Bryn woke out of a deep sleep. It was a dark, overcast night. He could hear the horses moving where they were tethered among the trees. Someone or something was out there. He got quickly to his feet. His sword was with the rest of his supplies in the nearby chariot, but he dare not take time to fetch it. Instead, he drew his knife from the sheath on his belt. With slow, cautious steps, he approached the horses. He could make out the shape of the animals... and another shape... a man. Nay, two men.
Bryn charged, knife drawn. He grabbed one man and threw him to the ground, then seized the other. With his arm around the man’s neck, he pressed the knife against his throat. “Nay! Please!” the man cried. Bryn’s every instinct was to kill, but at that moment, a shaft of moonlight shone down through the trees, revealing the other man. He was young and thin and clothed in the crude, ragged garments of a slave. His eyes focused on Bryn with abject terror. The man Bryn held in a death grip was also pathetically thin.
They’re half starved to death. The thought moved Bryn to pity. He released the man and threw him down with one swift motion. Then, looming over both men, his knife still drawn, he demanded. “Who are you? What do you want?”
Neither answered for a time, then one of them said in a quavering voice. “We’re slaves, from Londinium. Please. Let us go.”
“Slaves? Who’s your master?”
“A Roman named Novius Sabinus. We work in his stables.” The man took a deep, gasping breath. “We only ran away because we heard the Britons were coming to slaughter us. Novius is a merchant. If he wants to stay and die, that’s his choice, but we have no quarrel with the Britons.”
“Where are you from?” Bryn asked, wondering at the man’s foreign inflection.
“We were born in Londinium.”
“But what tribe or race did your parents belong to?”
“A Teutone tribe called the Bructeri. At least, that’s what our mother told us.”
“You’re brothers?”
“Aye.”
“What do you want with the horses?”
“We were going to steal them so we could ride to the coast and then sell them for passage to Gaul.”
Bryn gave a mirthless laugh. “You thought you could get away with that? Anyone can tell you are runaway slaves. They’d never believe the horses belonged to you. You’d be sold back into slavery by the first man you approached. Then he would take the animals for his own.”
“You may be right,” the first man said defiantly. “But we had to try. We thought this might be our chance to be free men.”
“There’s another problem with your plan,” Bryn pointed out. “You’re going the wrong way. The coast of the sunrise sea is in the other direction.”
No one spoke for a time. Then the second man said, “Are you going to kill us? Or let us go?”
“Perhaps neither,” Bryn said. His mind had been working, sorting through the things the slaves had told him. They said they worked in a stable and mentioned riding horses. It might be useful to take such men back to his homeland. “I’m traveling to the sunset lands. Many there have been killed by Romans. We need men such as you, who are familiar with horses and livestock. If I spare your lives, will you come with me and lend your skills to our tribe? You wouldn’t be slaves, but free men. Except that you would be bound to me, as all men of a tribe are bound to their leader.”
“Why would you do this?” the first man answered. “Why not kill us?”
“Because you have knowledge that’s useful to me. Is it true you can ride on the back of a horse?”
“Some,” the second man answered. “We weren’t supposed to do so, but there are times when our master was away that we took the chance. Novius had several horses much larger than these, animals large and strong enough that even a man as big as you could ride them.”
“I would like to find such horses,” Bryn said, “But for now, come back to my camp. I will give you food and then bind your arms and feet so I can sleep peacefully.”
“I thought you said we wouldn’t be slaves,” the one man said.
“You haven’t proven yourselves trustworthy,” Bryn answered. “Until you do, I will have to bind you at night so I can sleep without worrying you will try to harm me. During the day, I’ll set you free.”
He had the men get to their feet, and walking behind them, returned to the place where he had camped. After fetching some bannocks from his supply pack, he gave them to the men. He tossed them a waterskin to share and then sat down on the sheepskins that made up his bed. A sense of loneliness and longing went through him. Cadwalon should be here, so they could discuss the matter of the slaves. Cadwalon would argue that taking these men back to Mordarach was witless. In response, Bryn would explain that before he returned to the sunset lands, he wanted to find a stallion to breed to the mares that pulled the chariot. If he did such a thing, he would need the help of men who knew how to handle horses.
Imagining the conversation in his mind, Bryn’s feeling of desolation intensified. For four years, Cadwalon had been his constant companion. Now it seemed likely he would never see him again.
He glanced up at the two slaves. They ate and drank rapidly, but still managed to whisper to each other between bites. Perhaps that was another reason he’d offered them a future at Mordarach. He wanted to have some company on the journey to his homeland.
Thinking again of Cadwalon, a pang of longing and grief pierced Bryn.
* * *
Bryn pulled the chariot to a halt, his gaze on the moving specks in the distance. He could see a group of riders, perhaps three or four of them. Romans.
He glanced back at the two slaves walking behind the chariot. They were outnumbered, and he doubted Corrio and Balthar would be of much use in battle. Although he’d been surprised at how well they were able to keep up if he kept the horses to a walk. The slaves were not youths, as he’d thought at first, but grown men and surprisingly wiry and strong. With a little food, they’d gained strength rapidly. They were both very fair, with light yellow hair cropped close in the Roman style and blue eyes.
He turned his attention back to the approaching riders. Probably the wisest thing to do would be to stay on the roadway and hope the Romans passed by without stopping.
But the plan didn’t satisfy him. Here was an opportunity to acquire more horses, horses big enough to ride.
He maneuvered the team so the chariot blocked the middle of the roadway, then turned and spoke sharply to Corrio and Balthar. “Change places with me and pretend you’re driving. Quickly, now.” When the two men had gotten into the chariot, he added hurriedly. “I’ll wait in the woods. If the Romans stop to investigate, try to get at least two of them to dismount. I’ll charge out of the trees and attack when the time is right.”
“What if they seize us and make us go back to Londinium?” Balthar asked, his eyes wary.
“If you fear that end, then run away now,” Bryn answered. “Otherwise, you can stay and aid me.”
The two brothers looked at each other. Bryn didn’t remain to see what they decided, but dashed into the woods. He found an old oak to hide behind, with a good view of the road. Sword drawn, he waited.
The Romans—there were four of them—were traveling swiftly, but they slowed as they neared the chariot. As Bryn had guessed they would, they stopped and spoke to Balthar and Corrio. He couldn’t tell what the slaves answered, since they all spoke in the Roman tongue. But whatever they said, it seemed to capture the interest of the Romans. One of the enemy said something to his companions, and then dismounted. The Roman handed his horse’s reins to one of the other men and started toward the chariot. When he reached it, he grabbed for Balthar. Corrio, obviously terrified for his brother, picked up Bryn’s heavy leather pack and swung it at the Roman, striking him in the head. The man crumpled to the ground. Balthar, holding the reins of the chariot team, urged the horses into a trot at the same time another Roman leapt down from his horse to aid the fallen man. Bryn burst out of the trees.
Bryn struck the second Roman with his sword, nearly severing the man’s neck, then ran toward the two mounted men. He saw their eyes widen behind their iron helmets. One of them shouted something, then spurred his horse and raced past the chariot and down the road. The other man drew his sword and urged his horse toward Bryn. The great glossy brown beast reared and Bryn struggled to get away from its flailing hooves. Even as he maneuvered in desperation, he knew a surge of excitement as he realized that a horse could be used as a weapon.
The animal’s hooves struck the ground, barely missing Bryn. The horse danced for a moment, then reared again. Bryn spun away once more, avoiding certain death. Panting, he tried to decide what to do. His body urged him to flee. Perhaps if he did so, the man would ride away and leave them with the two horses. But then he saw the man turn the horse and start toward the other animals. Afraid that he would lose everything he’d won, Bryn charged the mounted Roman. At the same time, a knife whizzed through the air, imbedding itself in the Roman’s neck. The man made a strangled sound and dropped the reins to clutch his neck. Bryn saw his chance and grabbed the trailing reins of the nervously prancing beast.
The horse whinnied and reared, causing the wounded man to slide off onto the ground. Bryn realized he was in more danger than ever. The horse was wildly agitated, jerking the reins. The animal reared once more, nearly dragging him off his feet. Bryn struggled to hold on. His shoulders ached as if his arms were being pulled from his body.
He told himself that two horses were enough and this one was not worth dying over. But he wanted this magnificent animal for his own. Looking into the horse’s eyes, he spoke to it. “Be still. I won’t hurt you. I’m not an enemy, but a friend.” He knew the horse couldn’t understand his words. It was a Roman horse after all. But perhaps it could sense the feeling behind the words. Then he had an absurd thought, remembering Cruthin’s experience with the wolf. He reached out with his thoughts, trying to touch the animal’s spirit. He envisioned ripe apples lying on the ground. Piles of grain. Open meadows full of lush green grass. Come to me. I will take you home to the sunset lands, where there are countless green pastures and glistening streams and you can run free among the hills.
It was ridiculous, completely unreasonable, but the horse quieted. Its dark liquid eyes watched Bryn intently. Bryn edged nearer, moving up the reins until, finally, he reached the horse’s head. It nickered and he smelled its hot, grassy breath. He stroked between its eyes, down its soft nose. It nickered again in response.
“Well done,” someone said. He turned to see Balthar watching him with keen blue eyes.
Bryn patted the animal’s neck. He knew he was smiling stupidly. He felt so exultant, so pleased with himself. Perhaps it was his Drui training, perhaps merely instinct, but somehow he had been able to speak to the horse and make it understand.
“Some men have a special relationship with Epona, the goddess of horses,” Balthar said.
Abruptly, Bryn thought of Sirona. Where was she? When he reached the sunset lands, would he find her there? It was one thing to yield to the destiny the gods set out for him. Another to give up the dream that had sustained him for so many years. Please let her be safe, he silently implored. Please.
He turned back to the slave. Balthar was smiling. “Who threw the knife?” Bryn asked. Balthar pointed to his brother. Bryn nodded to Corrio. “Well done, yourself.”
* * *
“Please listen to me!” Sirona shouted, trying to make her voice carry beyond the walls of the hut where she was imprisoned. “The Romans are coming! If you don’t flee, they’ll kill all of you!” She took a breath and listened. Surely some Learned One would hear and come to her aid.
She shifted position, trying to get comfortable, although it was impossible to do so with her wrists and ankles bound by leather thongs. The shelter where Fiach and the others had taken her was crudely fashioned of unstripped branches. If she could get a branch wedged underneath the thong binding her hands, she might be able to wear through the leather by rubbing it against the wood. She scrutinized the fresh boughs that made up her prison, trying to find one to use for such a purpose.
Before she could act on her plan, the hide door was shoved aside and Fiach loomed over her. She could see the hatred in his gold-brown eyes. “Like your mother, you would curse us even as you go to your death. Aye,” Fiach added cruelly as he saw her fear. “You’re going to die. Your spirit will be sent to the gods. If you wish to shout and scream, cry out to them. Ask them to save you.”
“Don’t do this,” she begged. “I’ve done nothing to deserve death. I came here to warn you, not to curse you!”
Fiach’s face tightened. “Elidyr says we must not waver in our belief that the gods will save us. Your words arouse doubts. You must be silenced.”
“Please.” She tried to speak calmly. “Let me go. I promise to leave without speaking to anyone.”
A smile twitched Fiach’s thin lips. “The damage is already done. Elidyr says the only thing that will remedy your blasphemy is for everyone to observe you willingly offering up your own life to the gods.”
“I’ll do no such thing!”
“Aye, you will.” Fiach leaned near and she saw he held a beverage skin. She clamped her lips together, determined he would not make her swallow the contents of the skin. He grabbed her jaw. She squirmed and twisted, but the high Drui was stronger. He forced her lips apart and the bitter liquid filled her mouth. She tried to spit it out but some of it trickled down her throat. The battle between them raged until the skin was empty. He pushed her down and glared at her. “I’ll come back in a while and see if you have drunk enough so satisfy Elidyr. If not, then, the two of us will force more down your throat. We will not be thwarted, Sirona. You’ll pay for your arrogance. You’ll pay for the damage your mother wrought. And for making a fool of me years ago.”
Sirona coughed, her eyes watering. She tried to guess what was in the skin, what sort of herbs they’d used to poison her. So far, it hadn’t affected her. Which meant she might have a little time to reach out for aid. Not with her voice but with her spirit.
She closed her eyes and focused her thoughts. Help me! I’m a prisoner here. Come to my aid! She sent the message out to anyone who might listen. The gods. The Old Ones. Lovarn. The wolf. Cruthin. Bryn. She envisioned herself inside the lean-to, standing above her body. Then repeated her cry for aid. Let it be a Seeing, for any who had the Sight, she thought.
The emotions and thoughts flowed out of her, like water in a river. Then, all at once, her spirit was outside her body. From a distance, she observed her still, pale form and knew a different kind of dread. Her body appeared empty of life, as if she were a husk, an empty shell. The longer her spirit was gone, the more helpless her physical form would become. With regret, she let her spirit return to her body. As she was sucked back into the solid weight of her flesh, she realized the energy of her spirit was also waning. She might have strength for only one more attempt to reach out for help. With that thought, she let herself slide down into darkness.
* * *
“Sirona. Sirona!” Someone was shaking her. She came to awareness gradually, her senses slowly returning. Sound came first. Then sight. It was almost twilight. She was standing in a clearing, surrounded by Drui. One of them stood on either side of her, holding her up. She tried to speak, but her mouth made only a dry croaking sound. With a renewed sense of horror, she realized how well the drug had worked. To anyone watching, she must appear awake and aware. Yet, she was unable to move or to cry out. She closed her eyes, wanting to give up, to tell them to finish. Kill her and be done with it.
A familiar voice spoke from nearby. “I never believed you belonged in the grove. But now, finally, you will do us some good. Your blood will appease the gods and all will be well.”
She tried in vain to turn her head to see who spoke. The speaker moved into her line of vision. It was Dichu, his blue eyes full of disgust. He watched her from a few feet away, as if even now, drugged and helpless, she was a threat. Seeing him, hearing his cruel words, the anger surged through her. This man had no reason to hate her. She’d never done anything to him.
She wanted to argue, to strike back at him, but she couldn’t speak. Then she recalled her vision of his death. She let the Seeing fill her mind and met Dichu’s gaze, sending him her thoughts. Let him watch as the blows fell upon him. Observe his own body falling to the ground. His own eyes staring up sightlessly.
He drew in his breath in a hiss and started to back away from her. “Evil, evil...” he muttered. His eyes went wild and his body shook. Then he turned and ran, vanishing into the darkness.
She closed her eyes, exhausted by the effort of sending Dichu the vision. It was foolish to have wasted her strength for the purpose of frightening him. Her will was waning. She heard another familiar voice and opened her eyes. It was Old Ogimos, and he was arguing with Fiach. “Let her go,” the ancient Drui said. “Sirona can’t control her visions. She means us no harm.”
“She’s cursed, as her mother was!” Fiach cried.
“Sirona’s nothing like Banon. She understands what it means to be a Learned One. That’s why she’s trying to help us.”
“I won’t listen to this nonsense!” Fiach exclaimed. “She’s dangerous! A threat to all we stand for!”
“You’re wrong.” Ogimos spoke in calm, reasonable tones. “The real threat is the Romans. They’ll be the end of us.”
“Shut up, old man!” Fiach’s voice was an enraged hiss. There was another sound, a dull thud, like wood striking flesh, then another muffled thump.
“Should I move him?” someone asked.
“Nay, let him lie there!” Fiach snarled in response.
Her heart sank. Fiach had struck down Ogimos. He might have killed the old man. How cruel and senseless. But perhaps it didn’t matter. Soon, they would all be dead. Being killed by Fiach was probably a gentler end than what the Romans would mete out.
Even so, tears rose in Sirona’s eyes. She had cared for Ogimos and couldn’t help mourning him. What a waste. All that knowledge, all that wisdom. Gone forever. How could the gods let this to happen?
Her tears fell silently. Then she heard Fiach speak once more. “I tell you, we can’t wait for moonrise. We must do this thing now. Before she causes any more trouble.”
“Aye,” Elidyr answered. “We’ll begin the ceremony.” The high Drui of all the tribes moved into the center of the circle and began to call down the gods.
Sirona watched, sick with grief and anguish. Then her misery turned to rage. Pure fury flowed through her and filled her with a sense of power. She would try one more time to reach out and communicate her need, her desperation. This time she would not send her spirit as a mist, but something more formidable. The wind.
She concentrated, and as she had by the temple in Camulodunum, called out with her thoughts. Arianrhod, Lady of the moon, she who guides the wheel of stars in the sky, she who sails the silver boat of destiny across the heavens, come to my aid. Lend me your power. Make me strong.
She focused her fury and fear, her helplessness and dread. The energy built inside her and became a wild, violent force. She imagined a great storm sweeping off the ocean. The whirling air made the trees of the great oaks around them shudder and shake. In her mind she saw the gale blow across the rest of the isle, rippling the water of the lake of sacrifice and raising dust and debris around the mound and the circle of stones. It gusted through the harvested fields and tore at the thatched roofs of the houses and shelters dotting the island.
Her spirit surged upward and became one with the wind. She looked down on the scene below and saw herself. Fiach and another Learned One stood on either side of her, holding her upright. She appeared very pale and weak, but her eyes were open. Nearby lay the still body of Old Ogimos.
In the center of the circle, Elidyr stood with his arms outstretched, calling down the gods. The sleeves of his crys billowed in the wind. His booming voice was swept away by the tumult and a look of fear flashed across his face. He lowered his arms and unfastened the ceremonial satchel tied to his belt. Holding it open, he removed a large bannock. He began to move around the circle, tearing off pieces of the bread and handing them to each Drui in turn. When he reached her, he held up the piece of bannock and shouted something. Although Sirona couldn’t hear his words above the wind, she guessed what he was saying. The burned portion would go to her. She was the chosen one.
Elidyr forced the piece of bannock into her mouth. Fiach spoke angrily to Elidyr, and then grabbed at the ceremonial satchel. Reaching inside, he drew out the ceremonial knife.
Sirona watched from outside her body. Seeing the knife, the fear and anger inside her seemed to explode. She released it, let it go, as if she could fill the very heavens with her fury. There was a clap of thunder and streaks of lightning lit up the sky. The wind intensified, raging through the ceremonial grove. A branch crashed down from one of the great oaks. Then another.
The people could barely stand against the force of the wind. A few broke away from the circle and ran for the trees. More followed. Elidyr and Fiach remained in the middle of the clearing, arguing, trying to shout above the wind. Rain poured down, soaking them. Their garments clung to their bodies. Their hair hung in dank strands. The other Drui supporting Sirona abruptly let go. She saw her body fall to the ground. From her spirit’s vantage point, she watched Fiach approach, still clutching the knife. He turned her prone body over and raised the knife.
Terror sent her spirit back to her body. She fell downward, into a dizzying spiral. Images flashed before her eyes: Weapons glinting. The moon a silver disk in a purple black sky. Rivers of blood. The sun an orange sphere on the horizon. A babe lying on a stone altar. A knife cutting into skin. A gush of blood that slowed to a trickle. Cold, empty, ruined flesh, gleaming in the moonlight. Bodies falling into deep, dark water. The dead floating beneath the surface of a moonlit mere. Bodies rising up again, their faces pale and empty.
She tried to scream and could not. She tried again and this time heard a choking, gurgling sound. For a moment, she wondered if it were her dying breath. Then the world went black.