“Glad to return to Rome.” Blandus scowled at the legionaries who were training on the field beyond the garrison. Tacitus grunted in response. Rome no longer held the appeal it had before the battle with Caratacus.
Before he’d met Nimue.
“The Senate,” Blandus continued, “is a far more civilized battlefield than those we encounter in these far-flung provinces. The facilities here are appalling. I’ve never endured such primitive conditions.”
The facilities were barbaric when compared to what they were used to in Rome. In less than three months, Tacitus’ tour of duty would be over and his political career admirably advanced. With the fall of Caratacus, his military record glowed. He could pursue law, his long-held ambition.
Or he could remain in the Legions.
The thought pierced through his mind, as clear and sharp as if he had spoken the words aloud. For a moment he froze, disoriented by the power of the thought and the solid certainty that it wasn’t only a viable alternative…
But his only alternative.
In Rome, as his concubine, Nimue would wilt. But if he remained in the military and took posts throughout Britannia and Gallia, Nimue could remain in a more familiar environment.
Still under the yoke of Rome. But at least she wouldn’t be stigmatized the way she would if he took her home.
He’d already asked her to be his concubine. She had refused. Why did he think her answer would be any different now, simply because his plans for his future had changed?
But he knew the answer already. It was because this time Nimue truly did have a choice. Because this time he’d ask her not when she was enslaved; he would ask her now that she was a free woman.
Dusk settled, drifting through the forest, malicious fingers of darkness unrelieved by a shimmer of silver from the skies. Even now, on this night, Arianrhod denied light to her people.
A polished stone altar stood some distance from the dolmen. A fire burned in the center of the glade and from the light of the flames, Nimue watched the women, children and the handful of men who’d returned to the sanctuary daub ancient symbols onto their skin.
Torches blazed at the four corners of the altar and Nimue pulled one from the ground. She knew exactly where the shard of bluestone she’d stolen needed to be placed, and yet an overwhelming compunction compelled her to ensure she knew the way.
As she left the glade, she couldn’t fathom what she was doing. Did she intend to go through with the ritual tonight? Her Goddess refused to hear her pleas and Arianrhod would never forgive her for such betrayal. She would be struck down without mercy. Could she willingly sacrifice the life of her unborn child for the lives of Tacitus and her father?
She pushed through the encroaching forest as despair seeped from her heart and corroded her soul. The life of her babe for the life of her lover. How could she live, knowing she was the one who had killed Tacitus? Yet how could she sentence his child to eternal torment for having defied a direct imperative from her Goddess?
Something small and dark hurtled by her head and she gasped, fell to a crouch, her eyes straining to see beyond the flickering pool of light from her torch. Disbelief shuddered through her as the fleeting shadow imprinted into her brain.
A young owl.
Even as the thought formed, she heard a sickening thud and without thinking she rushed forward toward the sound. An ash tree loomed from the shadows and she stopped dead, momentarily paralyzed by the appearance of Gwydion in one of his majestic manifestations.
The god had heard her treacherous thoughts. He had come in his sister-goddess’ stead to exact vengeance.
Above the terrified pounding of her heart, she heard a rustle in the undergrowth. Her torch dipped and there, at the base of the ash tree, lay the injured owl.
And slithering toward it, the dark spear shape on its head clearly visible, was an adder.
“No.” She thrust the torch at the snake and instead of instantly vanishing back into the undergrowth it turned to her, fangs gleaming in the flickering light. Rage pumped through Nimue and, unheeding of the connection between god and tree and creature, she thrust the torch again until it abandoned its prey and disappeared.
Nimue fell to her knees, plunged the tapered end of the torch into the ground and carefully scooped the owl into her hands. Its fragile heartbeat and unnatural stillness sent a new wave of terror thundering through her blood.
How could an owl, the manifestation of Arianrhod, die at the hands of her own brother?
Save them all. The feminine whisper that weaved through Nimue’s mind was not powerful, as it had been during the last vision she’d experienced. But ethereal fingers trailed along her arms as, this time, understanding of the cryptic words unfurled.
Arianrhod did not speak only of the women and children who’d been captured by the Romans. She spoke of all the people of Cymru, both native and invader.
The owlet’s eyes opened and in the flickering torchlight she saw the crescent moon gleam in the bird’s glassy stare. Mesmerized she watched as the crescent dimmed, became less defined; disappeared. And as the light died, so too did the owl’s heart.
“Blessed Arianrhod.” Her whisper echoed through the trees and the undergrowth stirred although there was no breeze. The elusive presence of her Goddess surrounded her, a fragile brush against her flesh, a mystical caress deep within her soul. Love flooded through her and warmth seeped into her veins, filled her heart and cocooned her womb. Arianrhod had come to her at last.
Just as swiftly, darkness descended and ice speared through her breast. The terror returned but it was savage, unformed, and she glanced wildly around the shadowed forest in search of answers to unknown questions.
It couldn’t be true. But despite her panicked denials, the last few moments hammered through her head in a constant refrain.
She had watched Gwydion destroy Arianrhod. Her goddess hadn’t sent her brother god in her stead to visit Nimue during the last few days because she was angry with her acolyte. She had not sent Gwydion at all. And the only reason she’d failed to answer Nimue’s prayers was because, somehow, Gwydion had prevented it.
It had been Gwydion who’d wanted her to take the opium. Only when she was under its influence could he penetrate her mind and manipulate her to his will. By taking the drug, she’d made it harder for Arianrhod to reach her. But still her Goddess had protected her. On the night before she and Tacitus had reached the fortification, she’d been consumed by the imperative to take the opium. Only the sight and haunting sound of an owl had prevented her from searching for the drug. Arianrhod had fought, in the only way she could, to keep her acolyte’s mind clear of Gwydion’s influence.
Nimue had wanted to discover how the High Druid Aeron had manipulated the Source of Annwyn to his will. She’d been so certain that Aeron was a martyr, a hero to all the people of Cymru. That he had been following the will of the gods when he’d created the first magical enclave and attempted to cleanse Cymru of the invaders.
But it was not her Goddess’ will that she resurrect the magic of the bluestones. It was Gwydion’s. It had always been only Gwydion’s will. And he would destroy everything in his path, immortal, native and invader, in order to claim the mystical power that was the birthright of the Moon Goddess.
Only here, deep in the forest for this one tangible moment, had Arianrhod been able to manifest a physical vision. A warning of what might be if Nimue did not act.
Her Goddess offered no guarantee that Nimue would survive the outcome. But she knew she had no choice. Gwydion, master god of Illusion, could not be allowed to succeed in his fratricidal ambitions.