A polished stone altar stood some distance from the dolmen. A fire burned in the center of the glade and from the light of the flames, Nimue watched the women, children and the handful of men who’d returned to the sanctuary daub ancient symbols onto their skin.
Torches blazed at the four corners of the altar and Nimue pulled one from the ground. She knew exactly where the shard of bluestone she’d stolen needed to be placed, and yet an overwhelming compunction compelled her to ensure she knew the way.
As she left the glade, she couldn’t fathom what she was doing. Did she intend to go through with the ritual tonight? Her Goddess refused to hear her pleas and Arianrhod would never forgive her for such betrayal. She would be struck down without mercy. Could she willingly sacrifice the life of her unborn child for the lives of Tacitus and her father?
She pushed through the encroaching forest as despair seeped from her heart and corroded her soul. The life of her babe for the life of her lover. How could she live, knowing she was the one who had killed Tacitus? Yet how could she sentence his child to eternal torment for having defied a direct imperative from her Goddess?
Something small and dark hurtled by her head and she gasped, fell to a crouch, her eyes straining to see beyond the flickering pool of light from her torch. Disbelief shuddered through her as the fleeting shadow imprinted into her brain.
A young owl.
Even as the thought formed, she heard a sickening thud and without thinking she rushed forward toward the sound. An ash tree loomed from the shadows and she stopped dead, momentarily paralyzed by the appearance of Gwydion in one of his majestic manifestations.
The god had heard her treacherous thoughts. He had come in his sister-goddess’ stead to exact vengeance.
Above the terrified pounding of her heart, she heard a rustle in the undergrowth. Her torch dipped and there, at the base of the ash tree, lay the injured owl.
And slithering toward it, the dark spear shape on its head clearly visible, was an adder.
“No.” She thrust the torch at the snake and instead of instantly vanishing back into the undergrowth it turned to her, fangs gleaming in the flickering light. Rage pumped through Nimue and, unheeding of the connection between god and tree and creature, she thrust the torch again until it abandoned its prey and disappeared.
Nimue fell to her knees, plunged the tapered end of the torch into the ground and carefully scooped the owl into her hands. Its fragile heartbeat and unnatural stillness sent a new wave of terror thundering through her blood.
How could an owl, the manifestation of Arianrhod, die at the hands of her own brother?
Save them all. The feminine whisper that weaved through Nimue’s mind was not powerful, as it had been during the last vision she’d experienced. But ethereal fingers trailed along her arms as, this time, understanding of the cryptic words unfurled.
Arianrhod did not speak only of the women and children who’d been captured by the Romans. She spoke of all the people of Cymru, both native and invader.
The owlet’s eyes opened and in the flickering torchlight she saw the crescent moon gleam in the bird’s glassy stare. Mesmerized she watched as the crescent dimmed, became less defined; disappeared. And as the light died, so too did the owl’s heart.
“Blessed Arianrhod.” Her whisper echoed through the trees and the undergrowth stirred although there was no breeze. The elusive presence of her Goddess surrounded her, a fragile brush against her flesh, a mystical caress deep within her soul. Love flooded through her and warmth seeped into her veins, filled her heart and cocooned her womb. Arianrhod had come to her at last.
Just as swiftly, darkness descended and ice speared through her breast. The terror returned but it was savage, unformed, and she glanced wildly around the shadowed forest in search of answers to unknown questions.
It couldn’t be true. But despite her panicked denials, the last few moments hammered through her head in a constant refrain.
She had watched Gwydion destroy Arianrhod. Her goddess hadn’t sent her brother god in her stead to visit Nimue during the last few days because she was angry with her acolyte. She had not sent Gwydion at all. And the only reason she’d failed to answer Nimue’s prayers was because, somehow, Gwydion had prevented it.
It had been Gwydion who’d wanted her to take the opium. Only when she was under its influence could he penetrate her mind and manipulate her to his will. By taking the drug, she’d made it harder for Arianrhod to reach her. But still her Goddess had protected her. On the night before she and Tacitus had reached the fortification, she’d been consumed by the imperative to take the opium. Only the sight and haunting sound of an owl had prevented her from searching for the drug. Arianrhod had fought, in the only way she could, to keep her acolyte’s mind clear of Gwydion’s influence.
Nimue had wanted to discover how the High Druid Aeron had manipulated the Source of Annwyn to his will. She’d been so certain that Aeron was a martyr, a hero to all the people of Cymru. That he had been following the will of the gods when he’d created the first magical enclave and attempted to cleanse Cymru of the invaders.
But it was not her Goddess’ will that she resurrect the magic of the bluestones. It was Gwydion’s. It had always been only Gwydion’s will. And he would destroy everything in his path, immortal, native and invader, in order to claim the mystical power that was the birthright of the Moon Goddess.
Only here, deep in the forest for this one tangible moment, had Arianrhod been able to manifest a physical vision. A warning of what might be if Nimue did not act.
Her Goddess offered no guarantee that Nimue would survive the outcome. But she knew she had no choice. Gwydion, master god of Illusion, could not be allowed to succeed in his fratricidal ambitions.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Despite the lingering twilight, Tacitus knew he was close to where he’d last seen Nimue. Just up ahead were the two great oaks. How he would then find her when she could be anywhere at all within the forest, was another matter. Yet he was convinced he would succeed.
The gods were with him. Whether they were the gods of his mother or his father’s heritage, he wasn’t certain, but why else would his commander have given him leave to bring Nimue back?
Sword in hand he led his horse along the nonexistent forest path. The light was fading and yet again clouds obscured the moon. The sensation of being followed had eased as he entered the forest but returned now with a vengeance. He felt unseen eyes watch his progress and the hairs on the back of his neck rose, but all he saw were shadows.
A rush of air ahead caused him to freeze, senses alert, but even as his brain recognized the sound as that of an arrow a body tumbled from the oak in front of him to land with a heavy thud at his feet.
He saw an arrow protruding from the man’s throat, a dagger in his hand. Tacitus swung round, sword at the ready for any other would-be assassin, but the forest remained silent.
Who in Hades was the archer? To strike a target in this light, in these conditions was astounding. That the warrior hadn’t been aiming for Tacitus, even more so.
“It is I, Nimue.” Her voice whispered through the twilight as her slender figure approached. Relief, desire, thankfulness rushed through him at how easily he’d found her. That she was well and obviously under her people’s protection. He looked beyond her, for the warrior who’d accompanied her, but nothing else stirred. She reached his side and pressed her palm against his jaw. A touch he’d never thought to experience again. He covered her hand with his. She felt so fragile beneath his fingers. He would never let her go again. “You returned to me, Tacitus.”
“We have much to discuss.” And discussing their future in the middle of a forest when assassins lurked behind every tree, was not ideal. “I couldn’t wait any longer.”
She gave a brief nod, as if his unexpected appearance made utter sense to her. “We must be quick.” She knelt by the fallen man and his instinct to pull her away, to shield her from death, vanished when he saw her b
egan to methodically strip the body. “Hurry. Change your clothes. You can’t come into the enclave dressed as a Roman tribune.”
He stared at her. He understood her words and yet they made no sense. “Why should I wish to enter the enclave? I’ve come to take you back so that we can talk.”
She glanced up at him, and for the first time he noticed strange shadows cast about her face, although he couldn’t imagine from where they came.
“Yes. We will talk. But first there’s something I have to do. I can’t leave yet, Tacitus. Cymru hovers on the precipice of eternal darkness.”
She spoke in riddles, as the Oracles did in Rome. He didn’t want to make the comparison yet it was impossible not to.
Here in the forests of Cambria, in this strange half-light between day and night, Nimue exuded a presence of authority, the authority that came with being chosen by the gods.
She clearly had no intention of leaving with him straightaway. Since his whole purpose in speaking to her was based on the fact she was now a free woman able to make her own choices, the enticing image of sweeping her into his arms, onto his horse and away from the forest was not a feasible option.
He gritted his teeth and ripped off his cloak. “Where is the archer?” He glared in the direction from which Nimue had appeared but still could see nothing. The thought of being watched by a stranger while he took on the disguise of a Cambrian peasant wasn’t something he relished.
She paused in her task and looked up at him. “I came alone. My Goddess warned me you were in danger. Another heartbeat and I would’ve been too late to save you.”
The Wings of Mors trailed the length of his arms in a caress of death. Speechless he stared at her and only now saw the bow slung across her shoulder. The bow he’d returned to her earlier.
The bow he had never really envisaged her using with such shocking skill.
“You.” He cleared his throat and cast a swift glance at the fallen man. The warrior who had been poised to kill Tacitus; who would have killed him had Nimue not stopped him with such breathtaking accuracy. “You did this?”
Nimue stood and took a step back. He could no longer see her face but he could feel the tension vibrating in the air between them. “I’m a warrior, Tacitus. Yes, I did this to prevent him from killing you. Would you do less for me?”
“That’s not—” He bit off his words and clenched his teeth. Of course he would kill any man who tried to harm Nimue. But she was a woman. She needed to be protected and shielded from the brutality of war. It wasn’t her place to rescue him.
“I’m sorry my actions displease you.” There was an odd formality in her tone and bizarrely it reminded him of when she’d been ill after freeing the slaves. Except what did she mean? He wasn’t displeased. He couldn’t grasp how he felt about it, except that nothing in his life had prepared him for being saved from certain death by…
A woman.
“But know this.” In the deepening shadows he saw her straighten and his chest tightened with pride. She looked so fragile, his Nimue, and yet she possessed a strength he’d rarely encountered. “I don’t regret it. And I would do it again in a heartbeat if the alternative was your death.”
He reached for her and took her hand. She didn’t fall into his arms. He hadn’t expected her to. A dozen responses collided in his mind but there was only one thing he needed to tell her.
“Then as fellow warriors we are in accord, Nimue. I would defy my Emperor himself to ensure you lived.” He already had. But her soft laugh, and the way she squeezed his fingers, told him that his decision to relinquish a career in Rome was no sacrifice at all.
***
She led him deeper into the forest, her step unerring. The rough clothes didn’t fit properly and although he’d refused to give up his sword he was naked without his armor. But he would endure a great deal more if it ensured that Nimue would eventually listen to his proposal with respect.
A flickering light glowed up ahead. As they approached, he saw it was a torch rammed into the ground. Nimue wrenched it up and turned to face him, and his heart slammed against his ribs.
He knew she was no longer wearing a Roman gown, but now the light illuminated her he saw the strange, barbaric markings on her face and arms. Her hair was braided and she looked like a wild savage, except he knew the vision was an illusion.
Because, Cambrian or not, Druid or not, Nimue was as refined, as knowledgeable and as intelligent as any patrician male of his acquaintance.
She thrust the torch at him and then pulled out a small pot from her bag. “I need to paint your face.” She sounded apologetic but it didn’t stop her from dipping her finger into the pot. “It will stop any suspicious glance. And Tacitus, there’s something you must promise me.”
“That depends what it is.” Gods, what primitive ritual had he walked into? He no longer believed the rumors he’d heard about Druid sacrifices, but unease still knotted his gut.
“If I fail this night, you must promise to save yourself.” With the tip of her finger she daubed the cold paint across his cheekbones. “If Gwydion, the god of Illusion, succeeds in claiming Arianrhod’s destiny for his own then he’ll destroy everything. Celt and Roman—it makes no difference in his quest for power.”
He had no idea what she meant, but one thing was certain. He had no intention of allowing her to continue with what she had planned.
“Let another do this.” He gripped her arm and glared into her face. “You don’t need to put yourself in danger. The gods always fight for power between themselves. Nothing we do will ever change that.”
She didn’t try to pull away. Perhaps it was a trick of the flickering light from the torch, but for a moment sorrow wreathed her face. “I can’t let my beloved Moon Goddess fade into the shadows.” Her voice was gentle, as if she explained something to a child. “Gwydion would subjugate her utterly, and destroy all traces of her precious knowledge. Her wisdom must be preserved for balance to prevail.”
Despite the warmth from the torch, shivers scuttled over his arms. Once again she sounded like an Oracle, channeling obscure prophesies from egomaniacal gods. He could easily end this now. It would take little effort to forcibly take Nimue back to the garrison where she would be safe from the manipulations of her goddess.
And any hope of a future together, the kind of future he wanted, would be irrevocably shattered.
“My lady.” The masculine voice came from the shadows and Tacitus swung around, instinctively reaching for his sword. Nimue grasped his hand and moved in front of him.
“I am ready.” She sounded like an empress. She sounded like a priestess. He wouldn’t stop her from doing what she considered her duty. But he wouldn’t stand by and allow her to be sacrificed on the altar of barbaric gods and goddesses who cared only for their own immortal posterity.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Standing in the shadows behind Nimue as she stood before a primitive stone altar, Tacitus remained rigid as the Celts danced with apparent abandon in the small clearing. Pungent incense smoldered at various points on the altar and a strange blue fire, contained within a shallow bowl, burned in the center of the altar.
It was nothing like the civilized temples of Rome and yet the primal thud of the drums touched a raw nerve deep in the core of his being.
But it was Nimue who held his riveted attention. She’d loosened her hair and in the eerie blue light, the markings on her face made her look breathtakingly savage. With utmost concentration, she focused on the unnatural fire, chanting in a language he’d never heard before, a language that sent a trickle of primal awe along his spine.
It was easy to imagine, in this ancient Cambrian forest, that she spoke an archaic tongue known only to the gods and their chosen ones.
A wind sprung up from nowhere, swirling forest debris around ankles and thighs. His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword although he knew it was a useless reaction. A god, even a heathen god, could not be slayed by mortal weapon.
Th
e darkness around the perimeter of the glade, where imposing monoliths loomed, coalesced. Tacitus narrowed his eyes. Were the flames playing tricks? But the great shadow lengthened until it towered over the treetops. A black nothingness in the massive shape of a man.
A god.
If he hadn’t been paralyzed by the sight, Tacitus might have joined the Celts as they collapsed onto the ground, prostrate before the immortal being. But he wasn’t of Cambria. He was of Rome and the only gods he knelt before were those who had shaped his childhood.
Mouth dry, he watched the great shadow glide across the clearing toward Nimue. She hadn’t fallen to her knees. She remained ramrod straight and even above the cacophony of the wind he could hear her mystical chant.
She picked up something from the altar. It looked like her precious shard of bluestone. Mesmerized, Tacitus watched her hold out her hands above the flickering blue flames. And then, before he realized her intent, she sliced open her wrist with the sharp stone, and her blood dripped into the bowl.
He cursed violently and jerked forward. It felt as if iron bands restrained him and he grunted with effort. What in Hades was she doing?
“Gwydion.” Her voice rose above the infuriated pounding of his heart. “Warrior God. Greatest of the Enchanters. I see through your false illusions.”
She plunged her hand, holding the stone, into the bowl. The god-creature roared, a sound of bone-crushing fury, as the flames encompassed her. Instantly each monolith surrounding the glade cracked like thunder, split like lightning and spewed luminous violet flames into the skies.
“Nimue.” He staggered from the enchantment that held him at the same moment that the malignant god fell onto the collapsed figure of Nimue. Raw terror propelled Tacitus forward and he wound his arms around Nimue’s waist and dragged her from the altar, dragged her from the jaws of vengeance. She was unconscious, blood covered her arm and the hand that had held the bluestone looked gray.
Enslaved (The Druid Chronicles Book 3) Page 27
