by Hazel Hunter
“Give her but a fist of oats and a little water,” Brennus told the mortal. “I’ll no’ be long away.”
Crossing the main road, he went directly to the inn, and stepped inside. Dozens of candles flickered in the gust of wind from the door, yet no one came to greet him. Despite a large fire burning in the hearth the air smelled oddly stale, as if the place had sat empty for some time. Brennus walked down the hall but saw nothing but lit candles in every room.
“Flen?” he called out, his voice harsh in the stillness. “I’ve come to talk.”
“I’m upstairs, Chieftain” Bhaltair replied from somewhere above his head. “My knee, ’tis badly swollen, and I’ve broken my walking staff.”
Muttering under his breath, Brennus mounted the stairs to go to him. For the first time he noticed that someone had stuffed every window opening with dark cloaks and rugs. A custom among some mortals, he recalled, that meant someone had died in the house. It would explain why the inn stood empty, but why then would the old druid wish to meet here?
On the second floor he saw rooms in two directions, and the last of his patience dissolved. “Flen?”
A door at the far end of one hall swung open. “Here, Chieftain.”
Brennus strode toward it, intent on delivering a scalding reproof, and then wood cracked and the floor collapsed beneath his boots. Planks and struts tumbled with him into the kitchen, where he landed on the cold stove with a huge crash. Pots and mugs bounced around him as he rolled off onto his hands and knees, and the warm wetness of his blood streaked down his face. The stink of fish enveloped him as he shook off the debris and then felt pain run him through. He looked down and gritted his teeth as he grabbed a length of broken wood to pull it out of his chest.
From the ugly hole it left behind more blood poured down the front of his tunic and spattered the wet floor. He glanced down to see oil, not rain, soaking the floor and rubble beneath him. Rage and pain suffused him as he stared up at the gaping, ragged hole above him.
“You think to end me, you old fool?” Brennus shouted.
A wooden bucket appeared at the edge of the hole and poured a stream of lamp oil onto his back. The bucket then fell, and he flipped to avoid it crashing into his head. Then he went still as he saw dozens of lit candles floating into the kitchen.
Flen meant to burn him alive.
“Bhaltair, enough,” Brennus shouted up to the old druid, who remained out of sight. “I came to talk, naught else.”
A high, shrill laugh answered him.
The candles suddenly flew at him from all sides, igniting the lamp oil soaking his tartan. More flames roared up from the debris that had fallen with him, surrounding him on all sides, and the air went black with smoke.
Brennus tore off his burning tartan, spinning around as he looked for a way out.
Through the smoke and flames he spied a door on the opposite end of the room. A wall of fiery debris blocked his path, and he dropped low as he summoned his battle spirit. Vaulting up with a powerful thrust of his legs, he soared over the burning wood, spinning over and over before he crashed into the door. It exploded outward with him, and he fell in a huge pool of half-frozen mud.
Brennus shoved himself to his feet, his tunic and trews smoldering as the rain extinguished his burning garments. Flames now spewed from the inn’s upper windows, and black smoke billowed up from the disintegrating roof. He ran around to the front to intercept the old druid, but Bhaltair never showed himself. By then the entire inn blazed.
The groom from the stables rushed over to him. “Master, be you hurt?”
“No.” Already the rain had begun to heal his wounds and burns, and wash away the mud, but it did nothing to cool his fury. He watched the roof of the inn collapse into what Bhaltair Flen had planned to make his funeral pyre. “I’ve been betrayed."
Chapter Sixteen
RIDING ON THE back of a barely-tamed horse with looped rope reins wearing only a rough blanket made Emeline actually miss the fourteenth century. As she tried to keep her seat on the furiously galloping beast, she decided never again to complain about the bulky wooden saddles or primitive leather tack the medieval riders used. At least Ruadri stayed close to her side, so that if she fell off he’d probably be able to grab her.
When I fall off.
Emeline began slipping back, and gripped the horse’s sides tighter with her legs. In that moment her body adjusted to the animal’s movements, and a strange confidence filled her. Riding was familiar now, in the same way understanding the tribe’s language was.
The ground rushed under her in a threshing blur as they reached the clearing with the circle of carved stones, and she could finally tug the horse to a halt. Ruadri swung off his mount and reached for her, hoisting her off and down onto the ground.
“What if the portal sends us back in time again?” she asked as they hurried over to the stones. “I don’t want to end up somewhere being chased by dinosaurs.”
“We must have faith,” the shaman said, gripping her hand as they stepped inside the circle. “The Gods brought us here to save the Wood Dream. They wouldnae thwart us now.”
Emeline took in a deep breath before she crouched down and placed her hand in the center of the circle. The grass was cool and wet from morning dew, but the ground remained solid. She closed her eyes and envisioned the whirling vortex that should have opened. When she looked again the portal remained closed. Emeline took away her hand, tried again, and then slowly straightened.
“Your Gods are not cooperating.”
Ruadri made an impatient sound, and knelt down to place his hand over the mark hers had left in the grass. A furious hail of small burning stones blazed inside Emeline as she felt the intensity of his anger and frustration, but what confused her was his attempt to open the portal.
“You can’t do that,” she reminded him. “Unless you know some kind of spell–”
“I’ve opened many portals.” He bowed his head, and then looked at her, his eyes so dark they looked almost black. “I’m half-druid.”
Emeline felt as if he’d knocked her sideways. “But you told me two Pritani tribes bred the Skaraven.”
“Aye, and so they did—all except me.” He drew back his hand, and then struck the ground with his fist. “By the Gods, we come to do your will. Open so we may.”
His bellowed words echoed around the clearing, and seemed to shake the oak branches, but the ground remained intact. Ruadri opened his fist and regarded the unhealed cut across his palm.
“They’ve taken all from me.”
“No. You’ve still got me.” Emeline urged him to his feet. His bleak expression made her reach for his hands. The moment she touched him she felt as if she were sinking into black quicksand—sensing his emotions—but she wouldn’t let go, not now. “I don’t understand. What did the druids do to you?”
“My sire, Galan, was druid kind.” He looked over her head at the oaks before he met her gaze. “He and Bhaltair Flen secretly bred and trained me to serve as their watcher—to spy on my brothers and tell them all that they did. I’m no’ only half-druid, my lady. I’m a traitor.”
No wonder she felt as if she might drown from the inside out. His guilt and shame spread inside her as huge and encompassing as a swamp of darkness. Yet as overwhelming as his emotions were, she sensed nothing evil in the dreadful torrents—just the opposite.
“Does anyone in the clan know about this?” When he shook his head, Emeline felt the yellow grit of his self-disgust ricochet inside her. “Did they also make you keep it secret from Brennus and the others?”
“In my boyhood Galan swore he would poison them all if I refused to spy. I didnae dare risk that.” He met her gaze. “When I grew to a man, I thought of killing him. But I couldnae do it. I dinnae ken why.”
“He was your father,” Emeline said.
Ruadri’s mouth flattened. “No. Galan but sired me. After my mother died, he tortured me and called it training. He made me offer myself to the moon. He pl
agued every moment of my life, as he does still. But father, no. Never could he be.”
“That doesn’t stop you from being his son,” she said softly.
“Could I pry every part of Galan from me, I would,” Ruadri assured her.
A terrible pity filled her. He had obviously carried these feelings since childhood, hiding them deep inside his heart. The burden of that weighed so heavily on her, and she’d felt them only for a few moments. How could he have endured them alone for so long?
Emeline knew what she had to do, and held onto his hands when he would have released her. She knew nothing that she said would take away his torment, so she focused on giving herself to him. Into him she sent the sparkling champagne of her delight in finding him, fountaining from her thoughts to his in a gilded, bubbling froth. With the rich red velvet of the longing she’d felt for his touch she stroked through him, veiling it with the midnight silk lace of her deepest desires. From her memories of their glorious night together she fed him confections of the delicious pleasures he’d shown her.
The more she gave him, the paler his darkness grew. Blue diamonds of her faith in him set themselves in the golden crown of her adoration, which she offered him without hesitation. She wrapped all of her feelings for him in the snowy white gown of the innocence she’d given him, and made herself the bride of his heart.
“You’ll never be alone again,” Emeline said as she watched her emotions glowing in his wet eyes. “What you were or are or will be doesn’t matter, as long as we’re together. You have me now.”
The shaman swept her up in a fierce embrace, his hands stroking over her hair and back as the last of his bleak emotions dwindled away. In their place sprouted the beginnings of a garden, with pale shoots of hope so lovely and fragile they made her swallow a sob.
Ruadri set her at arm’s length. “’Tis more I must tell you, but soon ’twill be too late to save the Wood Dream. We must go to the settlement before the Romans reach it.”
Emeline hurried back with him to their horses. This time she hoisted herself onto her mount using a fallen tree trunk, and without thinking took up the reins as Ruadri held his. Wheeling the horse toward the trail, she glanced at her lover.
“I’ll follow you.”
The shaman nodded and urged the big horse into a quick trot.
Keeping pace with Ruadri also proved easy for Emeline, and once they cleared the forest they raced around the village and down a grassy stretch parallel to the stream. The sun and wind burnished her face, and her hair whipped into a tousled tangle. Still she kept up, as confident as if she’d been born in the saddle.
Maybe I was reborn in it when we came here.
The shaman suddenly reined in his mount to a stop at the edge of a broad glen hemmed by incredibly huge, gnarled oaks and colossal pines. Quickly she tugged on the reins to do the same and followed the direction of his gaze. A cloud of what looked like yellow smoke rose into the sky beyond the ancient forest.
“’Tis dust from the cart road, stirred by foot soldiers,” Ruadri said, his jaw tightening. “Only Romans could raise so much.”
“Which direction is the settlement?” Emeline asked, and turned her head as he pointed to a narrower trail leading east. “How far away?”
“Three leagues, mayhap four.” He gave the dust cloud another hard look before he said, “I shall divert them. You ride ahead and warn the tribe.”
“While they cut you to pieces? You’re mortal now, remember?” Emeline reached over to grab his reins with her free hand. “We have to do this together. So, you come with me, or I go with you.”
“Then together to the Wood Dream.” Ruadri leaned over to kiss her, and took back the reins. “Ride as fast as you may, my lady.”
She turned toward the settlement and moved forward before she used the pressure of her legs to bring the horse to a canter. Soon she and the shaman were galloping across the glen for the oaks. But as they sped past the lake, Emeline spotted something odd. Two people stood in the shallows, doing what Emeline could only call frolicking—while the Romans attacked up ahead. But her astonishment turned to shock when she finally recognized them: Hendry and Murdina.
“There they are,” Ruadri shouted.
But when she turned to him, he wasn’t pointing at the two druids. Up ahead what looked like giant, thick-bodied warriors stood in a long line. As they drew closer she saw that they were enormous carvings sculpted from massive trees still rooted in the ground, and their faces matched that of the famhairean.
A rusty claw of savage emotion raked through her, as she looked over to see the vanguard of the Roman army entering the glen. At the front, mounted officers wearing gray armor and helmets flanked tight formations of marching soldiers carrying rectangular shields, short, wide-bladed swords, and long spears with iron heads. Their faces looked almost impassive, but the hideous emotions seething under those blank expressions made bile surge up from her belly.
A sharp whistle came just before something flew past her cheek, and Ruadri vaulted off his horse to knock her to the ground. Men shouted as he hauled her up and carried her into the forest. As one of the trees sprouted an arrow she finally understood: someone was shooting at them.
Ruadri pushed her behind one of the huge totems, and shielded her with his body as leaves crunched beneath heavy footsteps coming at them.
“You’ve fine mounts, heathen,” a flinty voice called out. “What of that dark little mare you hide from us? Will she hold two riders?”
The Roman’s putrid lust nearly melted down Emeline’s mental block before the shaman’s strength swept it away like a silvery tide beneath a full moon.
“Close your eyes now, my lady,” Ruadri murmured. “Dinnae open them again until I return.”
She knew he said that his power blinded, but he was asking too much of her. How could she just stand here alone and do nothing? Her side and ankle grew hot, and her terror receded as a calm, glowing power coursed through her. It seemed she wouldn’t be alone.
“Come back to me.”
As Ruadri kissed her brow and left her there the serenity of his battle spirit filled her heart, soothing her frantic emotions. It spread from there, gently reinforcing the crumbling blockade in her mind until it grew into a gleaming fortress of moonlight. It quieted her fear as she heard the crude taunts of the Romans, and then their hoarse screams and stumbling movements. All around her the trees rustled, although there was no wind now, and then she felt an azure wash of wrenching sorrow. It came from Ruadri, not the men he’d just blinded. Despite the tranquil presence of the moon in her mind Emeline was furious.
How could you curse him with such a terrible power?
Indeed, I have favored the son of Fiana, the voice of a thousand bells ringing whispered from inside her head. To serve me, a warrior must suffer my power as well as wield it. Few have proven brave enough to do both, as well you know by the soul-sharing granted you, daughter of Seonag.
Emeline refused to cringe as the power inside her made her scars burn as if she were being branded.
Neither of us ever asked for your favors.
Nor I yours, Emeline. Your task yet awaits. See to it, else you lose all that you love.
“Emeline.” Ruadri was shaking her. “Gods, look at me.”
Slowly she opened her eyes and felt a final cool stream of power as the battle spirit faded from her thoughts.
“I just insulted the moon, I think.” She blinked a few times, and then saw the blood spattering the side of his face. “Oh, God, you’re hurt.”
“No, lass. ’Tis their blood.” He caught her before she stepped away from the totem. “The horses have run off, and the Romans have crossed the glen.”
“We can’t give up.” She hurried out and stumbled to avoid the two bodies locked together on the ground. The Romans had thrust their swords in each other, their blinded eyes staring up at the sky. “Your power did that to them?”
“I took their sight.” Ruadri sounded indifferent, but his mouth ti
ghtened as he regarded the dead men. “They thought each other me.”
Emeline gripped his hand. “Come on. I have it on good authority that our task yet awaits. We’ll make it. We have to.”
Running through a forest beside the big shaman seemed another impossible undertaking. In her time Emeline had always struggled with moving quickly. Her curves tended to joggle when she did, and she grew quickly out of breath. When she hurried to a patient’s room it always made the other nurses snicker. Now she didn’t care what bounced or bobbled, not when so many lives were at stake. Thanks to starvation she was much lighter on her feet, and she seemed to be much more sure-footed than she’d ever been in her life.
Within a few minutes they reached the edge of the settlement, where they stopped and looked around at the well-tended gardens and tidy little cottages. The Wood Dream took good care of their settlement, which now stood empty.
The druids had vanished.
Chapter Seventeen
RETURNING TO THE Sky Thatch settlement took longer than Bhaltair would have wished, but his pony began to limp a league from the McAra stronghold. Unwilling to ride a lame mount, he instead walked while leading the beast at a slow pace. High overhead, the sun barely made itself felt, and the cold air rifled through his robes like darts of ice
“I would go to Dun Mor to beg forgiveness of Brennus, you ken,” he told the pony as they made their way through the snow-covered grain fields. “Only he’d slay me before I uttered a word.”
His mount arched his neck, drawing Bhaltair’s gaze to the evergreens ahead of them, where he could see Fingal on horseback, speaking to his defenders. The headman must have spotted him, for he rode out to intercept him.
“You’ve saved me a long, hard ride to McAra’s castle,” the headman said as he nimbly leapt down from his saddle. “Cora went an hour ago to wake Oriana and found her bed empty. I searched the entire settlement, but she’s gone.”
