Celtic Fire (15 page)

Tears threatened again. If Rhiannon were here now, Owein would let her pet him to her heart’s content.

His throat burned with unvoiced grief. He found his feet moving toward Madog’s drinking spring, a bubbling pool of clear water sprung from the heart of the Great Mother.

Had the Druid master truly forgotten Briga in his eagerness to cultivate Kernunnos’s favor? Rhiannon had thought it. Owein knelt by the water and lifted a handful in his cupped fingers. Murmuring the prayer of thanks Rhiannon had taught him, he raised the earth’s most precious gift to his lips.

“Drink deep, my son.”

Owein lifted his head. Madog loomed over him, dark and forbidding, one hand anchored on the staff that bore the dead Roman’s skull. Owein wondered at the Druid’s stealth. He’d not heard even a whisper of his approach.

“Drink,” he said again.

Owein dipped his head and gulped the sweet, cool water, drinking until he’d had his fill.

“I’ve Seen a true vision,” he said. “Of Rhiannon. Not of the future, but as she is at this moment.”

Madog did not seem surprised at this revelation. He nodded at the water’s surface. “Look into the pool, lad. The past, the present, the future. All are there. What else do you see?”

A dim shaft of moonlight broke the clouds, casting a misty sheen on the black water. Owein drew a deep breath and cast his gaze on the pool, looking deep.

“Nothing,” he said after a moment.

“Clear yer mind and look again,” Madog instructed. He lifted his staff and set it in the mud at the water’s edge.

Owein obeyed. At first the water seemed as black as before. Then the fleeting glimpse of a spark flashed. Owein couldn’t tell if he’d seen the light with his eyes or his mind.

The pounding in his temple intensified. Rhiannon’s face swam into focus. Tears no longer stained her cheeks, but her eyes held sadness beyond bearing as she sat huddled on a high pallet. Behind her crouched a fearsome beast—a giant wildcat with tufts of savage hair bristling about its face. The monster stood with one enormous paw raised, poised to attack …

He cried out a warning as the vision vanished.

Madog’s hand clawed Owein’s arm. “What did ye see, lad?”

Owein drew a shaking breath and told him.

“Rhiannon draws the beast to her,” the Druid said thoughtfully. “Though she understands little of its danger.”

The tears Owein had vowed not to shed tracked down his cheeks. “Is the monster real, then? Has it been conjured by Roman magick? How can she fight it?”

Madog made no reply. Owein covered the fist of one hand with the palm of the other, well aware that he was trembling. After a long moment, the Druid stepped away from the pool. Owein followed. When the old man set foot on a steep descending trail, it was clear where the journey would end.

The stones ringing the Druid circle gleamed in somber majesty. Madog’s head dipped as he passed between them. The base of his staff sank into the mud and sucked free with each step. The skull riding it rattled against the twisted wood.

Owein halted at the edge of the stones, reluctant to enter. A faint, foul odor, the smell of death, rose from within. He remembered only too well the agony the Roman’s death had brought Rhiannon. Dark powers had been loosed that night.

From the moment Madog had lifted the doomed man’s severed head to the night sky, the Druid’s eyes had gleamed with an eager light Owein had come to fear.

“Come, lad. Do not tarry.” Madog’s voice held more than a note of impatience. Owein drew a deep breath and stepped into the circle.

A ray of moonlight pierced the clouds, splashing through the oak canopy to pool in a bright puddle at Owein’s feet. A chant began, rising from Madog’s throat and fading, thin and distant, into the sky.

The Words were of a language long unspoken save within the circle of protection afforded by the stones. Words, Owein knew, that could bless or kill with a single, ancient sound. Their fearful power burned in his ears, thudded in his chest.

Madog paced to the center of the sacred ring, chanting, halting before each stone and dipping his staff. The Roman’s skull cracked against each rock as if in obeisance. He approached the eastern stone last. The sentinel that faced the rising sun did not match the height of its brethren. Deep, round gouges scored its squat girth, remnants of the Old Ones who had set their mark forever in this valley. Owein could only guess at what purpose the markings had once served.

His scalp tingled as the skull slapped against the weathered rock. Madog’s chant grew deeper and more vibrant, his tone expanding as if another’s voice had joined him. Moving to the center of the circle, he lifted his staff to the night sky. His call climbed to a shrieking crescendo.

The wind rose with it, circling the stones, whipping the old man’s pale cloak about his skeletal frame. “I summon the soul enslaved to the clan,” Madog shouted. “I bid ye return to the circle and hear the command of yer master.”

The wind gusted, whistling through the oaks with a ghastly wail.

“Come to me, lad.” The staff and its ghastly ornament dipped in Owein’s direction.

Owein tensed as if a lash had licked his skin. He didn’t dare disobey, though his every sense screamed to resist. On trembling legs, he crept forward.

Madog sank his staff into the mud in the very center of the circle and stepped away. The skull swung on the point of the wood, then stilled.

“Place your hands upon the shaft,” the Druid commanded.

Owein wrapped his palms around Madog’s staff. The twisted oak was warm to his touch, but when he raised his head and looked into the Roman’s hollow eyes, his breath froze in his lungs. A spark lit the shadow of the sunken orbs. The soul of the man enslaved by Madog’s killing sword had returned to the shattered vessel it had once claimed as its own.

A bolt of intense pain darted through Owein’s temple, forcing a cry from his lips and nearly dislodging his grip on the staff. Madog placed a steady hand on Owein’s shoulder.

“Look deep,” he said. “See.”

Owein’s world tilted. Violent tremors wracked his body and the roar of blood swept through his head. Before this night, he’d never sought a vision. The images had come unwanted, surging on agony. Yet if it were possible to See a path to Rhiannon’s safety, Owein would gladly suffer any pain.

Staring into the Roman’s dead eyes, he reached with his mind into the world of the spirits. Light exploded behind his eyes. Glittering sparks fell in a spiral pattern. Sweet music floated past, drowning the wind. His arms grew heavy, as if they’d suddenly been turned to stone, but somehow he kept his grip on Madog’s staff.

Color swirled about him, brighter than a rainbow, then coalesced into a shining road set with gems. Golden trees crowded the path; silver branches overhung it. A sweet aroma filled the air. In the distance, at the peak of a high bluff, a shining gate gleamed in the light of a thousand suns.

Annwyn.

The land of faeries and gods, the wondrous world where pain and suffering did not exist. Annwyn was a place for which men searched but seldom found. Owein shuddered at the beauty of it, and he’d caught but a glimpse.

A bolt of lightning flashed. The gate opened; a flicker of light passed through the portal and took an animal’s shape. Owein might have named the creature a buck, for it had the look of the proud lord of the forest, but to do so would have fallen woefully short of describing the beast’s grandeur. The stag was enormous, much bigger and more glorious than any Owein had ever glimpsed.

The beast pawed the ground and dipped its head with regal grace, inviting Owein to come closer. He swallowed his fear and inched forward.

“What do ye See?” Madog’s forgotten voice rumbled in Owein’s ear.

“A gate. To a shining land.”

“The Otherworld,” the Druid murmured. “What else?”

“A buck.”

“The Horned One,” Madog breathed. “ ’Tis a rare honor. Request a sign. Ask Kernunnos what we must do to gain his favor in the battle against Rome. Speak in the tongue of the Old Ones.”

Owen said the Words, surprised his voice did not falter.

The buck dipped its head as if in acknowledgment. The next instant, swirls of blackness seeped into the scene, obscuring the path, blotting the shining oaks. The music faltered and turned discordant. The foul scent of excrement filled Owein’s nostrils.

The dark form of a Roman soldier coalesced in front of the buck. The mighty beast lowered its antlers. The warrior drew his sword.

The buck charged. A fierce, deadly battle ensued. Kernunnos drove forward. The edge of the Roman’s weapon bit through the stag’s flank, drawing blood. Kernunnos shook free and reared, striking the soldier to the ground. The Horned God’s antlers tore into the Roman’s gut, pulling bloody entrails from the soldier’s body.

The man gave a hideous cry and vanished into mist.

The buck lifted its head and looked at Owein. With slow, halting steps the injured animal approached, blood oozing from its flank. When the animal stood but an arm’s length away, Owein stretched out his hand and touched the thick stream of its blood.

He felt a pulling sensation in the vicinity of his chest, then a tingle that ran down his arm to the tips of his fingers. His life essence flowed along the path. The Horned God’s blood slowed, then stopped.

The gash closed, taking the last of Owein’s strength with it. His knees buckled. His grip on Madog’s staff loosened. He struck the ground with a painful jolt and the vision shattered.

A long moment passed before Owein found the strength to open his eyes. Madog’s face swam above him.

“What have ye Seen, lad?”

Somehow Owein told him.

The Druid’s eyes sparked with the fire Owein had come to dread. “Few See the Undying Spirits,” the old man murmured. “Blessed ye be.” He grasped Owein’s hand and pulled him upright.

The ground lurched, then settled into place. Owein steadied himself with one hand on Madog’s staff, then snatched his arm back when he realized what he’d done. “What does it mean?” he asked.

“Kernunnos has chosen ye as his messenger. A hard path it is, but ’tis a road that leads to victory.” His face drew closer, his eyes searching Owein with piercing intensity. “What would ye give to travel such a road, if it led ye to yer sister’s side?”

An image of Rhiannon’s face, twisted with sorrow, sprang into Owein’s mind. Hate for all things Roman surged through his veins, more potent than a river of fire, more deadly than a sharpened sword.

“What would ye give, lad?”

“My life,” Owein whispered. “My soul.”

Violence danced on the edge of Lucius’s dream. A man clashed with a stag, sword striking flank in a flash of cold steel. The beast reacted with wild fury, pitching its magnificent rack low and gouging the soldier’s metal armor as if it were linen.

Aulus’s entrails spilled with his blood onto the dark earth. His shrieks rang out into the night, unanswered.

“Are you a witch?”

Lucius lifted the lamp with a shaking hand and cast a thin stream of light across Rhiannon’s bed. She was asleep, a fur coverlet draped over her hips. Her face was pale against its flowing halo. Soft ripples of lamplight lapped at her breasts like the moon on the sea. Venus herself had never looked so beautiful.

He brought the lamp closer. She awoke with a start, jerking upright and scooting back in one motion. Her golden eyes widened as she looked at his nakedness. She opened her mouth as if to scream, then shut it again. She swallowed.

“I’m not here to ravish you.” Lucius rubbed the fingers of his free hand across his eyes and stifled a laugh bordering on hysteria. Rhiannon had only to look at his shriveled rod to realize he told no lie. “But I will have the truth. Are you in service to dark powers?”

Rhiannon’s fingers found the edge of the blanket and inched it higher. “Why would you think such a thing?”

Why, indeed? He’d once been a man of logic. Now, it seemed, he saw only impossibly twisted patterns where once clarity had ruled. “It’s said a witch may speak with the dead.”

Some emotion—guilt? fear?—flicked briefly over her face. “I’ve no reason to do such a thing.”

“But you are able.”

“No! I didn’t say that.”

He took a step closer. “Did you drive Aulus into my dreams this night?”

“You’ve seen your brother in a dream?”

Lucius did laugh then, filling the room with his black mirth. “I see my brother everywhere,” he said. “But tonight, in my dream, he fought a great stag. When the beast killed him, his cries ripped into my soul.”

He lunged for her, but Rhiannon moved faster, evading his grasp. The fingers of his free hand closed on air, then curled into a fist and dropped to his side. The lamplight shuddered and he realized that the hand that held the flame was shaking so badly, the blankets were in danger of being set afire.

He lowered the handlamp to the table. Brass met polished wood with a harsh clatter.

When he looked back at Rhiannon, he saw her pale face had gone even whiter. “You say you see your brother everywhere. What do you mean?”

“A witch may call spirits. Can she banish them as well?”

“I …”

He braced his hands on the edge of the bed frame and leaned over her, close enough to smell the aroma of her fear. “What spell sends a spirit to its rest?”

Rhiannon drew in a breath and met his gaze. “You’ve been visited by your brother’s ghost?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Since the Kalends of November.” If she thought him mad, so be it. Perhaps it was true.

But she didn’t seem to doubt his words. Her gaze flicked into the shadows. “Do you see him now?”

“No,” he said. “He flees your presence.”

“Dear Briga,” she breathed and shut her eyes.

“I ask again. Are you a witch?”

“I know only healing spells. None that would banish a ghost. My gift touches only the living.”

His laughter echoed off the ceiling. “Your foul power touches my brother and he is dead enough.” He reached for her again and this time managed to snare her wrist. “Send him to his rest.”

“I tell you, I cannot.”

His grip tightened. “You must. I order you to make it so. For six months Aulus has shadowed my existence, turning it into a waking nightmare. Now he’s invaded my dreams. I can stand it no longer. I wake and stroke the edge of my sword. I imagine its kiss on my flesh.”