it and lingered on memories passed. Instantly, he resigned his thoughts and downed the beverage in a single swig. After setting the empty glass on the table, he rubbed his temples, moving his index fingers in a circular motion against his head. His headaches were returning, and they added no small measure of annoyance to his often-irritated demeanor.

Though the large vacuous dining hall boasted sufficient space to conduct a feast for multiple dozens, Oengus sat alone. Not that he was looking to host or entertain, yet he would not shun the opportunity to converse and trade wits with another of his intelligence. Such was Oengus’ plight. For a man etched with such an insatiable and unpleasant disposition, company was hard to keep.

Grasping the edge of the long oak dining table, Oengus pushed away and rose to his feet. He strode to the window to view the courtyard below. Where is he? Oengus muttered to himself.

Only moments after his grumbling, the latch of the dining hall door clicked, and the door opened. Deort cautiously extended his head into the room before stepping inside.

Lord Oengus, I was told that you had asked for me?

Yes, Deort, Oengus said, stepping away from the window and returning to the dining table. "There are a few things I’d like to speak with you about. What do we know of Alpin and the Scots?

Moving into the hall and closing the door behind him, Deort replied, Based on the reports from my men, the clans in Dalriada seem somewhat quiet. They’re still licking their wounds and rebuilding the towns Halfdan and his horde burned and destroyed.

Ah, licking their wounds … much like the dogs they are. Very appropriate.

There’s another matter too, sir, Deort said, rather impatiently. My men have stated that some peasants were reported to have been killed in the north. And—

Oengus lifted an extended palm toward Deort, silencing the captain of his guard. I’m certain, Deort, that peasants are reported dead quite frequently. Are they not? And these peasants in the north, are they not always feuding among themselves?

Yes, my lord, but as I was saying, these killings have been reported in the north, but also in the south region of Fortriu. Canaul of Fortriu is beside himself.

Oengus’ face contorted in curiosity. Canaul is always grousing about something. What do those people see in that man? Never mind, the Picts of Fortriu have never been the brightest. How many peasants are we talking about?

I believe it was six in the north and five in the south.

Deort, there are thousands of Picts throughout the towns and countryside of Pictland. Family squabbles and feuding neighbors can sometimes get ugly. Five here, six there. This doesn’t exactly sound like an uprising.

"True, my lord. But these peasants weren’t killed in a fist fight or a knife brawl at a tavern. The individuals were brutally beaten and maimed. Some were run through with the sword, and some had their throats cut. And in both instances, the dead were said to be families, people of small farms and livestock—sheep and goats, mainly. As well, in both cases the attackers seem to have taken whatever food supplies were present and a few sheep from each flock while leaving the bulk of the flocks behind.

Oengus folded his arms and turned. I see, he said. With his eyes gazing at the floor, he slowly ambled back to the window. With the similarities you noted, it sounds as if the attackers in the north and those in the south are one and the same.

Agreed, my lord, Deort replied.

Oengus spun on his heels and faced Deort, Do your men have any idea of who these attackers are?

Deort teetered back and forth, wanting to provide an answer. It’s hard to say—

Why is it hard to say, Deort? Oengus fumed as his head pounded. I need an answer! Clearly it is someone needing food and someone capable of wielding a sword!

That’s the issue, Lord Oengus. It could be anyone from a raving madman to a pack of marauding thieves. Possibly Britons, Scots, or rogue Picts. We don’t have any eyewitnesses.

Well, dammit, find some! I want to know who is moving through Pictland and killing as they please.

Yes, my lord, I’ll put my best men on it. Deort finished speaking and turned to exit the room. Before reaching the door, Oengus called to him, Wait.

Deort halted and faced Oengus.

Oengus exhaled an exasperated breath and sat at the table, rubbing his forehead as he thought. After a long moment, he poured another glass of sherry. Then he spoke, I didn’t retrieve you to talk about these events among the peasants. He took a sip of his sherry, wiped his mouth with the back of this palm, and then gently eased his glass back to the table. There is something I need you to do.

Deort resumed his typical stance. He placed one hand on the butt of his sword and the other by his side, remaining silent and eager for Oengus to finish.

You recall the young girl, Arabella, who I allowed as a guest here in the castle some months back before all hell broke loose with Halfdan and those Viking animals? Oengus asked. Killing that bastard Halfdan was one thing Alpin got right, Oengus muttered to himself as he awaited Deort’s reply.

I do, sir. I recall the girl, Arabella. My recollection is that you were quite fond of her, Deort said, concealing his grin.

I’m not interested in your recollection of my fondness. What I am interested in is finding out more about her. Though she lives with Alpin’s cousin, Constantine, while playing make-believe that he’s her father, we all know that she’s a Pict. And as a Pict, she should be in Pictland—not with those halfwits in Dalriada.

Are you asking me to have my men retrieve her … abduct her, my lord?

Oengus shook his head. No, you fool! If she’s kidnapped, she’ll never stay here in Pictland. At least not under her own will. I am suggesting something much more thoughtful, much more sophisticated.

What would that be, my lord? Deort replied.

We know her family was killed many years ago, maybe fifteen or twenty. Oddly, I believe they were killed in a manner very similar to the two reports you noted earlier. But that’s not the point. The point is she must have relatives here in Pictland—an aunt, or uncle, or grandparent, Oengus stated matter-of-factly. Deort, I want you to find them.

Do we know where her family was killed, sir? Which town, or which region of Pictland?

That’s for you to find out. Start asking people and follow the trail, Oengus replied.

Yes, Lord Oengus. We will begin the search immediately to find her relatives. I’ll put Grogan as my lead on this. He is a capable scout and has been around long enough to know who to ask to find Arabella’s relatives. If she has any still living, Grogan will find them.

Very good. That is all, Deort.

Deort turned to exit the dining hall.

And Deort.

Yes, my lord?

When you find these relatives, Oengus said, bring them to me. He watched Deort disappear and a smirked eased upon his face.

CHAPTER 2

Dusk settled upon Renton as the sun slowly disappeared below the western horizon. Kenneth slowed his horse and glanced at the home he, his father, and Aiden were rebuilding. He couldn’t help but think about all they’d lost when the Vikings had stormed their town and destroyed nearly everything standing. But he was proud his father had insisted the family rebuild it all—their home, their barn, everything—just as it had been before.

Kenneth turned to Arabella as she rode beside him. It’s taken a while, but we are almost done, Kenneth noted, gesturing toward the nearly completed structure. Another wall and some fencing for the animal pen, and we’ll be finished.

It’ll be a blessing for your mother and father to have their home back. In some ways, maybe it’s been good for your father to have something to focus on, Arabella replied.

The two continued forward in a slow trot as they headed across the grassy field toward Ceana’s home.

When they arrived, Kenneth slid from his horse and helped Arabella dismount.

Kenneth, when do you think we should build a home of our own? Arabella asked.

Well, it’s probably best to get married first, don’t you think? he said with a grin. If Renton’s new cleric, Beauxmus, is anything like Gilchrist, then I’d guess he’d give us an earful if we tried to do otherwise.

Arabella slapped his shoulder. You’re avoiding my question. Maybe I should have said it more plainly … when are we going to get married? You made a promise to me on that hilltop, and I aim to hold you to it.

Kenneth shifted in his stance and glanced back at the home he and the others were rebuilding. Things have been a bit busy, Arabella. A lot has happened and I—

Kenneth, I am not trying to rush things. I recognize all that’s happened. To you, to me, to our families, to Renton. I understand that, and I am not dismissing it. It was horrible. But we can’t live in the past and never move forward.

I know … I know. Kenneth lifted his palms, trying to slow Arabella. We do need to move ahead. And you know I love you, and that I want to marry you. It’s only that we need to find the right time.

When will it be the right time? When is it the right time for us, for you and me, to be a family? We’ve all been living with Ceana in her tiny home, and she even has Duncan … and he’s a baby. Arabella said, pointing to the small dwelling Coric had built.

Kenneth combed his fingers through his hair and gazed at Arabella for a long moment. He loved the girl. He loved her spunk and her fight. He knew she was right. His eyes settled on the gold cross hanging from her neck. He stepped to her and lifted the cross in his fingers. Remember when I gave this back to you the day Coric died? I promised you then that I would make everything right again. I asked you to trust me. It was the worst day for all of us. But you and I, together, we can do this. We can rebuild our lives … but it’s going to take some time. So, Arabella, I am asking you to trust me.

Arabella stared down at the cross and its muted gold surface. She gazed back at the man she loved. I trust you, she said and nodded. We’ll know when the time is right.

We will. We’ll know, Kenneth replied. And it won’t be far off. I promise.

It better not be, she said, and a smile formed in the corners of her lips.

Kenneth peered at Arabella timidly. Can we go inside and get some dinner now?

Arabella nodded and the two strode, side by side, to the door of Ceana’s home.

We’re back. Is dinner ready? Kenneth said in a loud voice as he walked through the doorway behind Arabella.

Shhhhhh! Nessa fussed. Duncan is resting. Ceana finally got him down.

Sorry, Nessa, Kenneth replied. I didn’t know he was sleeping.

Well, he is, Nessa said. So, try to keep quiet.

Where are Alpin and Ena? Arabella whispered, stepping toward Nessa and glancing about. Then the smell of stew drew her to the steaming pot hanging over the dull flames of the hearthstone fireplace.

Father is gathering firewood, and Mother has taken bread and stew to a few of the villagers near Renton, Nessa replied. Seems a handful of folks have come down with the fever, and Mother thinks a warm meal will help.

A fretful expression formed on Arabella’s face. When I saw my father last week in Cashel, he spoke of several who had caught the fever. He even said an older fellow had burned with fever so badly that he died.

That’s awful. We’ve all been through so much, Nessa said. It seems as if the moment we try to stand again, something is there to push us back down.

Well, I’m done being pushed down, Kenneth remarked. These fevers will pass, the harvest will come, and we’ll get our home and the town rebuilt … and we won’t let anyone tear us down again.

Where did all that come from? Arabella said and gawked at Kenneth.

I’m just saying, I’m done being punched in the gut—

The door suddenly opened, and Kenneth paused.

There you are, Alpin said, sticking his head through the open doorway. I need your help, Kenneth. I’d like to get a few more logs split before we call it a night.

Sure, Father. I can help. I’ll get my axe, Kenneth replied and headed toward the door to follow Alpin.

I’ll call you two when Ena returns, Arabella said. We can eat then. I’m sure you’ll be hungry.

Kenneth rose early as the morning sun hinted of its arrival. The dawning day held a yellowish glow, giving the spring leaves of the maples and oaks an orange-colored hue. Kenneth found a quiet spot near a large oak and sat down on a thick, protruding root, and leaned back against the trunk of the tree. He dug through the leather satchel he’d brought with him and pulled out the folded vellum parchment. He reread the letter he’d written Duncan and thought for a moment. Then he folded it up and placed it back into the satchel. He extracted a second piece of vellum and pressed it against his thigh to flatten it. Satisfied, he removed the small jar of iron ink and the feathered quill he’d taken from Gilchrist’s study at the abbey.

He thought for several moments then gazed east toward the ascending sun. From there, his eyes moved along the horizon to the north and fixed upon the dirt path to Renton. He stared at the path, not expecting any riders or passersby, but simply staring, lost in thought. He scanned the length of the path until it disappeared over the rolling hill that separated his home from his town.

He closed his eyes and thought back to the day he rode from Renton to find Aiden and Nessa when they had been taken captive by the Vikings. He replayed in his mind images of the path he’d taken that led to Loch Lomond and how the trail bent west around the loch. A picture of two long rows of pines lining either side of the path formed in his thoughts. Yeah, that’s right, he whispered to himself. He let the image settle in his mind.

After mulling over the scenes he’d recalled, he opened his eyes and dipped his feathered quill into the jar of iron ink. He worked to flatten the vellum once again, and with a delicate touch he began to etch a curved line on the thin-skinned parchment. He remoistened his quill tip in the ink and added a second line, turning his hand and letting the quill move up the page. He reviewed his work and then paused to think for a moment. Then he added several round dots aligned in two rows on either side of the second line.

He brought the vellum close to his mouth and gently blew to dry the ink. Pulling the parchment away, he inspected his work and then returned to the process of making curves and lines, laboring to proportion the sketch