Aeron stood by the stone altar, palms pressed against its cool surface, his hazel rod at his feet.
He didn’t know how many hours he had remained in this position. Only that now, as glimpses of the future fluttered behind his closed eyes, other Druids approached.
Anger stirred at the disruption, at the distortion in his visions. The cromlech was the center of the Druids’ spiritual connection with the gods, but it was more than that to him.
Since the age of eight, when he’d received irrefutable proof via his bloody vision of his importance in the future of the world, the cromlech had become his own personal bastion of power.
His hands fisted. The others would disperse when they saw he was engaged with the gods. They would assume he was communing with the mighty god of the Otherworld, Arawn. Or perhaps the warrior god Camulus or Taranis, god of thunder, as to ways of beating the Roman scum and bringing peace once more to the valleys.
Contempt for his fellow Druids seared through his arteries and pounded in his mind. As a chosen acolyte of Arawn, he had always been a favored one of both Camulus and Taranis. But in the buried depths of his soul he had long ago abandoned those weak deities. They were nothing when compared to the one true source of power that had spewed forth those insipid gods, which bound all life together and which had shown itself to him on the longest day of summer twenty-five years ago.
His eyes snapped open. Morwyn emerged from the mouth of the great mound, and when she realized he looked her way, she gave an exaggerated swing to her hips.
Revulsion curled his belly. He knew it wasn’t Morwyn herself who repulsed him. It was her calling. Whenever he looked at her, at the maiden aspect of the Morrigan, he saw only the wrinkled crone.
A shudder crawled the length of his spine. Soon, the triple goddess would be relegated to her rightful position in the circle of existence.
Crushed beneath his feet.
He hooked a finger at Morwyn and, as he knew she would, she sauntered over, tossing her long black hair over her shoulder.
“Good morn, Aeron.” She braced her hands on the altar, the disrespectful whore, and angled herself so he had a clear view of her ample cleavage.
He offered her an icy smile, when all he really wanted was to swipe her undeserving hands from the sacred slab.
But she was Carys’ special friend. And his major recourse for discovering what Carys did with her days. For almost fifteen years he’d nurtured the tenuous ability he possessed that enabled him to keep mental track of her whereabouts. It was a power he cherished; one many would covet had they known of its existence. A power that had unaccountably vanished the night he’d created the sacred spiral. Even now he couldn’t fathom how such a fundamental error had occurred, but one thing was certain. It had nothing to do with his flawless incantations that night.
“I trust you weren’t troubled by disturbing dreams again?” He feigned interest, though he didn’t care whether Morwyn’s visions drove her insane or killed her. All that interested him was why Carys hadn’t returned to the mound last night. She’d never before slept out in the forest.
“I slept like a babe.” Morwyn fluttered her eyelashes at him.
He knew she lied. Currently she was fucking the brains out of Gawain, a fellow Druid, and whatever she may have done last night, sleep wouldn’t have been a major factor.
“Have you seen Carys this morn?” He had never been a great one for small talk, and over the last few moons it had grown increasingly more difficult to converse with his inferiors.
He didn’t have time for mindless chatter. Only information.
Morwyn straightened, as if his question didn’t please her. “We shared tea and broke our fast.”
Something in her manner alerted his senses. He leaned toward her across the altar.
“And?” His voice was persuasive. He could be very persuasive when it suited.
Her brow creased and she nibbled on her lower lip. He waited in silence for her to continue.
“We were touched by the raven’s eye.”
Shivers skittered across his skin as excitement tightened his chest. “You or Carys?” Of course Carys. Morwyn was nothing compared to Carys, in beauty, in power and in potential.
Morwyn hugged her waist as if the recollection disturbed her. “The raven eyed Carys. But then, when he took to the wing, he dropped a tail feather at her feet.”
Aeron’s heart stilled for one eternal moment, then slammed against his rib cage as the significance of the omen penetrated.
“How did Carys react?” He kept his voice calm, but inside victory thundered. The raven, with its gift of prophecy, frequently inhabited his visions of bloodthirsty conquest, the bird and its flock picking over the broken carcasses of their slaughtered enemy.
If the raven had singled out Carys for its token, then Aeron’s destiny was assured.
In the midst of carnage, Carys and the fruit of her womb would belong to him.
He no longer cared why she had slept outside last night. It had been a prelude to what had followed.
“She didn’t.” Morwyn sounded confused by Carys’ reaction to the bird. “Aeron, I know what the raven portents. There’ll be more fighting and death before this is over, won’t there?”
He forced himself to respond, to drag his lustful thoughts from once again possessing Carys’ body. Except the next time he did so, he would also possess her mind. Her soul.
Her freedom.
“This will never be over until the strait churns with Roman blood.”
“Celtic blood also.” Morwyn’s whisper was filled with sorrow.
Aeron drew back and folded his arms across his naked, blue-daubed chest. “The gods are with us, Morwyn. They’ll protect us against the heathen invaders.”
Aeron gripped his hazel rod in frustration. After leaving Morwyn—who assured him she had not the faintest idea where Carys might be—he mentally searched all the holiest places within the vast confines of the sacred spiral, attempting to pick up a glimmer of her aura.
But there was nothing. And while the severance of his spiritual connection to her meant he could no longer pinpoint her exact location, when he invoked the mighty power of Annwyn—a power that no other even imagined could be enslaved—he always knew whether or not she remained within his specified limits.
The fucking bitch had defied him yet again.
Rage filled his chest and compressed his heart at the knowledge she had escaped to her precious Cauldron.
He didn’t care that she loved her Cauldron. He didn’t even care that she loved ministering to her fucking useless patients. What tore at his guts was the fact she thought nothing of disobeying his direct orders.
Gritting his teeth, he glared around the cromlech. He had always known how attached she was to the sparkling spring in the hidden glade. She felt the same affinity there as he did with the cromlech.
He understood. It was part of who Carys was, part of her mystical power that even now he could scarcely comprehend.
Because of that, he had specifically enclosed the Cauldron of Cerridwen within the parameters of the sacred spiral. Then, he knew, Carys’ anger would be appeased at the enforced captivity. She wouldn’t be able to see her patients but at least her sanctuary would be eternally available for her meditations.
And he would always know where he could find her.
But the spiral had fallen short. The Cauldron was now outside his power. And Carys, alternating from one holy place to another during the course of a single day, could never be found when he wanted her.
He reined in his smoldering fury. Patience. For twenty-five years he had waited for his time, and he was a master of patience. In less than three days, during the shortest night of the sacred wheel, the old gods would fall, the enemy would crumble and his time would come.
“Enter.”
Maximus entered the Legatus Legionis’ office and saluted.
“Primus.” The Legatus acknowledged him and then indicated he should sit. “I received communication from the Emperor yesterday. I’ve been promoted to provincial governor.”
“Well deserved, sir.” And unsurprising. With only one Legion in this province it made sense to appoint the Legatus.
The commander jerked his head in acceptance. “And Faustus has been reappointed to Rome.”
Maximus remained silent. He knew what was coming.
The Legatus leaned back in his chair and regarded Maximus through narrowed eyes. “That means the post of Tribunus Laticlavius is vacant.”
“Sir.”
“How old are you, Maximus?”
The commander knew exactly how old he was, considering he was his father’s second cousin. “Twenty-seven, sir.”
“Five years older than Faustus.”
Again Maximus remained silent. It was an undisputed fact the commander’s nephew, Faustus, was indeed a full five years Maximus’ junior.
The older man tapped one finger on his desk. “The Emperor has seen fit to promote you into the vacant position. Congratulations, Maximus.”
“Thank you, sir.” He was now second-in-command of the Legion. A tight knot of pride glowed deep inside his chest, but he kept his features clear of any such expression.
“Of course, if you’d gone about your career in the right way, you’d be looking toward your own quaestorship by now.” The Legatus gave him a dark scowl, which almost instantly broke into an approving grin. “You’re old to be appointed Tribunus, but what the fuck. Your experience makes up for it.”
Nine years fighting his way up the centurion ranks more than made up for it. “Can I recommend my successor?”
“I thought you might.”
“Aquila.”
“His record is impressive.” It was obvious the Legatus already had Aquila in mind for the position of the senior centurion. “Faustus is moving out within the next couple of days, so you can take over his quarters then.” A gleam lit the older man’s eye. “Now you’ve finally acquired a rank befitting your birth, I’ve no doubt you’ll soon also be acquiring a suitable Roman wife.”
The thought held little appeal. He had no need of a wife. Not when he had his wood nymph.
His groin tightened as he recalled the intense sexual pleasures of the previous night. He doubted a Roman girl of his patrician class could ever come close to satisfying him so thoroughly.
“I’d rather not.” There was great feeling in those words.
The Legatus laughed, as if Maximus had shared a great joke. “Most of us would rather not, boy. But the might of the Empire must flourish, and for that we need wives.”
Maximus grunted. His Celt had made it very plain she wouldn’t share. Even now her vehemence had the power to stun. He’d never come across such passion from a woman before. A part of him couldn’t help thinking a lady of noble birth—there was no doubt his Celt was of noble birth—shouldn’t even consider such violence, let alone display it.
But another part of him—the greater part—secretly basked in the knowledge she possessed the capacity to feel so strongly.
“So long as you’re discreet, there is no need to give up your mistress.”
“I don’t—” Maximus sucked in a breath and struggled not to scowl at the Legatus. This was what happened when commanding officers also happened to be relatives. They presumed.
For most of his military career he’d been unencumbered by such familiarity. It was only after being transferred and promoted to the rank of Primus almost a year ago, directly under the command of his father’s second cousin, that he’d confronted such interference and tasted the accompanying nepotism firsthand.
Tasted, and rebelled. The same way he’d rebelled at eighteen and enlisted as a bottom-rung centurion, instead of allowing his family connections to acquire him a tribune office, as his father’s consul rank demanded.
The commander laughed. “Deny it if you wish, Maximus. But it’s your duty to produce legitimate heirs, and for that need you need an advantageous marriage.” He shrugged. “Happens to us all. And you may strike lucky and be given a wife you learn to care for. Just don’t allow her to feel threatened by any mistress. That’s all.”
Carys wrapped her arms around her knees and watched her last patient leave the Cauldron. Only two had visited this morn. One woman had come for her sister, whose pregnancy was causing her great sickness. And the other because she feared pregnancy and wanted to ensure such catastrophe wouldn’t come to pass.
Carys hadn’t probed, but received the impression the potential father wasn’t the woman’s husband but a Roman.
As she prepared the necessary concoction, and gave the distraught woman detailed instructions, her mind nibbled incessantly at her own fertility potential.
Why had she tipped the cleansing tea into the ground this morn?
Maximus was virile. There was no doubt of that. Even now his seed could be implanting within her, drawing her blood to his, creating the first spark of new life.
And instead of filling her with horror, the thought filled her with a strange, dreadful delight.
If she was destined to have a child, then she wanted it to be her Roman’s. It would be something to remember him by, as if she would need reminding, when the time came for them to part.
Carys knew that time would come. There was no future for them together. How could there be when he was a Roman and she not merely a Celt, but a Druid?
Yet the raven had touched her with his prophetic eye and in that moment of clarity she had seen new life spring from the carnage of war.
A warm, soothing ribbon of peace fluttered through her heart, settling her soul. She worshipped the wise Cerridwen. She believed in the truth of the raven’s foresight and, suddenly, despite every obstacle between her and Maximus, she had a certainty that, somehow, their destinies were inextricably entwined.
And the only way that could possibly be was if she conceived his child.
Carys slipped through the narrow entrance between two massive oaks that marked the single passage into the sacred spiral. The wave of vertigo shimmered through her mind, as always, but vanished within a heartbeat.
She leaned against a tree, shaded from the sun, and flexed her injured hand. There were a multitude of pain inhibitors she could take, but she would take nothing that might disrupt her body’s rhythm and potentially dislodge Maximus’ seed.
“Carys?” The whisper floated in the air and she swung round to see Morwyn, followed by Gawain leading two horses, emerge from deeper within the forest, both wearing dull, ragged cloaks over their richly decorated garments.
“Are you going to the settlement?” It was an open secret that over the last few moons—since the Druids had realized their flight wasn’t transitional, that they weren’t making active plans to launch a covert assault on the occupying forces—more and more had begun to slip down to the settlement and assist their people in more unobtrusive ways.
And for all his power, Aeron never appeared to see what was happening in front of his eyes. Sometimes Carys wondered whether he even knew many of the hamlets and villages were now dead and abandoned, their occupants having discovered more opportunities awaited them around the Roman fortification.
Morwyn gave a brief nod, and then gave her a speculative look. “Why don’t you come with us?”