by Hazel Hunter
Her lips thinned as she glanced around them. “You wish me to reach out to the Wood Dream? I didnae ken any of these poor souls, Master, and they’ve been so long dead.”
“Your gift doesnae have the limits that govern most others,” he assured her. “You’ve but to reach out to the well of stars, and invite to you one of the tribe. Think on this place, and what you have seen. ’Twill draw them to you.”
Oriana nodded reluctantly, and shifted herself into the kneeling position of a supplicant. Flattening her hands against the earth, she bowed her head. Her body trembled at first, but when she lifted her face again she went still, her eyes gone completely white.
“I would speak to the headman of the Wood Dream,” Bhaltair said to her in a low, soothing voice. “We seek to ken the magics used by the tribe on the oak giants you created to protect the settlement.”
She opened her mouth, and then jerked violently as fragmented words poured out of her in screeches.
“Romans…run you mustnae…coming for us…save the bairns…they’re killing us they’re killing–”
She broke off into a terrified scream and collapsed, writhing on the ground.
“Oriana,” Bhaltair yelled. He rushed to her, nearly falling in his haste, and turned her over onto her back. She convulsed, her hands digging into the soil and her limbs thrashing. “Come back to me, dear one. Release yourself!” When she didn’t respond he slapped her cheek with a stinging swat, and her tearful eyes flew open. A wild look filled them but when they found his face he saw recognition set in. “Forgive me, lass.”
“Oh, Master. They’re so tormented. They’re yet trapped in their own deaths. All of them came…all.” She flung an arm over her eyes and burst into tears.
Bhaltair held her and comforted her, but even after she drifted to sleep the tears still slid down her splotched cheeks. He could not remember despising himself so much, even when he had tricked the last of his blood kin into a terrible trap.
“Yes, dear one, rest now.”
He removed his cloak to cover her, and used her pack to pillow her head. He hoped no permanent damage had been inflicted on her by the violent channeling, but guessed she would wake feeling battered and frightened. He had seen some clusters of wild herbs on the fringe of the clearing, where the tribe must have once grown their spell garden. If he could find some valerian root and skullcap flowers, he could mix a potion to ease her bruised spirit and disperse her dread.
Sifting through the wild herbs, Bhaltair felt relieved to find the skullcap’s purple flowers, now dry and withered from the cold, and a broad bunch of tiny white blooms that capped the valerian plant. Nipping enough flowers to make a single draft, he then unearthed the valerian with a practiced tug. As it came from the ground, something dropped at his feet. He grunted as he bent and plucked up the small oval of blackened wood. Time had rendered it as hard as stone, but had not yet scoured the marks carved inside the rims.
Bhaltair knew the old tribes had worn spell bands to collect power from Nature, and it made sense that the tribe would carve theirs from wood. He glanced over his shoulder at his slumbering acolyte before he pressed the oval against his heart. His own magic roiled up inside him, summoned by the nearness of the object.
The cuff still contained power.
With no small amount of trepidation, he slipped the oval over his hand and closed his eyes, opening himself and inviting in the ancient magic. At first it sparked angrily against his wrist—it sensed that he was not a member of the tribe—but then sifted through his flesh and met his own power.
The druid who had worn the cuff appeared in Bhaltair’s mind, a tall, thin young man who tended the gardens. Like the old druid, he’d been harvesting valerian root, but not to calm a troubled mind. He mounded it in a basket filled with several other, very specific herbs and roots.
Bhaltair had gathered the same plants too many times to mistake their meaning. The Wood Dream’s gardener had been preparing for a solstice ritual.
“Show me more,” he muttered under his breath, and sent a surge of his magic into the cuff.
The tribe gathered and then left the village, as the cuff absorbed the melodic sounds of their chanting in the clearing, and the magic which saturated it. But as the ritual came to its pinnacle, the chanting dissolved into screams of pain and terror. The cuff sensed the life of the gardener along with every other Wood Dream being snuffed out by the Romans. Even as its magic dwindled away, the wooden oval registered soldiers looting the settlement and slaughtering the livestock when the tribe’s giant oak totems had come to life.
Bhaltair flinched as he saw the gruesome aftermath of the attack. The totems had converged on the invaders to crush them underfoot. They caught the soldiers who had tried to flee and tore them asunder. Finally, he saw why the legion had never again been seen after murdering the Wood Dream.
The totems opened the enormous maws of their mouths and stuffed the dead Romans inside, swallowing them whole.
Snatching off the oval, Bhaltair clutched it in his shaking fingers as he severed the connection to the cuff’s magic. Now he understood why it seemed like the place still mourned the long-dead druids. The unfinished ritual had kept everything as it had been in the horrific moments of the tribe’s demise. Until the spell to renew the land could be completed, nothing would change. To defeat the giants, it might require the last surviving members of the Wood Dream tribe to journey here and finish the solstice ritual.
Hendry Greum and Murdina Stroud would never do that.
Chapter Four
CADEYRN JERKED AWAKE to find himself in a dark room that smelled of a woman. His hands had been shackled to the bed posts above his head, and a slender body lay across his chest. The last thing he remembered was riding Dun Mor’s perimeter, trying to tire himself enough to sleep without dreams. It seemed he had failed, for how else could he be with a pleasure lass? And why had she lain atop him so, when it was strictly forbidden? She must have been beaten by whoever stood watch…but he saw no one else in the room.
Since he’d be whipped bloody if he spoke to her, Cadeyrn arched his back, trying to dislodge her.
“Cade,” she said, speaking his boyhood name as if they’d always known each other. When she pushed herself up he heard the clinking of chains, and saw the thin sunlight gild her tangled mane of streaked hair. “You’re awake.”
As the lady from his dreams rolled onto her side, a terrible confusion seized him. He had finished his training long ago. This could not be the tribe’s compound. He’d not shared a bed with a female since joining his brothers as indentured warriors. There had been some fleeting time of freedom, and then a final battle with the famhairean. He had died there with the rest of his clan…and been awakened.
And yet he’d heard her voice before now, but when?
She sat up, and the light flickered over her pretty face. She’d already been beaten, badly and many times, judging by the color of her bruising. Cadeyrn wondered if somehow he’d been the cause of it.
“Are you all right then?” she asked, looking him over.
“Dinnae speak so loudly,” he whispered to her in the barest murmur.
She lay down beside him, nestling close to put her mouth next to his ear. “They were waiting for us, boyo,” the lady whispered.
Cadeyrn turned his head, and their faces brushed. Being in chains had already made him hard, as his body had been conditioned to expect sex when restrained. He could do nothing about the ferocious erection he sported, especially with her settled against his side.
He could hear her voice in his head. Sorry, she had said. No, something more. Terribly sorry.
“You took a nasty coshing,” she said quietly and reached for the back of his head. She stroked her palm over his hair. “No blood, just a bit of a lump. How do you feel?”
He felt what any Skaraven in chains did: the urge to drag her atop him so she could ride his shaft, but her touch had aroused more than his errant cock. Cadeyrn felt his skinwork move as the ink
ed owl opened its eyes, and a blue glow filtered through a rent in his sleeve. That it had only done so in battle made him try to shift away from her.
No choice.
“Your arm,” she said, reaching out to the dim light. Before he could hiss a warning, she covered it with her hand, and the contact sent a wave of searing, undeniable hunger through his chest. “Cade, your eyes.”
His battle spirit manifested by looking through him at her. It sent the low, thrumming sound it made when Cadeyrn fought well, and had pleased it. He saw a streak of its power shoot up over her wrist and arm to circle her nape and streak down to her other hand.
“Oh,” she gasped and arched against him, shaking now. “Something…on my arms.”
“Take your hand from me,” he urged her, and when she did his skinwork stopped moving. “Dinnae touch my arm again.” He took a calming breath. Though the woman of his dreams somehow lay next to him and had awakened his battle spirit, he had to push those thoughts aside. “What brought us here?”
“They hit you from behind and pushed us both into the portal. It brought us to where they’ve been holding me and the other women prisoner.” She glanced around them. “This is a storage room in the mill, I think.”
As she spoke he saw the tension in her mouth. That tightness and the change in her eyes came from speaking falsehoods. None of his brothers lied to him, but he’d learned to detect it in others outside the clan. Yet why would she try to deceive him when they both had been captured?
Terribly sorry. No choice.
With but suspicion and a few strange words clamoring in his skull, he couldn’t accuse her yet.
“Tell me your name.”
“Lily Stover,” she murmured. “You found me when I escaped. Do you remember anything?”
“Naught.” The lie tasted bitter in his mouth. “How did you ken to find me?”
“I didn’t.” That was a truth. “I meant to return to my time.” Another falsehood. “I’m so sorry about this.”
And she was, Cadeyrn thought. Regret shadowed all of her words, which suggested she had been somehow compelled to deceive him.
“Tell me all that you’ve no’ said. You can trust me, my lady.”
Her mouth tightened. “Oh, I know that, mate.”
Before he could reply light poured into the room as the heavy door creaked open. A famhair with a scarred face trudged in. He tossed a bruised pear at Cadeyrn, smirking as the fruit bounced off his brow.
“Hendry want you.” He reached for Lily.
“No,” Cadeyrn said.
He fought his shackles, but he couldn’t free himself. Instead he lay helpless as the giant yanked Lily’s chains from the bed post, and tucked her under his arm. She struggled in vain as he carried her out and kicked shut the door.
Seeing her taken stilled Cadeyrn, and he craned his head to study the chains binding him to the bed. They had been wound around two posts, and looked old and rusted. He inspected each link until he found the two weakest, which connected the chains to his shackles. His arms burned as he poured all of his strength into twisting and pulling on the heavy metal manacles. It took long, painful minutes, but at last he pulled the links apart far enough to slip off the shackle rings.
He rolled off the bed, and quickly inspected himself. His dagger and sword had been removed, along with the smaller dirk he kept tucked in his left boot. The mill room had been completely cleared out except for the bed, a bucket of water and some old rags. He considered smashing the bucket to create a weapon, but against the famhairean the largest stave of wood would be as useful as a twig.
Keeping his steps silent, Cadeyrn went to the door, which he discovered the scarred giant had neglected to bolt. Easing it open, he glanced outside. The passage that lay beyond appeared empty.
The sound of low voices drifted from the right end, drawing him out of the room.
He stayed to the shadows, measuring each step before he took it. The wood-rot stink of the giant grew stronger as he neared the end of the hall, where it opened into a larger space. Cadeyrn kept low against the wall, from where he could see but not be seen.
Lily sat at a table with a male druid in a dark blue robe. He held a steaming carafe, from which he poured brew into a mug sitting in front of her. Cadeyrn frowned. There were no giants and Lily appeared calm, almost bored.
“–did my best under the circumstances,” she was saying. “Can’t help that the portal botched things, and tore up my arms. Not as if I’ve been trained properly, like you lot.”
“You saw no sign of Althea Jarden on the other side?” the druid asked, adding a dollop of honey to her mug.
“Didn’t see anyone but the Skaraven chap, Hendry,” Lily said. “I would have looked for their camp, but he insisted that I show him the portal. I couldn’t let him go back and bring more men, then, could I?” She picked up the mug with her manacled hands and awkwardly took a sip. “They’d have made me bring them here and you’d have been in shambles.”
“Indeed.” Hendry sat back and watched her drink. “Then tell me, why did you take him?”
“I wasn’t coming back with sod all. The Skaraven told me that the clan has Althea now. I can’t tell you where they are. I’ve no clue where the portal dropped me, but Cadeyrn can. So.” She put down the mug. “Give us some time alone in that bed, and I’ll have it out of him.”
“How do you intend to persuade him to confide in you?” the druid countered. “After all, you did bring him here against his will.”
“He doesn’t remember that.” She gave Hendry a cool look. “I’ll persuade him with the one thing he really wants: my body.”
The druid chuckled. “’Tis an inspired approach. Do all the females in your time barter their quims for what they want?”
“Don’t be dull, Hendry. Women in my time do as we please. If we want a man, we have him.” She smiled a little. “I could use a decent shag, and he’s rather yummy. Even calls me ‘my lady.’”
The gaps in Cadeyrn’s memory vanished, along with every tender feeling he’d had for Lily Stover.
Terribly sorry about this, Cade. She’d said that after he’d been struck from behind, just as he’d fallen into the portal she’d opened. No choice, really.
His hands knotted into fists and his blood ran to boiling. So the lass had allied with the mad druids. Cadeyrn fought to ease his clenched jaw lest they hear his teeth grinding.
He’d known treachery in his boyhood. Because of it he’d taken a whipping that had nearly ended him. Yet this…this struck him to his core. He had dreamt of her nightly, and only now did he realize that he’d convinced himself that she was for him. His mouth drew into a tight line. He had naught to blame but himself. He’d seen dishonesty dance across her lovely face. Instead of trusting his battle spirit’s sharp vision, he’d tried to believe the wench. Now he had to plan her defeat, and for that he would have to follow her example and make her believe he remained addled and trusting.
Lily might have made him a fool, but it would be her last deceit.
Cadeyrn slipped back down the passage and into the storage room, where he stretched out on the bed. Carefully hanging the rings of his shackles on the broken chain links before hiding the small gaps, he made it appear as if he’d never freed himself. Then he settled back and closed his eyes to summon a strategy.
Terribly sorry about this, Cade.
At least the Pritani headman who had almost flayed him to his spine had never apologized.
As much as Cadeyrn despised Lily, he would not kill a female. Ending her life would afford him no advantage or pleasure. Once her scheme failed the mad druids would likely hand her over to their famhairean for sport. That he could not allow either. He had no druid blood, so he would need her to open the portal again. When he returned to Dun Mor he would turn her over to his chieftain for judgment. For her treachery Brennus wouldn’t allow her to return to her future. He would probably give her to Bhaltair Flen for punishment.
The tree-knowers only seemed ge
ntle. When it came to seeking justice, they could be as merciless as Romans.
Contemplating her fate made Cadeyrn hate himself. Why did the thought of her receiving her due make his gut knot? He had heard every traitorous word from her lips. She’d even jested about seducing him. He had to stop thinking of her as a lass and see her for what she was: a collaborator.
Sometime later a different famhair dragged Lily back into the room. The giant’s smooth face and flat eyes had more animation than the first. He inspected Cadeyrn for a long moment before he shoved Lily on top of him. Shackling Lily’s wrist to a long chain, the giant secured the other end with a heavy lock to the side of the bed frame. Straightening and retreating a few steps, he watched them both.
“I’m all right,” Lily said and lowered her mouth to his.
Cadeyrn knew what a kiss was—he’d watched his chieftain give many to Lady Althea—but accepting Lily’s lips made him go hot and cold. She smelled of soap and tasted of honey and herbs, and the silky press of her mouth made him swallow a groan. This was why Brennus had refused to give his lady over to the druids, this melding, maddening delight that boiled over into hungry lust. He forgot the famhair, their chains and all that he knew as he tasted her with his tongue and felt hers caress the seam of his lips.
The sound of the giant leaving and the door being bolted made Lily go still. She lifted her head, and pressed her lips to his brow with something like affection.
“Sorry. I had to make that look convincing for Ochd.”
She’d convinced the war master, and he knew what she was. “Why?” he demanded.
Lily scrambled off the bed. “I’d explain it all, but we don’t have much time.” She tested her chain, grimacing as the lock held. “How strong are you, boyo?”
“I cannae break iron,” he told her, keeping his expression neutral. “Why did you kiss me?”
“So Ochd would see it. He’ll report it to the nutters who grabbed us.” She knelt down to study the lock. “Did Althea tell you about them?”
He wondered how many more lies she would tell him. “She spoke with my chieftain, no’ me.”
