Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (17 page)

He folded his thick, wool cloak around the cold form and placed his hand over her mouth. A faint trace of breath touched his hand, soft and warm.

“My child!” He cried.

CHAPTER 10

October 31, 468 BC

I
t was Samhain, but not like any other in her life. Sabrann’s hands trembled as she unlaced her soft leather shoes and laid them by her bed. Maigrid said she must walk on bare feet to start her new life; a sign to the gods that she cast off everything comforting and familiar, a step into the unknown. Her skin chaffed from the special amulet bag hung on her neck, heavy with the weight of the dark stone within, symbol of her childhood, of the past she must soon leave behind ... her name, her mother! A silent sob filled her heart.

Her naming day. She was ten years old, and her father would finally claim her. She had wanted this all her life. Only one step outside her familiar doorway, yet she was afraid, haunted by the specter of an old soothsayer.

Yesterday, deep in the woods, she chanced on Cathbad and Broicsech, the soothsayer, and knew she should not be there. It was a secret meeting. The old woman only ventured near Mai Dun if summoned by the Druid and always to sacrifice some creature, for she read sacred messages, revealed inside their bodies.

Sabrann hid behind a brace of coppiced trees, and watched the old woman kill a newborn, white lamb—the purest sacrifice—with a quick slash of its neck. One short bleat and the lamb’s blood poured onto the leafy floor, turning the dried brown leaves crimson, bright in the dim landscape under the trees.

Cathbad pulled open the pink-skinned belly of the lamb. Neatly rendered in half by the soothsayer’s sharp flint knife, the cut was smooth and disturbed nothing inside. Satisfied, he turned to Broicsech, who crouched at his side. The old woman rocked back on her heels by the pooling blood.

“What lies ahead?” he said and placed something in the soothsayer’s bloody hand.

The old woman stared at the dark liver and pale intestines for a long time and then finally shook her head. She pointed to something else: the plum-colored heart. She held it up. It looked like two hearts grown together. Broicsech shook her head.

Still holding the dripping heart, she murmured something too low for Sabrann’s ears. But her heart jumped at what lay crumpled in the soothsayer’s other hand—a piece of cloth from one of Sabrann’s own tunics! The special stripes Maigrid wove into the cloth showed clearly, even in the filtered light of the trees.

Cathbad’s question to the soothsayer was about her!

Sabrann tried to slip away unseen. She crawled through the brush and away among the leafless trees. She glanced back once and saw the soothsayer with the lamb, soon to be her dinner, slung over her shoulders, walking back into the depths of the wildness. Broicsech had turned then and looked straight at her. Sabrann froze, caught by Broicsech’s rheumy eyes. So the old woman was aware of her presence all along! But she had only raised one gnarled finger at her, like a warning, and walked away.

Whatever the soothsayer saw was not for her to know, for Cathbad had said nothing. Perhaps nothing important, but it frightened her. The memory of the small, white lamb, cut in half with its entrails spilled out, would not go away. And the two hearts.

Outside the door, a procession formed, a busy hum of voices and laughter rising in the warming, midday air. All the Durotriges clan leaders were there, swollen with self-importance in front of their people, eager to be seen as powerful and strong by their king and especially by each other. Always anxious for more power, new alliances might be made this day. Each traveled here from their well-defended hillforts to witness this naming ceremony: the salt clans from the coast, the devious half-breeds from the Atrebate borders, all the western horse clans, the Dumnonii from
t
ì
r finid—
the land’s end, far to the south. Many waited for the day when they could claim Caradoc’s place. They all watched for an opening, a place where he was weak.

Perhaps the girl? They looked at Sabrann with greedy eyes. She was too young and not a warrior. For now, Caradoc was strong, and they all gained from the riches he brought them: gold from Hieryo, iron swords, stone axes from Armorica, slaves, and, most of all, the carefully stored corn that kept them fed and comfortable. A peaceful land fed them all; to war with each other only killed everything and destroyed the land.

Better to get along under his rule. But someday ... The lust for power hid just under the surface of everything they did.

Draped in fox and bear furs with richly striped cloaks of indigo, crimson, and bright yellow, many wore torcs, but none as splendid as Caradoc’s. Great bronze pins, shaped like sacred birds and animals, flashed on their cloaks in the golden, afternoon light. All the clans’ soothsayers, healers, and wise women crowded close to Sabrann’s door, a mob of peering eyes and silent censure, waiting to see Caradoc’s Druid child, who would rule in his place.

She dreaded facing their probing eyes. By now, all the tribes knew of her gifts and were afraid of a child who could see into their soul.
She knew their life secrets!
And an old Druid’s prophecy hung over her head, the words trailing her like a cloud of angry bees. She could never get away.

Her life was full of turns made at Samhain. Each year, everything changed on her birth night and spun her life in a new direction. It always had.

Motherless since birth, at first she ran wild, like some creature of the forest, growing without direction until her fifth birthnight, when Maigrid became her foster mother. Maigrid, who gave her heart love, when her father would not.

On her sixth birthnight, Cathbad took her to his school at Àrd Saoghal. While Maigrid tended her body and spirit, Cathbad tended her mind like a fire-keeper mothered his hot coals. Her gift of visions marked her to be Druid trained, and Àrd Saoghal was where she was taught.

Maigrid’s watchful, loving eyes soon discovered Sabrann’s other gift—she learned a tongue just by listening to someone talk. Caradoc thought he could use that talent. He did not always trust his interpreters.

He sat her behind a screen, close to his chair, to translate the sometimes devious words of traders and lies of clan leaders, who sought his favor. One day, she accidently touched a clansman and saw his true self revealed. She told Caradoc what was hidden there. She was young and could not lie. He trusted her. When she turned eight, he brought her into the open and sat her at his knee. No wonder the clans feared her:
A child who could see into their hearts and judge them!
They had no secrets before Sabrann.

And each time was marked by Samhain.

She should have been put to death, the king’s enemies whispered. She was the dangerous unknown, linked to everything from the past and cursed with a strange prophecy of the future.

She should be
diobarach
—outcast, muttered the old, soothsayer women. Ramach, the old queen’s druid, watched her growing importance to the king with hooded eye.

On this fateful day, Sabrann stood eyes closed, barefoot and shaking and tried to see into her own future. She placed her hands on her head. Nothing happened. It was futile. Her powers as a seer were useless; it was only through other people that she saw into the unknown. She could not help herself.

Today, Caradoc promised to claim her. This turning of the New Year would finally bring that great gift. She had longed for his love since she was little more than an infant. Yet it wasn’t for love that he chose to claim her—she knew better. He needed an heir, and she was his only living child. Without her the power of the Durot clan would fade away into warring clans. If not love, Caradoc brought the safety of belonging.

“Protect me,
Matrones
.” Sabrann held her amulet and pleaded to the powerful mother goddesses she worshipped above all others. Her heart still pounded with fear remembering Broicsech holding the double heart.

But a new life waited. She gathered her courage. Now! She opened the door and pushed aside the hide covering.

Long, bronze Carynx horns, tall as a man, blasted her ears as they announced the ceremony. Mai Dun was crowded with people here for the feast of the New Year. They came from all over the Durotriges homeland and even beyond.

Caradoc stood at the top of the hill, a cool breeze blowing his long, yellow hair. He wore the king’s tall headdress of polished stag horns—the stag, symbol of Cernunnos, god of the Durotriges tribe. A massive, gold torc circled his neck, so heavy only a king could bear the weight of that much gold. He led the long procession out through the high rampart surrounding the hillfort, down across the meadows, through the marsh fields to the river.

The sacred river flowed low and serene on this last day of the dying year. It held the power to change all it touched. Cathbad waited there in his long robe sprinkled with gold to catch the god’s eyes, a circle of oak leaves crowning his dark head. His torc of twisted strands of gold glinted in the sun. He chanted secret words so old that only Druids knew their meaning and named all the Durots from time beyond memory, trailing back into the ancient past. Soon her name would be added to the long list of Durots whom the gods favored. Cathbad would chant her name! Daughter of a slave, outcast and taunted, no one would cast her out now. For the first time in her life, she was member of a clan.

Maigrid waited on the river bank, her honey-colored hair braided with the tiny, white flowers that only blossomed at Samhain. A bone-handled hunting knife gleamed in her hand. She gave Sabrann a quick smile and, holding her right hand, drew the sharp blade in a line across the soft fleshy part near Sabrann’s thumb.

She stared at the sky, willing herself not to flinch. A thin line of blood welled up and trickled over her palm. Cathbad gave her an intense, questioning look. With a brief nod, he scored his hand in the same place and pressed her hand firmly against his own. Her blood now mingled with the gods, for the Druid spoke with their voice and direction.

The cloudless sky was deep autumn blue, and the late afternoon sun shone behind the small group standing on the banks of the dark river, outlining each figure with rays of light. The thin, gold lozenges on Cathbad’s white tunic flashed in the breeze that blew over the river.

The Druid gazed deep into her eyes. His face, so familiar to Sabrann, was changed. The presence of the gods shone out from his eyes, making them luminous.

He held her by her tunic and raised the knife high. Flashing in the dying sunlight, the knife slashed down, splitting her short child’s tunic down the front. He pulled away the cloth, leaving her naked before the gods.

She was slender and unformed, like a yearling doe, and no hint of womanhood showed. She quivered with fear of the ritual to come. Three times he must plunge her into the dark river, each time imploring the gods to grant his requests.

Out of the corner of her eye, she cast a quick look at the river. She was deathly afraid of water, but must not let her fear show. Not now. Her heart beat faster. There were unnamed spirits, who lived in the river and pulled the unwary down into their watery kingdoms.

The Druid led her to the water’s edge and the ritual began. She held her breath and entered the cold river.

Cathbad lifted the stone amulet from her neck and cast it in a high arc, into the river.

“Gone forever,” he called out to the gods. “Change her from a child to a young girl of our clan. I show you a child without a true name. Take away any childish names and ways.” His voice filled the stillness of the river valley.

The Carynx horns sounded one long, deep call that shook everything like a rumble of thunder. A sleek brown otter splashed out of the water and hid in the brush. Buzzards and kestrels soared high. White and gray seagulls screamed as they circled above.

He marked a line on her forehead with blood from his hand.

“See the mark! Hear her!” he shouted the second time, holding her under as the cold water covered her head. “Here is Sabrann, now a young girl of her clan. May Cernunnos, the god of our tribe, and all gods and goddesses know her whenever she approaches.”

The horns blew two, long, sonorous tones.

Pulled from the river, she stood gasping for breath, shivering with the cold. Caradoc stepped forward, bright as the sun, with his golden torq shining light upon his face. The Druid took the knife, slashing Caradoc’s palm and Sabrann’s again, then joined them. In the fading rays of the afternoon sun, Caradoc turned to the silent crowd and clasped Sabrann’s hand to his, holding it high.

“Blood to Blood, I name you mine!”

She felt faint with happiness. A roar came up from the crowd as Cathbad held her under water for the third time, shouting above the din. “Cernunnos, guide her! All else is gone from her childhood. She is daughter of Caradoc ap Durot. His clan is hers.”

It was almost dark, the sky deep sapphire above black water, as the druid pulled her from the river. Horns blared. The clans cheered. The king’s
Gaesatae
warriors beat on their great wood-and-bronze shields and pounded the handles of their spears on the ground. Torches were lit and blazed up, giving a yellow, guttering glow. The shadows turned purple and long.