Despite the lingering twilight, Tacitus knew he was close to where he’d last seen Nimue. Just up ahead were the two great oaks. How he would then find her when she could be anywhere at all within the forest, was another matter. Yet he was convinced he would succeed.
The gods were with him. Whether they were the gods of his mother or his father’s heritage, he wasn’t certain, but why else would his commander have given him leave to bring Nimue back?
Sword in hand he led his horse along the nonexistent forest path. The light was fading and yet again clouds obscured the moon. The sensation of being followed had eased as he entered the forest but returned now with a vengeance. He felt unseen eyes watch his progress and the hairs on the back of his neck rose, but all he saw were shadows.
A rush of air ahead caused him to freeze, senses alert, but even as his brain recognized the sound as that of an arrow a body tumbled from the oak in front of him to land with a heavy thud at his feet.
He saw an arrow protruding from the man’s throat, a dagger in his hand. Tacitus swung round, sword at the ready for any other would-be assassin, but the forest remained silent.
Who in Hades was the archer? To strike a target in this light, in these conditions was astounding. That the warrior hadn’t been aiming for Tacitus, even more so.
“It is I, Nimue.” Her voice whispered through the twilight as her slender figure approached. Relief, desire, thankfulness rushed through him at how easily he’d found her. That she was well and obviously under her people’s protection. He looked beyond her, for the warrior who’d accompanied her, but nothing else stirred. She reached his side and pressed her palm against his jaw. A touch he’d never thought to experience again. He covered her hand with his. She felt so fragile beneath his fingers. He would never let her go again. “You returned to me, Tacitus.”
“We have much to discuss.” And discussing their future in the middle of a forest when assassins lurked behind every tree, was not ideal. “I couldn’t wait any longer.”
She gave a brief nod, as if his unexpected appearance made utter sense to her. “We must be quick.” She knelt by the fallen man and his instinct to pull her away, to shield her from death, vanished when he saw her began to methodically strip the body. “Hurry. Change your clothes. You can’t come into the enclave dressed as a Roman tribune.”
He stared at her. He understood her words and yet they made no sense. “Why should I wish to enter the enclave? I’ve come to take you back so that we can talk.”
She glanced up at him, and for the first time he noticed strange shadows cast about her face, although he couldn’t imagine from where they came.
“Yes. We will talk. But first there’s something I have to do. I can’t leave yet, Tacitus. Cymru hovers on the precipice of eternal darkness.”
She spoke in riddles, as the Oracles did in Rome. He didn’t want to make the comparison yet it was impossible not to.
Here in the forests of Cambria, in this strange half-light between day and night, Nimue exuded a presence of authority, the authority that came with being chosen by the gods.
She clearly had no intention of leaving with him straightaway. Since his whole purpose in speaking to her was based on the fact she was now a free woman able to make her own choices, the enticing image of sweeping her into his arms, onto his horse and away from the forest was not a feasible option.
He gritted his teeth and ripped off his cloak. “Where is the archer?” He glared in the direction from which Nimue had appeared but still could see nothing. The thought of being watched by a stranger while he took on the disguise of a Cambrian peasant wasn’t something he relished.
She paused in her task and looked up at him. “I came alone. My Goddess warned me you were in danger. Another heartbeat and I would’ve been too late to save you.”
The Wings of Mors trailed the length of his arms in a caress of death. Speechless he stared at her and only now saw the bow slung across her shoulder. The bow he’d returned to her earlier.
The bow he had never really envisaged her using with such shocking skill.
“You.” He cleared his throat and cast a swift glance at the fallen man. The warrior who had been poised to kill Tacitus; who would have killed him had Nimue not stopped him with such breathtaking accuracy. “You did this?”
Nimue stood and took a step back. He could no longer see her face but he could feel the tension vibrating in the air between them. “I’m a warrior, Tacitus. Yes, I did this to prevent him from killing you. Would you do less for me?”
“That’s not—” He bit off his words and clenched his teeth. Of course he would kill any man who tried to harm Nimue. But she was a woman. She needed to be protected and shielded from the brutality of war. It wasn’t her place to rescue him.
“I’m sorry my actions displease you.” There was an odd formality in her tone and bizarrely it reminded him of when she’d been ill after freeing the slaves. Except what did she mean? He wasn’t displeased. He couldn’t grasp how he felt about it, except that nothing in his life had prepared him for being saved from certain death by…
A woman.
“But know this.” In the deepening shadows he saw her straighten and his chest tightened with pride. She looked so fragile, his Nimue, and yet she possessed a strength he’d rarely encountered. “I don’t regret it. And I would do it again in a heartbeat if the alternative was your death.”
He reached for her and took her hand. She didn’t fall into his arms. He hadn’t expected her to. A dozen responses collided in his mind but there was only one thing he needed to tell her.
“Then as fellow warriors we are in accord, Nimue. I would defy my Emperor himself to ensure you lived.” He already had. But her soft laugh, and the way she squeezed his fingers, told him that his decision to relinquish a career in Rome was no sacrifice at all.
She led him deeper into the forest, her step unerring. The rough clothes didn’t fit properly and although he’d refused to give up his sword he was naked without his armor. But he would endure a great deal more if it ensured that Nimue would eventually listen to his proposal with respect.
A flickering light glowed up ahead. As they approached, he saw it was a torch rammed into the ground. Nimue wrenched it up and turned to face him, and his heart slammed against his ribs.
He knew she was no longer wearing a Roman gown, but now the light illuminated her he saw the strange, barbaric markings on her face and arms. Her hair was braided and she looked like a wild savage, except he knew the vision was an illusion.
Because, Cambrian or not, Druid or not, Nimue was as refined, as knowledgeable and as intelligent as any patrician male of his acquaintance.
She thrust the torch at him and then pulled out a small pot from her bag. “I need to paint your face.” She sounded apologetic but it didn’t stop her from dipping her finger into the pot. “It will stop any suspicious glance. And Tacitus, there’s something you must promise me.”
“That depends what it is.” Gods, what primitive ritual had he walked into? He no longer believed the rumors he’d heard about Druid sacrifices, but unease still knotted his gut.
“If I fail this night, you must promise to save yourself.” With the tip of her finger she daubed the cold paint across his cheekbones. “If Gwydion, the god of Illusion, succeeds in claiming Arianrhod’s destiny for his own then he’ll destroy everything. Celt and Roman—it makes no difference in his quest for power.”
He had no idea what she meant, but one thing was certain. He had no intention of allowing her to continue with what she had planned.
“Let another do this.” He gripped her arm and glared into her face. “You don’t need to put yourself in danger. The gods always fight for power between themselves. Nothing we do will ever change that.”
She didn’t try to pull away. Perhaps it was a trick of the flickering light from the torch, but for a moment sorrow wreathed her face. “I can’t let my beloved Moon Goddess fade into the shadows.” Her voice was gentle, as if she explained something to a child. “Gwydion would subjugate her utterly, and destroy all traces of her precious knowledge. Her wisdom must be preserved for balance to prevail.”
Despite the warmth from the torch, shivers scuttled over his arms. Once again she sounded like an Oracle, channeling obscure prophesies from egomaniacal gods. He could easily end this now. It would take little effort to forcibly take Nimue back to the garrison where she would be safe from the manipulations of her goddess.
And any hope of a future together, the kind of future he wanted, would be irrevocably shattered.
“My lady.” The masculine voice came from the shadows and Tacitus swung around, instinctively reaching for his sword. Nimue grasped his hand and moved in front of him.
“I am ready.” She sounded like an empress. She sounded like a priestess. He wouldn’t stop her from doing what she considered her duty. But he wouldn’t stand by and allow her to be sacrificed on the altar of barbaric gods and goddesses who cared only for their own immortal posterity.