Celtic Fire Page 22

  “I … didn’t seek to bed him! He pursued me.”

  “And was caught in his own snare.” Demetrius held her gaze. “I don’t believe you regret it.”

  Rhiannon searched for words of denial but found none.

  “Why did you try to leave him?” Demetrius asked. “Did you not know he would grant anything you asked?”

  “Barring my freedom.”

  “Freedom? No woman is truly free. Few men are, either. You can live a fine life with him.”

  A wistful smile touched her lips. “In Rome?”

  “Yes. Would you not like to see the heart of the empire? It’s a grand and amazing city.”

  Rhiannon closed her eyes. Part of her did long to travel to the ends of the earth and look upon all the Wonders she could find. Another part, just as strong, knew that to leave the northlands would cause an ache that would never fade. “I … I cannot say.”

  “Think on it, my dear.” He blinked rapidly and Rhiannon realized he was crying. “If Marcus should … die … Lucius will need you.”

  Her chest tightened unbearably. She could think of no adequate response, so she swung her leg over her mare’s flank and dismounted. “If you will give me but a moment, Magister …” She sent a meaningful glance toward the bushes.

  “Do not be long.”

  “I won’t.” She ducked into the thicket, making sure to rustle the branches as she went. When she had gained a sufficient distance from the trail, she went still for several long heartbeats. When she moved again, it was with the silence of a ghost.

  She did not look back.

  Chapter Seventeen

  For most, mist meant blindness. For Owein, the white shroud that crept over the landscape brought vision. The pictures behind his eyes no longer needed night shadows for a backdrop. He Saw as clearly during the days now.

  He sat rigid in the small clearing outside Madog’s hut, holding the Druid sword his mentor had given him. It was the sword that had killed the Roman at Samhain. The same blade that would kill Rhiannon’s defiler at the rise of the summer moon.

  The hand of Kernunnos lay heavy upon him. The pain in his temple was as familiar to him as breath and he’d begun to believe it would never retreat. He cared little, if his torment brought him the power to free his sister from the vile dog who had enslaved her.

  “What do ye See, lad?” Madog’s voice was Owein’s only connection to the outside world when the visions took over. He felt the old Druid lean closer.

  “A man. Dead.”

  “Roman or Celt?”

  Owein waited for the scene’s fragments to coalesce. “I canna … Nay, wait, I See him more clearly now. Roman, I am thinking.” Rhiannon’s captor? Owein couldn’t be sure. The picture faded.

  “Good.” Madog rose and paced a circle about him. He chanted the ancient prayers, his form a shadow on the landscape of Owein’s vision. “Look beyond, lad. Ye have Seen what will be. Now See what can be, and the path to it.”

  Cautiously Owein extended his mind and touched the mist. In the past he had never sought to birth the images that rose in his mind. But Madog had told Owein that his Sight revealed only a small portion of things to come. The larger part of the future could be shaped by those who had the favor of Kernunnos.

  As Owein did.

  Madog’s steps tightened, forming a spiral of which Owein was the center. “See, Owein.” He halted before him and lifted a frantic mountain hare overhead. “See the defeat of our enemy.” The Druid’s shadow arm slashed. The hare shrieked.

  Hot blood spilled over Owein’s bare shoulders and ran down his back. He inhaled deeply, drinking in the sweet scent of the hare’s life, drawing strength from his animal brother’s sacrifice. It was the way of things. Blood was spilled, power gained. It could not be otherwise.

  The mist swirled. Images rose and vanished like puffs of winter breath. A man, wounded. A woman’s face—Rhiannon? Her mouth opened in a soundless scream.

  And blood. Always blood.

  Owein’s breathing slowed as he plunged deeper. The flash of Madog’s Druid sword. His own hand on the hilt. The tip poised at the throat of a dark-skinned man. This time the man’s features were unmistakable. It was the Roman commander. The foreign dog who had defiled the queen of the Brigantes.

  He would die by Owein’s hand.

  “Rhiannon is gone, Luc. Left me in the forest with both our mounts. Took me half the day to find my way out.”

  Despite the fact that Lucius had anticipated Rhiannon’s flight, Demetrius’s words sliced like a finely honed battle sword. “I told you she would run,” he replied wearily.

  Demetrius lowered himself onto a stool on the opposite side of Marcus’s bed, but Lucius didn’t dare meet his friend’s gaze. He stared instead at his son’s limp hand clasped in his own rough palm. The boy was quiet now, having finally thrashed himself into a fitful slumber. Aulus hunched at the foot of his nephew’s bed, silent and watchful. In the shrouded stillness of the sickroom, Lucius almost imagined he could hear the soft susurration of his brother’s breath.

  “You were right,” Demetrius said finally. “As always. Yet I still find it hard to believe.” He shook his head. “I was sure she cared for the boy.”

  “She cares only for her freedom. No doubt if she had given you an herb, it would have been a poisonous one.”

  “You cannot believe that.”

  “I don’t know what to believe.”

  Demetrius’s eyes showed his worry. “You look terrible, Luc. Like a man bound in Tartarus.”

  Lucius felt far worse. “A sojourn in Hades would be an improvement.”

  “Go to your chamber and get some rest while I look after Marcus. I’ll call you if … if there’s any change.”

  “No.” The word came out more sharply than Lucius intended. “No. I’ve been absent for most of my son’s life. I cannot turn from his death. It won’t be long now.”

  Demetrius fell silent. He rose and adjusted the shutters, allowing a bit more light into the chamber, then resumed his seat. Lucius lifted Marcus’s hand and laid it gently across the boy’s chest. Then, since that position looked too corpselike, he repositioned it on the cushions.

  He sat there, unmoving, watching his son—the future of his family’s line—fade before his eyes. “What was I thinking, bringing Marcus to this wretched scrap of wilderness?”

  “The boy begged to come north,” Demetrius replied. “Don’t torture yourself with what might have been. He could just as easily have fallen ill in Rome.”

  “No.” Lucius’s fist slammed onto the low table beside him, overturning a goblet of wine. “I am his father. It was my duty to ensure his safety.”

  “No one can foresee what the Fates have woven,” Demetrius said. “We can guarantee nothing, not even our next breath.”

  They lapsed into silence. After a time, footsteps sounded beyond the door, but Lucius didn’t bother to rise. No doubt it was Candidus, bearing yet another tray of food that Lucius wouldn’t even glance at, let alone eat.

  Aulus looked up, surprise evident on his bruised features. He flickered like a lamp flame in a breeze. Lucius sprang to his feet as his brother vanished in a puff of mist.

  Demetrius looked up, startled. “Lucius, what—”

  Lucius strode to the chamber door and flung it wide. Rhiannon stood before him, one hand lifted and poised to knock. Her face was streaked with grime, her tunic torn and muddy. Her hair blazed about her shoulders like a fire gone wild. She clutched a tangled clump of leaves and roots to her heaving chest.

  Her eyes widened at the sight of him. No doubt he looked worse than she did. He’d neither slept nor shaved in two days. But now that she had returned, he felt his desperation fade.

  “Lucius,” Rhiannon breathed and swayed on her feet.

  He caught her by the arm, holding her steady until she regained her balance. Then he drew his hand back, unsure if his touch was welcome. “You came back.”

  “Yes.” She looked past him. “Marcus. Is h
e—”

  “He lives still.” Lucius stepped aside and allowed her to pass.

  She bent low over Marcus’s bed and smoothed one hand over his forehead. “I am sorry, Magister. It was necessary I gather the herb alone. The sacred grove lies close to my village.”

  “You might have trusted me to understand,” Demetrius said.

  “I couldn’t take that chance.”

  Lucius understood only too well. Rhiannon dared not reveal the location of her village and risk the lives of Aulus’s murderers.

  Demetrius set his hands on the bed and pushed himself to his feet. “Do not speak of it further.” He touched the knot of roots she’d laid on the blankets. “What will you need? Mortar and pestle?”

  “Yes. And hot water,” she said, not looking up from her examination of the boy.

  Demetrius left them alone. Lucius told himself to keep his distance, but the siren call of Rhiannon’s presence proved impossible to resist. Yes, she’d protected her murdering kinsmen, but she’d sacrificed her sudden freedom to return to the fort, for Marcus’s sake if not for his own.

  He moved to stand behind her, close but not touching. When she straightened and looked up at him, her face was flushed. She spoke, her voice so low he had to dip his head to make out the words. “Lucius, I must warn you. Marcus is weak and this cure is dangerous in itself. It may only hasten his death.”

  “Yet it has cured some?”

  “Many.”

  Lucius paced around the bed, halting at the table upon which Demetrius’s instruments had been set out. His hand closed on the goblet he’d overturned earlier. He righted the cup and busied himself mopping the spilt wine with a cloth. Twilight gloom was gathering swiftly. He relit the hand lamp, gathered the soiled rags, and placed them in a heap by the door.

  When at last he turned back to Rhiannon, his surge of helplessness was, if not vanquished, then tightly under control. “Do what you must. Marcus has little time left as it is.”

  She moved toward him and cupped his cheek with her palm. “Thank you for your trust. I know I’ve done little to deserve it.”

  His jaw worked to force a swallow past the burning lump in his throat. He looked toward the newly lit lamp. The flame stung his eyes.

  Rhiannon’s hand dropped away and the loss of her touch brought an ache to Lucius’s chest. As she peeled away the swath of blankets shrouding Marcus’s upper body, he found himself wishing for Aulus’s presence, however gruesome, at his side.

  If he needed final proof of his insanity, the fact that he missed his brother’s ghost was surely it.

  Rhiannon wet a clean length of linen and began to sponge Marcus’s face and torso. Lucius wondered at her actions—Demetrius had insisted the boy remain warm. Yet he didn’t question her method. He had placed his son’s life—and his own heart—in Rhiannon’s hands. He could do no less than to trust her.

  Marcus stirred and his eyelids fluttered open. “Rhiannon.” The word was little more than a hoarse croak.

  “I’m here, Marcus.” She brushed a kiss on his forehead.

  Lucius’s heart clenched. She loved his son. He could see it in her eyes, in her touch. How Lucius wished he could earn even a half measure of that emotion.

  Demetrius returned, followed by a slave woman carrying a steaming bowl of water.

  “Both leaves and roots,” Rhiannon said. Demetrius took up a pestle and crushed the first bit of root. Rhiannon leaned low, her lips grazing Marcus’s ear. “I need you to take a draught. A potion.”

  Marcus’s eyes were two wide pools. “A witch’s brew?”

  Rhiannon’s lips curved, even as her tears welled. “Yes. It will be horrid, but it will make you better.”

  Demetrius finished his preparations and filled a cup with liquid. Rhiannon murmured her most potent healing spell as she slipped her arm under Marcus’s shoulders. A spasm gripped the lad’s body. His arm flailed, striking her in the face.

  Lucius was at her side in an instant. His arms closed about Marcus in gentle restraint. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  Marcus’s fit passed. Lucius held him upright while Rhiannon dripped her brew down his throat. When she finished, he eased his son’s head onto the cushions.

  “How long?” he asked grimly.

  Rhiannon met his gaze. “We will know by morning.”

  “It wants but two nights to the summer moon.” Edmyg eyed the skull atop Madog’s staff. “My warriors are eager.”

  Owein stood silent, watching the firelight paint the chieftain’s arrogant features in wavering shadows. Even at a distance of twenty paces, Owein could see hatred burning in his kinsman’s eyes. Pain spiked into his temple. The visions called. He leaned heavily on the rough doorframe of Madog’s hut and fought against them. When they came upon him, he lay as helpless as a babe. He knew Edmyg wished to kill him. He dared not show his vulnerability.

  “We will be ready,” Madog said. His hand shifted on his staff, causing the dead man’s visage to swivel in Owein’s direction.

  “How, when Rhiannon has failed to deliver the Roman?” Edmyg asked.

  At that, Owein moved from the shadows into the firelight, fighting the pain with each step. “Deliver? How so?”

  Madog’s gaze shifted toward Owein before returning to Edmyg. “A stag will take the Roman’s place,” he said.

  Edmyg spat in Owein’s direction. “A poor substitute for an enemy’s blood. The chieftains will nay be pleased.”

  Madog shrugged. “When warriors are discontented, the fault lies with their leader.”

  Edmyg bristled. “Watch your tongue, old man.”

  Another brilliant shaft of agony exploded in Owein’s head. He took a deep breath and waited for the worst of it to pass. “How was Rhiannon to deliver the Roman? She’s his prisoner.”

  Edmyg paid him scant attention. “Dinna bring the lad to the circle,” he told Madog. “He is no longer of the clan.”

  “Think ye that blood can be denied?” said Madog. “Ye will find otherwise.”

  “He killed Glynis and her babe. My son.”

  “True enough. Yet he did nay more than Kernunnos commanded.”

  Owein’s blood ran cold. Madog believed his Sight had caused the death of Glynis and her bastard? Could it be true? He’d not sought to form the vision. It had come unbidden.

  Edmyg snatched his dagger from its sheath and pressed the tip to Madog’s throat. “Ye set him to it, old man. Dinna be denying it.”

  Owein seized the Druid sword from the scabbard at his belt. But Madog raised a palm to Owein and merely met Edmyg’s gaze with a cold stare. Edmyg slammed his weapon back into its sheath.

  He turned on Owein. “Yer precious sister plays the whore with the Roman.”

  “The dog forced himself on her.”

  “Nay. Cormac reports she takes her pleasure gladly. Cartimandua’s blood runs strong in her veins.”

  “ ’Tis a lie!”

  Edmyg gave an unpleasant laugh. “Is it? Rhiannon kens she has but to lure her lover outside the fort to gain her freedom. Yet she doesna climb from his bed.”

  Owein stared at him. “What do ye mean?”

  “I sent her word through Cormac instructing her to bed the Roman and contrive a way to lie with him in the forest, away from his guards.” He made a slashing motion with one hand. “I was to be waiting, to take him alive.”

  “She will yet bring him to the circle,” Madog said.

  Owein spun toward him. “Ye knew of this?”

  “Aye,” answered Edmyg. “He knew.”

  Owein felt sick. “How could ye ask Rhiannon to debase herself so?”

  Madog’s eyes took on a hard glint. “How many Druid women suffered worse degradations at Mona only to have their throats slit by Roman swords after? ’Tis no shameful role Rhiannon takes in this. ’Tis vengeance. She wields a weapon only a woman can hold.”

  He caressed the skull atop his staff. “Revenge is precious. It canna be gained without sacrifice. Who better to o
ffer it than a queen?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rhiannon awoke by small degrees, fighting a dream in which she searched the ground within the sacred stones, but could not find the Roman skull. Nay. It had to be there. But the spike that had once held Aulus’s severed head was empty.

  She jerked upright, heart pounding. It was no dream she saw, but a memory. She’d searched the Druid circle after gathering mistletoe from the oak grove. She’d intended to bury Lucius’s brother’s remains before returning to the fort, but had found the skull missing. Had Madog moved it? If so, why? She would have searched further, perhaps even ventured near the Druid’s hut, but her fear for Marcus’s life had driven her back to the fort.

  Marcus. Did he live?

  She could just make out his motionless form nestled on the bed at his father’s side, but from her vantage point on the floor she couldn’t tell if he breathed or not. Lucius lay stretched on his back, his arms flung over his head. Sleep softened the hard angles of his face, giving Rhiannon a glimpse of how he might have looked as a youth.

  She flung aside her hasty pallet of blankets and forced herself to her feet. Dreading what she might find, she inched toward the bed, steeling herself for the worst. Halting by Marcus’s side, she looked down at the lad.

  Her heart slammed into her chest. The lad slept. Not the fitful rest of the last days, but a deep, natural slumber. The heat and flush of his skin had receded and his breathing had eased. Rhiannon gripped the bed frame in a dizzying flood of relief.

  Marcus would live.

  At least until Edmyg laid siege to the fort.

  The summer moon was but one night away. Rhiannon harbored no illusions that any Roman, no matter how young, would be spared her kinsmen’s vengeance. And whether she watched the Celt warriors approach or stood behind their battle surge, she could only be a part of the losing side. There would be no winners in this war unless she could stop the fight entirely.

  Could she escape Vindolanda a third time? She turned to the window as if she would find the answer somewhere in the lane below or the hills beyond the perimeter walls. She’d thrown open the shutters during the night, hoping to relieve the stench of the sickroom despite Demetrius’s disapproval. Now she saw that the glow of dawn lay low on the horizon. The day would be clear. If only her heart were as well.