Morwyn glanced around the glade. A single lantern hung from the capstone of the dolmen and others were placed on the stone altar, casting flickering light and bottomless shadows. A small fire, set within a ring of stones, burned to one side of the dolmen’s entrance. At the far side of the glade she saw horses tethered.
Nimue followed her glance. “We can accommodate your horse if you wish, while you refresh yourselves.”
Morwyn decided not to mention the horse was stolen. Instead she gently disengaged Gwyn’s clinging arms and stripped the packs from the horse before allowing one of the warriors to take the reins. Nimue gestured for them to sit by the fire, and within moments she had water warming in a pot over the flames.
As Morwyn sorted through the food packs and handed Gwyn strips of dried meat to chew on, she reflected on Nimue’s careless comment.
The masses camp wherever they so desire.
She’d always known Caratacus’ rebels comprised, for the most part, of the general populace. But on Mon she hadn’t known his camp was protected. How, then, could those without Druidic blood enter?
“Nimue, the Elder explained I could find my way here by following the call to my blood. And that was true.” She paused, searching for the right words. Nimue regarded her in silence. “But even if the masses do manage to find their way here by themselves, how do they enter without the blood of the gods in their veins?”
“It’s not easy to find without a guide,” Nimue said. “Usually new recruits are brought by those who already know of the sacred gateway. And, of course, that helps ensure no spy may enter.”
Morwyn frowned. That wasn’t quite what she had meant.
“But the spiral itself.” Perhaps Nimue didn’t refer to it as the spiral, but even so diluted in power, what else could it be? “How do those who possess not a drop of Druidic heritage pass through the barrier?”
For the first time Nimue looked confused, as if she truly didn’t understand Morwyn’s concern. “No one may pass through the barrier. Only through the sacred gateway between the great oaks.”
Morwyn stared at her, as the other woman’s words filtered through her brain. “So anyone at all can enter this enclave, providing they find their way to the sacred oaks?”
“Of course.” Nimue glanced at Gwyn, who was both chewing her food and listening to the conversation with equal interest. “How else could Gwyn enter? She’s not of Druid stock.”
Morwyn looked at the child and a chill stole through her heart. That consideration hadn’t even crossed her mind. But why hadn’t it? It would have been impossible for Gwyn to have entered the spiral of Aeron’s construction. He had ensured only his Druids could survive such feat.
“I see.” And she did. Hadn’t the Elder told her his power derived from splinters of the original bluestones Aeron had used? The Elder had not harnessed the Source of Annwyn. Of course the magic protecting this enclave wasn’t as powerful as the one she was used to.
Nimue leaned toward her, a strangely intense expression on her face. “What do you see, Morwyn?” Her voice was low, but it was no idle question. “Why do you ask such things about our sacred enclave? Who are you?”
Goddess, would she never be able to leave that night in the past? She drew in a deep breath. She wasn’t responsible for the devastation Aeron had caused that night. But it didn’t ease the guilt she always felt for having been taken in by his ice-cold charm.
“It was my High Druid who created the original Sacred Spiral.” She tensed her muscles, waiting for the inevitable derision. She could only hope Nimue possessed the sense of justice to accept Aeron had confided in no one about his plans. That despite appearances, the rest of Druantia’s clan of Druids had been innocent of attempted genocide.
Nimue’s eyes widened and lips parted. But she didn’t draw her dagger, didn’t go for Morwyn’s throat. Instead she leaned even farther toward her, until Morwyn could feel her erratic breath whisper across her face.
“He was your High Druid?”
Morwyn stiffened. Something was very wrong. Nimue didn’t sound angry or disgusted. She sounded reverential.
She had to be mistaken. Perhaps it was merely condolence Nimue expressed.
“He was, I fear, completely insane.” She realized her fingers were twisting the wool of her gown and only with great effort did she manage to stop.
“Insane?” Nimue raised her eyebrows and once again straightened. “Oh. Perhaps he was insane, Morwyn. But that doesn’t negate the truly glorious vision he had for the people of Cymru.”
Nimue’s words thundered through Morwyn’s mind. Individually, they made perfect sense. Collectively, they were as insane as Aeron had been when he’d murdered their ancient Queen.
“Aeron.” The name thickened her tongue and caused nausea to roil in her stomach. “Was evil. Vindictive. He cared for no one but himself. It wasn’t victory for the people of Cymru he wanted. Only personal glory.”
With a sense of detached disbelief she watched a flicker of irritation mar Nimue’s proud face. How had this happened? When had Aeron’s egomaniacal actions mutated from attempted mass murderer to thwarted savior?
Was this to be his legacy after all? Continued reverence, life everlasting—the very thing he had always desired?
“I confess I’m sorely puzzled by the attitude of all of your clan,” Nimue said, sounding more annoyed than puzzled. Morwyn clenched her fists and tried to regulate her breathing. I can’t allow Aeron to be worshipped as a martyr. “Why you insist his genius was corrupted I fail to understand. He devised the perfect weapon to rid our land of Romans for good!”
Morwyn’s breath escaped in a noisy hiss. “He—” she began, and then the full meaning of Nimue’s comment pierced through her broiling anger like a strike of lightning.
“All my clan?” Excitement churned, obliterating the sour taste of Aeron from her senses. “Nimue, who else from—”
The words lodged in her throat as three elderly figures approached the fire, and she leaped to her feet, pulling Gwyn with her. Nimue, also standing, proceeded with the formal introductions, and after the Elders seated themselves and began to speak of loyalty and obligations and the imminent evacuation of the enclave, the moment to question Nimue vanished.
But a burning need to know remained within Morwyn’s breast.
***
The morn dawned. Bren lay on the bed he’d so recently shared with Morwyn and stared up at the discolored ceiling, a dull sense of inevitability heavy as a rock in his chest.
There was no escape from his fate. He was pledged to Caratacus until death. The interlude he’d enjoyed with Morwyn was just that. An interlude. It could never have led anywhere. Even if she hadn’t deserted him.
He expelled a measured breath. He had information to convey to his king. Information he should have conveyed the previous day, except he’d been distracted by a woman.
But no more. She had gone. And with her had vanished his last chance at grasping a shred of comfort in this life.
Slowly he opened his fist. Her bracelet had gouged his palm, but the indentation would soon fade. The cavern she’d carved into his heart never would.
***
Trogus scowled as the party of exploratores left the settlement shortly after dawn. Always the same fucking mission. To try to find where the heathen Briton king hid among the forests and mountains of this barbaric province.
They’d scoured the area a dozen times. Never found anything. But there was a subtle shift in mood among the officers, as if they were in possession of information that could change the balance of this battle. Except it wasn’t a battle, because Caratacus was a fucking coward who lacked the balls to face his enemy on the field.
All he did was set lethal ambushes, use the local topography to his advantage and send out assassins on covert missions. It was almost as though he had advance knowledge of the Legion’s plans.
Not that Trogus gave a shit about the Roman Legion, but such tactical maneuvers could easily impact his
own safety. And he cared a great deal about that.
The sun had passed its zenith as he descended, some way ahead of the other four exploratores, the sparsely wooded hill into the verdant valley, and the edge of the same forest where Dunmacos had rescued the whore. Gods, what wouldn’t he sacrifice for the savage pleasure of running his sword through the other man’s guts? It even rivaled his need to seek vengeance against the woman for the death of his tribesman.
From the corner of his eye he caught sight of a lone horseman entering the forest. He stiffened, pulling his mount to a halt. The distance was significant but he’d know that bastard anywhere. It was as if the gods had heard him, and granted him a boon.
Twice he had drawn Trogus’ blood over the Cambrian bitch. The third time, it would be Dunmacos’ lifeblood, from Trogus’ blade, pumping into the earth.
The vision, as potent as any of those when he’d fantasized fucking the whore, jerked his cock to attention, an unwelcome side effect and yet another reason to exact vengeance from the other auxiliary.
He turned to a fellow exploratore who had just drawn alongside. “I’m going to check out the forest beyond. Saw something suspicious.”
“You want to change our detail?” He made as if to call the others, and Trogus flicked his hand dismissively,
“No. I’ll check it out and get back to you. No need to make it official.”
“Fuck up and you’re on your own,” the other man said by way of agreement, turning to follow the others who were making their way to the forest at a point some distance from where Dunmacos had entered. Trogus dug in his spurs and galloped after his nemeses.
He planned to ambush the other man. Yet despite the acidic desire to prolong Dunmacos’ torture, he had no desire to be caught in the act of murdering one of his own. So, an arrow through the neck. A dagger across the throat. Heavy mutilation to the face and removal of chain mail to prevent identification.
And a hasty burial among the undergrowth to hide the body. With luck, scavengers would strip the flesh from the bones before it was ever discovered.
A flash of armor ahead. A glimpse of equine flank. He urged his horse forward using thigh and spur, bow in one hand, arrow in the other. Waiting for Dunmacos to sense his presence, to turn and fight, to see who it was who was ending his filthy existence.
Dunmacos continued onward, oblivious. Trogus’ fingers stilled on his bow, disconcerted by his prey’s behavior. Was it a trick? Even though Trogus kept in the shadows and concealment of trees, it was surely impossible for a scout of Dunmacos’ experience to be unaware of his presence.
But still the other man continued onward, scarcely glancing left or right, his mount’s passage unerring. As if Dunmacos knew exactly where he was going.
The thought crawled through Trogus’ brain like a drunken slug. Nudging him with a clouded knowledge. And then the question formed.
Where was Dunmacos going?
Slowly Trogus lowered his bow, but still kept hold of his arrow. He knew Dunmacos had been given leave of absence—fuck knew why. Although rumors circulated the praefectus, far from bestowing unjustified leave, had instead charged Dunmacos with a covert mission.
Perhaps he was following up a lead. But the supposition sounded hollow. Because even if Dunmacos was tailing a suspect, how did he know exactly where he was going?
Farther into the forest. Branches scraped against his face and tugged at his legs. An eerie silence descended, as if a blanket had been cast across the small creatures that scuttled in the undergrowth, the birds that nested in the trees. The certainty slammed into him. This part of the forest was cursed.
A shudder inched along his spine but he couldn’t throw the feeling aside. He wanted, more than anything—even more than claiming Dunmacos’ life—to turn and flee this silent place. Before it swallowed him and his existence was forfeit.
Sweat trickled into his eyes and his fingers were slippery on his weapon. Curse this. He didn’t care where Dunmacos headed. They had traveled deep enough. His body would remain undiscovered for days.
Stealthily he drew back his bow, prepared to let fly. But before he could, Dunmacos, quite literally, vanished.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The following morn, far from being invited to join military practice or meet Caratacus—something Morwyn had half expected as her right—one of the Elders from the previous night entrusted her with the care of half a dozen clearly peasant children who all looked younger than Gwyn.
Morwyn bit back her frustration, but only just. The Elder offered her a faint smile, as if she understood Morwyn’s sharp intake of breath for what it truly was.
“They need to be kept occupied while we arrange for the final exodus,” she said. “And while they are not of Druidic blood, they can all be taught of the Morrigan. You’re the ideal teacher, Morwyn. You are, indeed, the answer to our prayers.”
Morwyn inclined her head, but respect was the last emotion bubbling in her breast. The Morrigan had brought her here, in order to be a childminder? She was relegated to watching over the young, and not even noble young at that, while her contemporaries worked alongside the Briton king on his great mission?
Rigid with affront, she followed the Elder’s directions to a nearby stream, where she could supervise the children’s cleansing rituals. And there, instead of merely handing out her supplies, she sent them on search-and-find missions to discover the raw ingredients nearby. Secretly impressed by their willingness to learn, she taught them how to process their haul. Truly, it was remarkable how quick-witted they were, considering they possessed not a drop of noble blood.
As the sun climbed to its pinnacle, she considered her thought. In the past, she had only ever taught the children of other Druids or nobility. Peasant children didn’t have the luxury of obtaining an education. As soon as they were old enough they were set to work, helping their parents, and that was the way it had always been.
Was it the way it would always be?
So much had changed. Morwyn was still a noble but she had no home. She was still a Druid but her clan was fragmented. These children, Gwyn included, had been born into poverty. Did that mean they should be denied the means to improve their minds, to learn to the best of their ability?
A shiver trickled along her spine, and oddly she recalled Carys telling her, with defiance, how she taught Branwen the secret Druid ways. How Morwyn had been shocked at the blatant blasphemy.
And how now, looking at the eager little faces before her, she could suddenly understand why Carys, although only half-trained, had succumbed to the urge to pass on her knowledge.
It was what they did. Teach the younger generation. Without that, they were nothing. Their ways would die.
The Romans would win.
Her breath escaped in a shocked gasp and she pressed her hand against her breast. Children, whether they were of Druid or peasant blood, were the future. How could she, how could any of them, withhold their knowledge from any of their people who wished to learn?
Glancing around, to ensure they were alone, she smothered the ember of guilt and began to tell them of the Creation.
Not the diluted version that peasants had told among themselves for generations. But the full story. The sacred heritage of the Druids.
***
For a moment Trogus froze, bow raised, body taut, eyes frantically searching the section of forest where just a moment before Dunmacos had ridden.
Nothing. Heart jackknifing, he dug in his spurs and urged his horse forward, out from the concealment of trees.
Dunmacos didn’t leap from an overhead branch or barrel into Trogus’ side from a hidden trap. Trogus held his erratic breath, strained his ears, but could hear no distant snapping twigs of muffled progress. Could feel no vengeful eyes upon him. No gut-deep conviction of surveillance.
Cautiously he edged between two massive oaks, and vertigo slammed into him, almost unseating him, and he clutched the front of the saddle for balance, his weapon digging into his hands.
>
Gods, he was going to vomit. The trees spun, the earth undulated, and distant, disembodied voices swam in his mind.
“Caratacus has been expecting you, Bren.”
“I was unavoidably detained.”
Trogus grimaced and crouched over his saddle. He recognized that voice. It was Dunmacos.
Bren?
Caratacus had been expecting him?
Instinctively, Trogus hauled reins and retreated from the oak trees. Instantly his head cleared and stomach calmed. And his brain went into overload.
He’d discovered the hidden whereabouts of Caratacus. And Dunmacos—Bren?—had led him there.
Despite the danger that thudded all around, a disbelieving grin cracked his face. Dunmacos, favorite auxiliary of their praefectus, was nothing more than a fucking traitor. The one who had been selling secrets to the enemy. Putting his own countrymen’s lives at risk.
The grin faded. He could return to the garrison and share his information. The Commander would send the elite of his Legion to wipe out the rebels. Crucify Dunmacos.
Trogus would rather deal with Dunmacos himself. Then inform his superiors.
For several moments he remained mounted, scanning the area. There was something unnatural, something that made his flesh crawl about the trees that concealed Caratacus’ camp. Something that made him want to avert his eyes and turn away.
Then he focused on the gap between the two great oak trees. And the insidious feeling of repulsion faded.
Magic.
It could be nothing else. Somehow, Caratacus was using magic to conceal himself from his enemies.
Heart thudding, he urged his horse once more through the gap. Again the vertigo assailed him but he pushed on, gritting his teeth, and the sensation faded. He glanced around but the forest stretched in every direction, with nothing to indicate he was now within the perimeter of Caratacus’ camp.
He had traveled scarcely the length of a full-grown oak before two blue-daubed barbarians confronted him, primitive spears pointing at his heart.
Captive (The Druid Chronicles Book 2) Page 26
