Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (18 page)

Numbed with cold, Sabrann shook as Maigrid dried her and then placed a new ankle-length tunic over her head. She would never again wear a child’s short tunic. Elen, the eldest kinswoman of the Durots, held a carved bone comb and combed Sabrann’s tangles smooth. She braided part of Sabrann’s hair into the thin braid that marked her a young girl of the tribe.

Maigrid placed an amber necklace over her head. Ten golden-red amber beads, one for each year, marked the child’s part of life completed. The beads reflected the flickering torchlight like dancing flames, a ring of fire. Around her neck, Cathbad hung a new, small leather bag. Inside it, concealed from sight, was a stone, a soul marker she would carry all the days she lived. It held her life. When she died and went to the Otherworld, it would go with her.

Today, she lost her mother and gained a father. For ten years, she was daughter of the slave, Sirona ap Marne. Now, she was Sabrann ap Durot, only child of Caradoc ap Durot.

Her heart lifted in joy. Everything would be different.

CHAPTER 11

Caradoc’s great roundhouse was quiet as Sabrann entered the place set aside for sleeping—a haven of quiet away from the celebration and noise of Samhain. The moon’s white face, shining through the doorway, covered everything it touched in sharp relief and made all the shadows deep and black.

Some small motion caught her eye as she pulled aside the thick, wool curtain to her sleeping platform. She looked around. Women and children from visiting clans lay under blankets on pallets in the main room. No one moved. But the wind outside stopped suddenly. The soothing sounds of leaves rustling in tall oak trees disappeared, and the conversation of two night owls ceased.

She looked up as a pale face loomed above. Frightened, she called out, thinking it was one of the evil old ones who crossed over to the land of the living on Samhain night. A pungent-smelling bag was pressed under her nose. As she drifted from consciousness, she cried out once more before a drugged sleep numbed her body, and stopped all thoughts.

When she awakened, everything in her body ached, her arms hurt. What had happened? It was all hazy in her mind. The smell of horse sweat clung to a cloak wrapped tight around her. She dimly remembered being carried a long way on a horse.

Now, stumbling and dizzy, rough hands held her steady and guided her on a path. Then, her head cleared.

A great earthen mound loomed ahead—she knew it!—a sacred burial mound far from Mai Dun, placed there by ancient people no one living could remember, and the path led straight into the earth. It was a place of death—she must not go there!

She tried to call for help, but a rough cloth covered her mouth.
Maigrid, Help me!
She silently repeated her desperate plea as hooded figures forced her along the path. She could not see their faces.

A storm was gathering. High banks of clouds showed black against an indigo sky. The god Taranis shook the earth with head-splitting cracks of thunder. Jagged arms of brilliant, white lightning forked down, outlining the figures surrounding her, flashing on the shadowed entrance to the dark mound.

No, not there! A fierce shudder ran through her body. She twisted in the cloak, and a hand cuffed her ear.

“Be still girl,” came a harsh voice, and another blow struck her cheek. She sobbed through the heavy gag on her mouth.

Strong hands gripped her arms, guiding her forward. The rough path, paved with flagstone, was just wide enough for two people to pass. It led to a small crescent-shaped entryway. A stone lintel lay over two tall standing stones that formed the opening into the mound, black as the maw of death.

They entered into a dark chasm. Walls of packed earth and broad timbers lined a narrow passage. Under a low ceiling, the hooded figures were barely able to stand straight. A torch, set into the wall, sent smoke curling and filled the path with low light for a few paces. Then it was dark again. Sabrann’s head ached as if she felt the weight of the earthen mound above, pressing down, suffocating. She stopped, panicked by the thought, but there was no escape; someone shoved her forward.

Ahead, the first hooded figure carried a small torch, a pinpoint of light in the darkness that reached ahead and behind. Wind from the gathering storm outside blew gusts of leaves and dirt through the mound’s entrance and swirled like dark whirlpools around her feet.

Sabrann’s hands curled in tight fists beneath the cloak. A bell rang far ahead. Close behind her, the slow tapping of a heavy staff marked each step, giving her fear its own rhythm.

In the dark, she lost all sense of direction. She was disoriented, trapped in the depths of the earth, the mound pressing down from above. A faint memory from her hunter’s training came to her—always count the steps, so you can find your way back, so you can escape. Escape! She started counting,
aon, da, tri, ceithir, coig ...
at six steps her concentration faltered. Where was Maigrid? Did she know someone had taken her?

Only the gods could help now. But she was gagged. No god could hear her cry!

Deich
steps. Ten. They came to an abrupt halt. The lone pitch torch had blown out. Now there was complete darkness. Anxious murmurs came from the front of the passageway.

Sabrann stood motionless, crouched over, thinking of escaping in the dark. Her body made a small movement and an unseen hand on her arm pressed down harder, as if sensing her thought. It was useless to struggle.

Death is near, life is dear. Death is not the end.

The warrior’s song ran through her thoughts, over and over. She had first heard it at Àrd Saoghal and wished she was back there. Àrd Saoghal—the high world—where the Druid Cathbad taught the ways of the ancients. Set on top of the highest hill in all the Durotriges land, it was her escape from everything: from taunts about her name and her mother, from the meaningless prophecy that tainted her life, from jeers about how ugly she was.

From an early age, it was apparent she had not inherited her mother’s legendary beauty. Maigrid had told her about her mother. Once, she had looked in a polished tin mirror brought by a trader and, for the first time, saw how different she was. Her hair was dull brown, not threaded with waving strands of red, bronze and copper, like Sirona’s. Her skin was sun-darkened, not moon white like her mothers. With her long, aquiline nose, she didn’t look like she belonged to her mother or father. Caradoc was broad and tall, bright like the sun, with a thick mane of yellow hair. Sabrann always felt like a clump of earth in his presence, brown and twig colored.

Her eyes unsettled people most—a strange tawny, golden hue that changed color in different lights. Exactly what color, no one could say. Some likened them to hawk eyes.
Speirleg
—sparrowhawk—the children called her and laughed. She had gladly left their taunts behind to study the ways of a Druid.

Crouching in the depths of the earth, imprisoned by unknown people, she shivered at the memory of the Druid’s first lesson at Àrd Saoghal
.
Everyone there was of noble family or proud
Gaesatae
warriors. Many felt they were there to learn only of magic and power. His first words quickly displaced those thoughts.

“Death,” he had said in a cool voice. “We will learn the ways of death first. You are everything that went before you and all that will go after. Be ready for death, always. If you must die, welcome it; have no fear of the Otherworld. Do not forget, your life is now. Live it well. You have much to fulfill, in this life and others to come.”

Ahead, light flamed again from the torch. There was a stern jostle to her arms. She would have to move forward to whatever awaited.

Be ready for death always.
The memory of Cathbad’s words filled her with a sickening fear and panic flooded her thoughts. Was she to be a sacrifice?

Death is near, life is dear. Death is not the end.

The words of the warrior’s song played in her head, her heart pounding in time. She did not feel brave.

Fichead.
Twenty. They stopped. Guttering, yellow torchlight illuminated a small, rock-faced chamber, long hidden in the heart of the ancient mound. Smooth black stones, fitted close together, formed the base of an arched ceiling. She could stand up straight here. A high stone table stood in the center of the chamber.

Her eyes darted around the room, searching for some clue of what was to come. Broken bits of clay pots littered the floor. In a far corner, a small pit, dug into the earth, held thin fire-scorched bones, a few flints, and a bone hairpin. Nearby, a handful of seashells formed a rough circle with a smooth, white granite rock in the center: a soulstone—all that remained of someone’s life.

The bag that held her own soulstone hung safe from her neck. Her new life had just begun this Samhain. It could not end now!

Then a voice spoke by her ear, murmuring in a soft, melodious way. The strong scent of Artemisia filled Sabrann’s nose, her lungs. She could not help but breath it in and gagged.

“Don’t be afraid, Sabrann. I bring your destiny. Welcome it. You have great gifts. You are already one of us.”

She knew that voice.
Rosmerta!

Relief washed through her body. This was no stranger, no rival chieftain stealing Caradoc’s heir. Rosmerta had been at the naming ceremony yesterday. She would not harm her, she was kin ...

Rough hands removed the cloth binding from her mouth. Sabrann gagged again as a strong smelling cloth was pressed against her nose. She tried to call out to Rosmerta, but her tongue thickened and could not make the words.

They laid her on the cold rock table. Wrapped in the cloak, arms bound to her sides, she lay helpless as someone washed her check with ice-cold water. Awake, but dazed, the drugged hold on her deepened. A poultice held to her cheek numbed almost all feeling. Strong hands firmly cupped her head while others held her arms and legs. With blurred eyes, she watched her hooded captors. An ancient crone shuffled forward, carrying a bowl filled with black liquid. Dipping a brush into the bowl, she painted something on Sabrann’s cheek.

“Hurry, Dorca,” Rosmerta said. “She is ready.”

Holding a thin bronze needle, the old crone pressed its sharp point deep into Sabrann’s painted cheek. Sabrann’s eyes shot wide open. Her eyes streamed with tears as the needle probed deep, over and over. Sabrann moaned in agony. The torture seemed endless.

After an eternity, it stopped. The hands holding her head withdrew and Sabrann’s head rolled to one side, her eyes shut tight against anymore pain.

“Use more cold water,” Rosmerta said. “It’s bleeding too much. I told you not to make the lines too deep.”

The old woman answered in a petulant voice. “Yes, but she is too young and still growing. She has yet to start her moon bleeding. It will not harm her. I had to make them last.”

“There was no time to wait until she is older.” Rosmerta sounded impatient. “Listen! The Druid Cathbad approaches. I must finish. Sabrann, look at me and listen.”

Another cloth placed to her nose choked Sabrann with its strong, acrid smell. Someone grabbed her shoulders and shook her.

“Open your eyes! Lift your head up, daughter of Brigantu. Your destiny is now.”

That firm demanding voice broke through the drugged fog in Sabrann’s head. She turned her head, and looked into the cold, gray eyes of her tormentor: Rosmerta. Finely tattooed, sacred symbols and lines, colored with blue woad, covered Rosmerta’s arms and hands. Pale red hair fell in waves down her back. She was seer and Druidess of the goddess Brigantu, beautiful and frightening in her power.

And, she was the sister of Sabrann’s long-dead mother.

“You are bound to me by blood, and I know you are the one prophesized. Look!”

She looked up at her reflection in the polished tin mirror Rosmerta held before Sabrann’s face. She gasped in horror.

Starting near her temple, a perfect, heavily tattooed spiral now covered all of her left check. The vivid tattoo coiled three times, ending in the middle of Sabrann’s cheek. Fresh blood mingled with black ink and poured over her tear-streaked face and neck.

“Yes, you are the one. The prophecy foretold it at your birth. And you are marked now—for Brigantu.”

Sabrann shrieked. This was how the Durotriges marked slaves. A face tattoo meant you were
tràill
—a slave—the absolute lowest in the hierarchy of the tribe.

A Durotriges might have special tattoo marks as marks of valor in hunting, for allegiance to certain animal’s ways, to mark special places for healing, even to call attention to a certain place of beauty or sexual desirability—but never on the face, for the head was the most sacred part of the body. To all the tribes of Albion, the head was the supreme source of all power. Your soul lived there! Placing a tattoo on the head meant possession and your soul no longer belonged to you.

“You have marked me a
tràill
!” Sabrann tried to sit up, but Rosmerta pushed her back onto the stone table.

“Daughter of my lost sister, you are most fortunate, for you have been chosen to serve.” Rosmerta’s eyes never left Sabrann and seemed to hold her in place.