by P. C. Cast
“I’m attached.” Alex pushed her hair back from her face. God, she was tired!
No, you’re exhausted. Your energy is dangerously depleted.
“I’m tougher than I look,” she said, straightening up and facing the tree again.
Alexandra, wait for Caradoc to return.
“Who knows how long he could be gone? I just want to get this done and over with.” It was not until much later that Alex realized the spirit of the ancient Celt had called her by her real name. Then all she could think of was that she needed to find the other medallion piece, so that she could finally rest and figure out what she was going to do with her own future.
Alex pressed her palms against the rowan tree again. She closed her eyes and focused her tired mind, trying to concentrate.
“Thank you for showing me Catus,” she told the tree. “But since he’s not dead, I didn’t get what I needed from him. So this time I’m calling only the spirits of the dead. I need people who knew Catus.” Alex paused, and added, “I am especially calling spirits of the dead who knew things about Catus—intimate things, secret things. In Andraste’s name, I call those dead to me now!”
Lightning shot through the tree and into her palms, causing her to cry aloud in pain. With a crack! the fabric of reality split open. In horror, Alex saw specters of the dead being yanked through the gap. At first their ghostly eyes looked sightlessly around and they seemed disoriented. But then they spotted her and, with an eerie keening cry, rushed toward her.
Alex had never before been afraid of ghosts. As annoying and overwhelming as spirits could be, they’d never been aggressive. These ghosts were utterly different. They exuded anger and hatred and despair. The emotions swirled around them, made tangible in the form of a dark mist that snaked in ominous waves, curling and coiling from the specters, reaching toward Alex.
We who have been wronged by Catus come to claim our vengeance!
“I’m not Catus! Look at me—you know I’m not Catus!” Alex cried at the horde of malevolent spirits that continued to flow through the rip in reality.
Vengeance! They seethed and swarmed, surrounding Alex and her rowan tree.
“What are you doing? Okay, stop! Go back where you came from. This isn’t what I wanted.”
We shall return to the land of the dead, but we will take you with us!
A tendril of darkness snaked close to her and wrapped around Alex’s throat. Ghosts hadn’t ever been able to touch her, so she shrieked in shocked surprise when the black, serpent-like tentacle of death closed a frigid noose around her neck.
“No!” she screamed, trying to take her hands from the tree and pull the thing off her. But her hands wouldn’t move. It was as if her body was frozen in place, and all that screamed and writhed was her own spirit, skewered by the blind hatred of the conjured ghosts.
As the serpent thing snagged her soul and wrenched it from her body, Alex shrieked in fear. Andraste! Goddess! Help me!
A brilliant silver light surrounded Alex, chasing away the darkness that had sought to entrap her. The light soon began to fade, but Alex, drowning in terror, clung to the brightness that had saved her. The might of the goddess was too much for a mortal soul still anchored to its living host to bear, however. Unwilling to return to her body, but unable to fully exist in the presence of the Divine Feminine, Alexandra Patton’s spirit shattered.
Chapter 16
T he Celtic army celebrated, surrounding their queen with the loot they’d pillaged from Londinium. Drunk with victory, their thirst for retribution momentarily slaked by the defeat of Londinium and Rome’s Ninth Legion, they raised goblets of stolen Roman wine to Boudica and her victorious goddess.
“Next we chase the vermin up the Watling Road, and as we go we will defeat every legion we meet, so by the time we end at the Isle of Mona, the site of the worst of their atrocities, we will have rid our land of the Roman infestation!” Boudica shouted, and the Iceni echoed her words with cheers.
Caradoc raised his goblet along with the rest of Boudica’s people, though his thoughts kept circling back to his campsite and the woman who awaited him there.
Blonwen was a mystery. She was no priestess from Mona, though she had been touched by Andraste. She was a Soul Speaker, but she understood little about her gift. She automatically channeled the energy of the forest and used it to comfort the dying and soothe their spirits as they passed on to the Otherworld, yet it seemed she knew nothing about the spirit realms or how to access them.
To add to the paradox that surrounded her, Blonwen had the ability to soothe that which the desecration of Mona had broken within him, and that had shocked the druid to his very soul.
For days he had hated himself because he had escaped the fate of his friends and family on Mona. Caradoc understood why they had given their lives so that he could live and make his way to his kinswoman. The Iceni royal blood must continue and the people must have the security of knowing their line of kings and queens would not be destroyed by Roman brutality. Still, he lived when all the others did not.
And then this woman—this imposter—appeared, claiming to be a priestess from Mona. His first instinct had been to cut her lying throat with his own knife. When his mother’s spirit had spoken through her, instructing him not to give her away, Caradoc had been utterly confused. His confusion had only grown stronger as his attraction to her had become obvious. Yes, he recognized her from his dreams, but druids were often gifted with prophetic visions while they slept. His attraction to her had been more shocking than his mother’s acceptance of her. He’d thought what he’d witnessed at Mona had killed all the gentleness and passion and ability to love within him. He’d held Blonwen in his arms once and known that, at least with her, that wasn’t true.
It had angered him and made him feel racked with guilt, which was why he’d struck out at her, wanting to hurt her and drive her away. But that had been wrong of him, and when he’d looked within himself afterward, he’d been ashamed of what he’d allowed sadness and loss to make him become.
So he’d opened himself to her, and been engulfed by the desire to learn more—and not because he thought she was dangerous to Boudica. Caradoc wanted to know the truth about Blonwen because he felt compelled to know it, and in that feeling he recognized the hand of Andraste. The goddess was at work in the attraction between them. Was Blonwen a soul he’d known before? Was that why he’d dreamed of her and why she had such an instant and intense effect on him? Because she did have a profound effect on him. It was more than her softness, the way she felt against him, the way she tasted and smelled. His need to be with her went beyond the physical, and that truly frightened him. Caradoc was afraid there was something buried within the mystery of her that could take her away from him, and he’d lost too much already. He couldn’t bear to lose the woman who had made his soul come alive again.
The longer Caradoc sat there, at his honored place beside his victorious queen, the more restless he became. Thoughts of Blonwen circled obsessively through his mind. He saw the golden red of her hair reflected in the campfire. The deepening shadows of the waning day reminded him of the pools of her eyes. The rich taste of the Roman wine made him think of the sweetness of her mouth.
“Where are you, Caradoc? For surely you are not here beside me.” Boudica spoke softly, her words for his ears alone to hear.
“I am sorry, my queen,” Caradoc said. “My thoughts are with Andraste’s priestess.”
Boudica nodded. “Helping the dead pass to the goddess could not have been an easy task.” She placed her hand on her kinsman’s broad shoulder. “Go to her—I give you leave.”
Caradoc had to force himself not to leap up and bolt from Boudica’s campsite. Instead he stood and bowed respectfully to her. “Thank you, my queen and my friend.”
She smiled at him and then turned back to her celebrating people.
Caradoc waited until he was several paces away before he broke into a run, though his haste made him feel foolish. He was
behaving like a callow youth who was unable to spend any time away from the maiden who obsessed him. He almost laughed at himself.
When he reached his empty campsite, the mirth he’d felt at his own expense died. Where was she? A sound from the forest pulled his attention toward the little stream that bubbled not far away, and his feet began to move before his mind consciously told them to.
Then he saw her and his blood went cold. She was lying in a crumpled, motionless heap at the base of a huge rowan tree. Caradoc sprinted to her, pulling her to him with an anguished cry.
“Blonwen! What has—” At that moment he turned her over and saw her open, sightless eyes, and he knew. By all the gods! Her soul has been shattered!
Quickly he lifted her in his arms and carried her the short way back to his campsite. He pulled the pallet of furs out from under the protective awning and placed it nearer the fire, then laid her gently atop them. Then he began to ready himself. Moving methodically and with confidence, Caradoc went to the pack he had carried with him all the way from ruined Mona. He took from it a dried smudge stick made of lavender, a candle made of pure, cream colored beeswax, and a stunning amethyst crystal. All the while he concentrated on his breathing and centering himself, and ignored the slight tremor in his hands.
He poured a goblet of mead and set a hunk of bread and cheese on a large rock nearby, then lit the candle and placed it beside the food and mead on the rock. From the lit candle, he set the lavender smudge stick afire, wafting it gently in the air around him until the flame was out and fragrant smoke rolled from the thick braid of dried herb.
Slowly, Caradoc directed the lavender smoke around and over his body as he sat, cross-legged, beside Blonwen. He breathed in and out deeply three times, saturating himself with the smoke and the cleansing and calming effect of the lavender. Then he began smudging Blonwen’s motionless body, murmuring whispered words for her to be calm and to absorb the aroma of the lavender smoke, and for her to trust him—he was coming for her.
With his heart and mind still, Caradoc lay down beside Blonwen. They didn’t touch, but he could feel how slight she was next to him, and could sense the emptiness of the mortal vessel her spirit had left behind. He cupped the amethyst crystal in his palm and pressed it against his heart. The stone warmed in his hand, and Caradoc thought of the properties of amethyst—a spiritual stone with no negative connotations whatsoever. Its powers enhanced dreaming and healing. It brought with it peace and protection, as well as love and happiness.
Caradoc used the stone as a conduit. Through the brilliant purple crystal the druid found the beat of his heart and followed that ancient, primordial pulse, his lifeline first to the earth on which he lay. And then, as his trance deepened, the two-count beat, with its mesmerizing, timeless pull, led him from his mortal shell.
The druid’s spirit lifted and the mists of reality parted around him, opening to reveal three levels of the Otherworld. He hovered there, and sent out a fervent prayer to the goddess.
Andraste, I come after a soul that has shattered. It is your priestess, Blonwen, who I wish to retrieve and make whole. I beg you to help me, Goddess, in my quest to find her.
Caradoc’s spirit waited there for a sign from Andraste that would show him which level of the Otherworld he must travel to so that he might find Blonwen.
A girl child appeared before him. She could not have been older than six summers. Her red-gold hair was long and unruly, and her eyes were large and dark. Caradoc breathed a silent sigh of relief. He would recognize this child anywhere as a youthful version of Blonwen.
Hello, little one. Caradoc spoke warmly to the girl. Can you lead me to your adult self? I have need for her whole and well back in the physical realm.
The child studied him silently before speaking. She’s scared. Are you here to hurt her?
No! I would never hurt Blonwen.
The little girl’s smooth brow furrowed. I can tell you are telling me the truth, even though you’re calling her the wrong name.
Caradoc smiled at her. What is the pet name you would like me to call her, child?
The girl frowned at him, reminding Caradoc eerily of her adult self. It’s not a pet name we want to be called. We want to be called our name, and that’s Alexandra Patton, but I guess if you don’t want to say that much you can call us Alex, like everyone else does.
Caradoc felt a little jolt of surprise. The girl was obviously a spirit version of Blonwen as a child, and spirit versions of children were their purest essence. They did not lie, which mean Blonwen’s true name was Alexandra Patton.
Would you take me to Alexandra Patton, child?
Yes. We need you. We’re not happy here.
Her words relieved him immeasurably, and he took her hand. That is because it is not yet your time to join the Otherworld.
The child shrugged, but led him toward the entrance to all three levels of the Otherworld. Without hesitation, she stepped forward, and a smooth expanse of white marble appeared beneath their feet, stretching up and up.
So she found the Upperworld, Caradoc said, more to himself than the child.
She didn’t find it. She just ran up here. She was too scared to find anything.
Caradoc wanted to know what had frightened Blonwen—or Alexandra—so terribly, but he knew asking the child would be pointless. She was a spirit guide. She served only to lead those who were acceptable to her host. She didn’t really function separately from her true self.
Time passed oddly in the Otherworld, but it seemed Caradoc had drawn very few breaths before the stairway emptied into a meadow of waving grass, dotted with fragrant wildflowers. The meadow was framed by a dense forest of dark trees, from which Caradoc automatically averted his gaze. He knew there lurked within the depths of that forest things that could delight, as well as destroy the soul—and the druid had time for neither. In the center of the meadow was a beautiful marble fountain, with a silver chalice sitting beside it.
Everything you need is there, the child said, pointing at the well. I hope you brought payment.
I did, child.
Good. Bring us back to the world. I don’t like it when we’re scared. Oh, and you can call me Alex. I hope I see you again soon when we’re all together.
Do not worry, Alex. All will be well.
The girl squeezed his hand and then, with the sound of a sigh, disappeared. The child’s continued focus on fear worried Caradoc. What would he discover when he found Blonwen? Or would he not find Blonwen at all, but only Alexandra, a terrified stranger whose soul had shattered beyond healing?
He walked into the meadow, keeping his attention on the fountain in the center of it. This was Andraste’s realm, and the goddess’s fountain. Those who wished to evoke the goddess in the Upperworld must drink of her water and offer her a gift. Caradoc knew all too well that Andraste was Goddess of War, as well as Mother of the Celts, and if his heart was not pure, his intentions clouded with his own greed and need, it wouldn’t matter what gift he brought. Andraste’s water would turn his faults against him and he would be destroyed by them. To some druids it happened instantly. Others were ousted from Andraste’s meadow and allowed to return to the mortal realm, only to see their lives unravel by their own weaknesses.
But the sound of the water soothed Caradoc, as it always did, and without further hesitation he stepped up to the fountain and lowered the chalice into its crystal depths. Though he’d been to Andraste’s realm many times before, he hadn’t ventured here since the destruction of the Isle of Mona. As he lifted the chalice, Caradoc searched his heart. Yes, he was angry about the loss of his friends and family. Yes, he felt guilty for living, when those closest to him had died protecting him. But had he come here for self-serving means?
He’d come automatically when he understood that Blonwen’s soul had somehow been shattered, and she needed his help to find her way back to her body.
Am I being selfish? Caradoc wasn’t sure. Blonwen was frightened, so frightened that her spirit
had split into pieces. She needed to be healed. But the full truth was that he wanted her back in the mortal realm because he needed her. Blonwen, Alexandria, Alex—her name made no difference, nor did he care that she wouldn’t tell him everything about herself. When he touched her, he felt whole. That was all that truly mattered to him.
So am I being selfish in coming here? Perhaps, he decided, if it was selfish to love and to want to be loved in return, then the goddess’s judgment would be harsh. And if that were so, then at least he might have Blonwen returned to him for a little while before his life unraveled….
Caradoc raised the chalice of the goddess and drank until it was drained.
Almost instantly the meadow began to shimmer with a brilliance that defied mortal description, and a woman stepped from the shadows of the forest. As she approached Caradoc, her image kept shifting. One moment she was a maiden, impossibly fresh-faced and utterly innocent in the bloom of youth. The next she was an ancient crone, with long white hair trailing the grass at her feet and skin like the bark of a sacred rowan tree. And then she changed again, taking the form of a woman in the prime of her life, curvy and voluptuous, full of breast and body and quite obviously pregnant.
Caradoc fell to his knees, bowed his head and held out to her the perfect amethyst crystal that still carried the sound of his heartbeat.
Andraste, please accept this gift, from my heart to yours.
The crystal disappeared from his hands.
You may rise, Caradoc, son of Eilwen, one of the most beloved of all of my priestesses.
Caradoc stood. The goddess had chosen to appear to him as if she were a woman of his mother’s age. She was beautiful, heartbreakingly so, but this was a form he could more easily look upon than the maiden or the shifting images she so often preferred.
Great Goddess, he began without preamble, knowing Andraste appreciated honestly, especially from those who sought out her meadow. I follow a soul that has recently been shattered. It belongs to a mortal woman who, I believe, is a servant of yours. I know her as Blonwen, Soul Speaker, confidente of Boudica, but she also carries the name Alexandra Patton.
