Callestina now went and sat before the fire, letting the robe fall from her shoulders so that the warmth of the flames bathed her body. Fire was sacred of itself, a gift from the gods to their mortal children. Callestina closed her eyes, clearing her mind of all but the divine caress of the heat. She let the sensation seep inward, filling her body until, at last, she knew she was ready.
Slowly, softly, Callestina began to chant the names of the goddesses.
“Mothers of Destiny, I come before you. Great Urd, your thread binds the fate of the world; Great Verdandi, your thread secures the path of the present; Great Skuld, your thread weaves the course of the future. Great and powerful Mothers, without your skill all is chaos. To you, Great Mothers, I bring my petition. You alone can be my help.”
Callestina took the first thread and dipped it in the wine. Then she threw it on the fire, and as its smoke rushed upward she asked her first boon.
“Great Mother Verdandi, holder of the present, show me the way to make Darius love me as I love him. Help me awaken his desire and his heart.”
Again Callestina took a red thread, dipped it in wine and threw it on the flames.
“Great Mother Skuld, keeper of the future, weave my life and Darius’s together. Let the path of our futures be bound by your unbreakable thread.”
A final time Callestina repeated the ritual.
“Great Mother Urd, Mother of Fate, I do not ask for riches or power—only for love, and for the passion of that love to be the force that decides the fate of my life.”
Now Callestina placed her own hair in the bowl, spreading the strands out to cover the honeyed wine. She passed the bowl three times over the fire, once more chanting the names of the goddesses. Then she poured the liquid onto the flames. Pungent smoke filled her tent and she lifted her naked arms upward into it.
“Great Mothers of Destiny,” she sang out to them. “You hold all that is and all that is to be. I place myself within your care. I pledge myself to your service. Only hear the cry of your daughter and grant the requests of my heart and all that you ask of me I will do. Whatever path you lay before me. Great Mothers, I will tread without fear or wavering.”
Callestina sat back now, energy spent. She could feel her heart pounding, her blood racing with anticipation. She was certain she had performed the ritual correctly—surely the goddesses would hear her and look on her with favor.
By tonight, Darius would be hers.
Chapter Thirteen
Many of Alaric’s people turned out to cheer as Darius’s army approached the camp. Unlike the nation of Visigoths under Alaric, few of Darius’s followers were women and children; none of them were wives. The men who followed Darius were warriors, killers, who took joy in their skill and their mobility. There were a few camp followers who satisfied the quick lusts of the men, but even these women carried swords and spears. They rode a horse as well as any man and counted themselves among Darius’s chosen.
When the two armies combined under Darius and Alaric, there would be forty thousand to attack Rome.
Darius motioned for his army to halt and begin pitching their tents while he rode on toward Alaric’s tent at the center of the camp. Only one man rode by his side, one man who was always by his side.
Grayson, Darius’s second-in-command.
They had been together for forty-five years and Grayson alone knew the secret of Darius’s ferocity, his unbeatable skill in battle. Grayson knew because he and Darius were of a kind.
Immortal.
The truth of their lives gave them a power mortal men could not understand. It freed them from the fears that ruled lesser men—fear of pain, of wounds, of illness, of death. They were free to go from glory to glory, century to century, until the world lay at their feet.
Grayson of course knew of The Game; Darius—his teacher, his mentor, almost his personal god—had neglected no part of his education when he had discovered Grayson awakening from his first death. Even now, Grayson shuddered to think of it: the sword slicing through him, weakening him; his fall as the horses came galloping toward him; their hooves trampling him, smashing his body until the pain gave way to the oblivion of death.
And then—Darius sitting on the ground waiting until life once more coursed through Grayson’s body.
Grayson remembered the smile that had greeted him when sight returned to his eyes, the hand that reached out and drew him to his feet, the strong arm around his shoulders, steadying him at a time when existence had just twisted to a crazy new shape and angle.
It was an irony Grayson had long ago come to appreciate, that the very hooves that had crushed him belonged to the horses of Darius’s army.
His mortal life had ended that day on the trampled field in Dacia, but he had been reborn into something far greater. He had left behind his plows and his crops and his old name of Claudianus. He had taken his new name for the gray wolf’s skin Darius wore in battle. He was now Grayson, Son of the Wolf, and at Darius’s side he learned the art of war. Together they were unstoppable.
Grayson felt all the power of his Immortality as he and Darius rode side by side through Alaric’s camp. It was a sea of mortal bodies and Grayson saw them only as tools, as fodder for the machinations of conquest.
Darius’s conquest; his conquest.
From the back of his horse Grayson looked down on them, both in body and in spirit. He returned their cheers with a slight, sardonic twist of his lips he knew they would mistake for a smile—weak, blind mortals that they were.
As the riders neared the center of the camp, Alaric himself came out to meet them. By his side walked his sister. Grayson felt a wave of hunger crest through him; here, finally, was someone worthy of his attention.
With the hunger came the whisper of another sensation. It was the merest glimmer of what he and all like him would someday feel in her presence, but it was enough. Callestina, Alaric’s younger sister, was Immortal. She did not know it yet, for no first death had claimed her, but the truth was apparent to Gray son.
Grayson glanced at Darius. For the briefest moment their eyes locked, and Grayson knew that Darius had also felt it. Or, as often as they had shared winter camp with Alaric’s people, perhaps Darius had known for years. Darius always seemed to know—everything.
“Darius, my friend!” Alaric’s booming voice cut into Grayson’s thoughts. The leader of the Visigoths stepped forward, arms outstretched, as Darius dismounted and handed his reins into Grayson’s keeping.
Grayson let his eyes rake over the man as Alaric enfolded Darius in a welcoming embrace. Alaric was a bear of a man, suited to the black fur he wore about his shoulders. He had not the height of Darius, but he had greater girth, with a barrel chest and thick arms that came from wielding the battle-ax he preferred over a sword.
“Always you keep yourself a little apart, Grayson,” Alaric called as he released Darius and turned toward the mounted man. “Come—let another see to the horses. They’ll be well cared for, I promise you. Come into my tent. There is a feast being prepared. The whole camp celebrates your arrival.”
Slowly Grayson dismounted. He threw the reins of the horses to a boy who rushed out to take them. Hiding his reluctance with a sigh, Grayson turned and strode to Darius’s side. As Alaric embraced him as well, Grayson tried not to grunt in disgust. Then the leader of the Visigoths turned and led the way into his tent.
“You must look more pleased, Grayson,” Darius said to him softly as they followed Alaric. “Being pleasant to one’s allies is also one of the arts of war. As long as they are useful, you must flatter them and make them feel they are your equals—especially if, in truth, you know they will never be so.”
Grayson inclined his head slightly so that Darius would know he understood. Even after all these years he was still learning from the master.
Then Grayson straightened his shoulders slightly, put on a false smile, but one that he hoped was convincing, and walked with Darius into Alaric’s tent. As he entered, his gaze fell agai
n on Callestina. At that moment, his smile became true.
Callestina barely returned Grayson’s smile and she gave no more of one to Darius. She was polite and yet aloof. In the time between the ritual in her tent and Darius’s arrival, a plan had formed in her mind and she would do nothing to jeopardize it. She was certain it was a gift from the goddesses.
She had dressed with special care this evening, laying aside comfort and warmth for beauty. If all went as she planned, she would have Darius’s arms to warm her tonight and the slight discomfort of these hours would be forgotten in the pleasure of his touch.
She had left her hair unbound, and brushed it until it shone like strands of golden silk. The gown she chose was deep blue, a color not easily achieved in dyeing, and was woven of the finest lamb’s wool. It clung to every curve when she moved, outlining the fullness of her breasts, the roundness of her hips and thighs, the long supple line of her waist. She did not sit at Alaric’s side, as was her right and her usual wont, but kept moving about the tent, serving the men herself and letting the magic of a woman’s body work its own eternal spell. She could feel Darius’s eyes following her. That gave her body warmth enough without the fur robes she would otherwise have worn.
Grayson watched her also, but of his obvious desire she thought not at all.
Callestina ate sparingly herself; she found that the excitement she felt left little room for food or drink. Nor did she participate in the men’s discussion of conquest. Throughout the winter months ahead there would be many hours to hear her brother’s plans for what was to be—and, in truth, it mattered less to Callestina where she settled than with whom.
She went to refill a pitcher of mead, not bothering to grab her cloak before leaving the tent. The air outside was cold and crisp and Callestina filled her lungs with it. The ground had a light covering of snow, but both it and the wind had stopped and now the night seemed to sparkle, as if the air had been freshly washed.
Around her were the sounds of the camp in celebration—laughing, singing, greeting old friends—yet Callestina felt oddly alone, as if the noise eddied and swirled but passed her by, leaving her in a pool of calm.
But she was not calm. Now that she was alone, her heart pounded almost painfully against her ribs. Would she have the courage to carry out her plan tonight, to act without fear of consequence?
Yes, she told herself, lifting her head higher. This, too, is war. It is a conquest and I am as much a warrior as my brother.
Callestina walked to the wagon where the casks of mead were stored. As she lifted a lid and prepared to plunge the dipper down into the golden liquid, she felt a presence behind her. She turned quickly and found Grayson watching her from a few feet away. On his arm he carried her cloak of silver fox.
“I saw you leave without this,” he said as he stepped nearer. “It is too cold a night to go about uncovered.”
With a swift motion, he shook out her cloak and draped it around her shoulders. For an instant their bodies stood close to each other, almost touching, and Callestina could feel the heat of him. His hands were on her shoulders. Even through the thickness of the fur, she could feel how his hands shook, as if he did battle with some enemy.
Slowly, Callestina lifted her eyes to Grayson’s face. Like Darius, he was clean-shaven, Roman style, though tonight a fine stubble accented his high cheekbones and the slant of his jaw. His hair, too, was Roman style, swirling in a dark blond mass no longer than his ears. This was also Darius’s influence. Beards and braids could give an enemy a handhold, Darius said, and many of his army went without them.
Finally, Callestina looked up into Grayson’s eyes. They were the pale blue of a sky just lightening to dawn. She saw the desire that filled them and knew that his own feelings were the enemy he fought. Grayson did not want to love or to keep a woman. He wanted nothing in his heart but himself, Darius, and the world that they would rule.
Callestina lowered her eyes in triumph. She did not care about Grayson’s desire except for the feeling of power it gave her. Darius was not so cold a man as his companion. If Grayson had been thus affected by her presence, surely Darius…
She would waste no time; she would go to his tent tonight.
“Thank you, Grayson,” Callestina said calmly, turning back to her task. “It’s true—I had not thought it would be so cold.”
She nearly laughed as she said the word. Cold. Her body burned with heat. It was a fire Darius alone could quench—and feed.
Grayson stepped back and let Callestina return, unhindered and unassisted, to filling the pitcher in her hand. As she walked away, his eyes followed her movements but he took no step to join her. He stood with his jaw shut tight, his hands clenched by his side. He was furious—at himself and his own weakness.
It had been all he could do to keep from crushing Callestina to him, feeling the softness of her body pressed against his, tasting the sweetness her lips promised. Why hadn’t he? his thoughts raged. Any other woman and he would not have hesitated. He was not a man who ever hesitated over what he wanted.
Through all the times they had shared Alaric’s camp, Grayson had seen Callestina change from girl into woman and never given her more than passing notice. Until tonight. Tonight she had seemed made for a man’s passion and his body responded of its own accord, filling him with the desire, the need, to be near her.
But, in truth, her beauty daunted him. That very quality that had drawn him to follow her out into the night, had kept him from taking what he wanted. It was more than the fact she was Alaric’s sister and Alaric was an ally. That would not have stopped him had he felt the least bit of yielding in Callestina herself. But he had not. She had seemed a creature of fire, standing next to him in the darkness—and also of ice. And he had known it was not his touch she wanted.
Darius. The name came unbidden to his mind. It was for Darius that Callestina burned so brightly. Grayson nearly laughed out loud. He knew that he was thought cold and aloof, that Darius was imagined the more passionate of the two. But Gray son knew the truth: Darius merely played his part with greater ease. He’d had centuries more practice. If Callestina thought she would find love in Darius’s arms, she would find only disappointment.
Grayson had no doubt his mentor would be amused by Callestina’s infatuation. He might even spend the winter taking his pleasure of her, though to do so here in Alaric’s camp might well prove dangerous. Yet danger was never something Darius avoided. He thrived on it and he had taught Grayson to do so as well.
No, if Callestina wanted love, she would not find it in Darius’s heart. He loved only his sword and his battles. This love, too, he had taught Grayson to share.
Fly to him, my little dove, Grayson thought as he watched Callestina’s retreating form. Let him melt the ice I felt beneath your fire. And when he has taken what he wants of you and grown bored with your charms—as he has with all other women—where will you go? To whom will you turn for comfort?
Perhaps I shall be waiting, he thought as the distance and darkness veiled her from his eyes. And then again, perhaps not.
Chapter Fourteen
The feast went on long into the night. Callestina thought she would go mad waiting for the celebration to end and for the men to grow weary enough to let sleep or drink overtake them.
Darius, she noticed, drank sparingly. Even here in a friend’s camp there was a part of him that remained wary, watchful, that would give an enemy no weakness to exploit. Callestina was glad of his sobriety. She had no desire to give herself to a drunk and clumsy lover.
But she knew she had no fear of that with Darius. The aura of power and of control he exuded was part of what drew her to him.
Alaric, by contrast, drank deeply. By the time the earlier storm clouds had finished their pass and the moon had risen over the trees, Alaric was deep in his cups. His words were slurred and his eyes had grown heavy-lidded. Soon he would stumble to his sleeping furs and pass the night in snoring stupor.
It was obvious that
Darius also realized the time of intelligent conversation had passed. Callestina watched him lean and whisper something to Grayson, who nodded silently.
“Well, my friend,” Darius turned to Alaric, “we have traveled far this day and glad as I am to be in your company, I shall be gladder still of my tent and a night’s sleep.”
“Aye, well, let us drink one final toast, then,” Alaric said, reaching for the pitcher of mead. He started to fill the cups, but his unsteady hand caused him to spill a large amount on the ground. With a slight smile, Darius took the pitcher from his hand and filled the cups himself.
“One more toast, then, my friend,” he said. “Shall we drink again to our success in Rome?”
‘To the conquest of Rome,” Alaric agreed loudly, raising his cup high—and spilling more wine in the process.
After the toast was drunk, Darius and Grayson both stood. Alaric, too, came unsteadily to his feet. He pounded his companions on the back as the three of them made their way to the tent flap.
“Now that you are here,” Alaric said, “I know we shall succeed. Tomorrow we will begin to plan our attack. I have maps,” he added proudly.
From the corner into which she had retreated, Callestina watched as an amused look again crossed Darius’s face, as if he knew what his friend’s head must feel like tomorrow.
“I think tomorrow should be a day of rest for us all,” Darius said. “My people and I must look to our camp if we are to stay here all winter. You and I have plenty of time to study your maps and plan our strategy.”
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