Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (27 page)

Sabrann watched them with one eye.

Glas slipped out of the galley to find Akmu, and she was alone with this strange person.
Only
one day more. Then we’ll leave at Ictis.
Her heart cried for home and safety.

“Akmu-en-Swnw is healing me,” she croaked, her throat still raw from the seawater. “By what name do you wish me to call you?”

The big man glared at her. “Have you no eyes?
Isis!
It’s right here in front of you.” He pointed to his forehead.

Sabrann’s eyes widened. Isis was a goddess. She had heard this name in one of Cathbad’s tales about his travels. To name a man for a goddess was a terrible omen—someone had cursed this man.

“It’s the name of a goddess,” she murmured, giving a cautious, sideways glance at the roughly cut name on his forehead. It looked as though someone had carved it with a knife.

He frowned. “A goddess didn’t make this. I didn’t ask for it, and I don’t want to talk about it. It’s my name now, for all to see.” His voice was high and angry.

Isis started chopping an onion and avoided her gaze. Her eyes stung as the sharp onion smell drifted over her face.

“I didn’t want my tattoo either,” she said, touching the spiral on her cheek. “It’s a slave mark. Everyone stares at me, and I hide sometimes.”

It was quiet, just the sound of the knife chopping. Why was she telling him this? Maybe because he had a tattoo also. But he didn’t seem to care. He lifted the metal lid off the firebox and, poking deep in the ash and sand with a long metal prong, found what he was looking for: one glowing piece of charcoal. He brought two small branches of wood from the basket under the table and placed them deep in the firebox, then laid an iron grill over the wood and charcoal and carefully replaced the metal lid so it covered most of the firebox—but not all. He seemed to know just how to make it burn so it would not put them in danger. The ship was made of wood, and a fire could destroy everything. The box was well protected, though, the base filled with sand and surrounded with heavy clay tiles. Even the wall and the ceiling above it were covered with tile.

He turned and looked at her, his dark, round eyes unreadable.

“So you’re a slave. I was, too. Many have been. That doesn’t change anything. You’re not staying here long. Only for this night ... for the Admiral. There’s a space for you in the storage by the galley.”

She lay back down under the table, hiding from his sight. Just then, a high, loud whistle came from an air hole near the ceiling. At Mai Dun, the wind over the fire hole had made the same sound.

After he found her with Rosmerta in the dark mound, Cathbad had brought her home on a wild ride in the dark, through rain that blew sideways and stung her eyes. Bundled and wrapped in his cloak, she cried all the way to Mai Dun. Maigrid had cleansed her face and put a soothing mint ointment on the raw and bleeding tattoo. Sabrann lay on a pallet by the fire, exhausted, as Cathbad and Maigrid talked. They thought she was asleep.

“She’s marked forever. What will you do?”Maigrid asked.

He stripped his dripping tunic off and stood closer to the fire. Outside the storm still raged and long rumbles of thunder rolled low over the roundhouse’s thatched roof.

“I will protect her,” he said softly. There was a knife edge to his voice. “As you will. And when she is older and is Caradoc’s heir, no one will care. She is a Durot now. Her gifts as a seer will protect her even more.”

Maigrid knelt on a fox-fur blanket; her hand restlessly smoothed its fine, red hairs gleaming in the light. “She has that from her mother. Sirona said all the women in her line received a gift. She was sure her child would have the gift of sight.” She glanced at Sabrann. Sabrann closed her eyes quickly.

“Yes, I know. Now Rosmerta has gone further. She
wills
the prophecy true. It seems the prophecy will come true no matter how much it hurts Sabrann in the meantime.”

He crushed a big piece of kindling in two and threw it at the fire. Smoke billowed up to the roof. She slept.

The next morning, Cathbad led her into her into the great council hall. The hall was dim in the early morning light. Caradoc ruled as king of all the Durotriges, but today he was also Àraid—the chief of the Durots. He sat in his tall chair, his cloak of white sheep fleece fastened with a bronze fibula carved with a brace of antlers—the sign of the god Cernunnos and symbol of the Durot clan. He wore the immense gold torc of king and, on his right hand, a great red amber ring—the Durot’s ring. A warrior’s look on his face, his eyes were angry.

Along one side of the hall stood all the Durots who mattered: Derbhorgill, dark child of Vivienne, Caradoc’s father’s first wife; Elen, his father’s second wife, mother of Caradoc and Cathbad; and Maigrid of Tamar, Elen’s cousin. These were the closest, and even Derbhorgill was not a true Durot, only adopted through Vivienne. On the other side of the hall powerful clan chiefs watched, allies of the Durots, each married to some Durot kinswoman or sworn as Caradoc’s man—and Caradoc’s true strength lay with them.

At the far end of the hall lurked Odran, the Vate, who kept the genealogies and history of the Durotriges, and Ramach, the sullen, one-eyed druid, who served Derbhorgill and before that her mother, Vivienne. All held some claim to the Durot line, some link to the succession. And all cast stealthy looks at Sabrann’s face.

Caradoc had looked at her tattooed face for a long time, his ice blue eyes framed by the mane of blonde hair, pleated and rough, that touched his shoulders. He motioned her to him. She pulled her hair over the defiled cheek and came forward. He brushed her hair away and laid the hand with the amber ring on her head. Sabrann had thought that was all.

But he surprised everyone.

He took a sharp eating knife from his belt and cut open the place on his palm—it had barely closed from her naming ceremony just two nights ago. As it bled freely, he cut her hand in the same place and held it tight against his palm. She could hear the sharp intake of breath from everyone there.

All in the room stood as witness and many wished her ill. Born of a slave, she was not like them and came from people far away. Now she carried the brand of a slave. Or a seer, for the prophecy clung to Sabrann like a visible specter. It could not be ignored.

Caradoc was defiant: he was King and would not be crossed by a mere servant of Brigantu. A shaft of pale morning light came through an opening in the roof and touched the golden torq. His jaw set in anger, he claimed Sabrann again.

“Blood to blood. I name you mine,” his voice rasped. She was a Durot. His.

Even so, it was how the children at Àrd
Saoghal
and some of the tribe looked at her that brought her to tears that night and many nights thereafter. Though she was a young girl of the tribe now, Maigrid had wrapped her in her own wool cloak and rocked her back and forth as she would a tiny baby, as Sabrann cried herself to sleep.

The tribe now looked at her either in horror as a marked slave or in fear and awe of the prophecy come true, which had haunted Sabrann since her birth. Those prophetic words were a branding as strong as the raw mark on her cheek.

“... The spiral on the head for all to see.”

And so they all watched and waited, biding their time.

CHAPTER 18

Sabrann smelled porridge cooking and, for a moment, felt warm and safe and hungry—it was home! Then the room rocked, the floor tilted, and all comforting thoughts fled. The sound of shrieking sea gulls filled the air. And the voices of men coming from somewhere above her head, shouted in a strange language. Bright light reflected in watery ripples across the tiled ceiling, in the room Isis had called the galley—
his
galley. He hadn’t made her sleep in the storage room!

Her shoulder throbbed with a dull, aching pain as she shifted to a sitting position under the tall table. Stiff all over, at least she could move. She peered out from under the table. Isis knelt over the firebox, mixing something in a large copper cauldron. His face glistened with sweat, red in the glow of the firebox. The crude tattoo on his forehead seemed a warning sign.

Was he still angry? For a moment, she watched him as she would a dangerous animal, not knowing if it would attack. She jumped a little when he looked briefly at her and then turned back to his mixing. At least he didn’t yell.

“Where is Glas?” she asked tentatively.

Isis let out a short, exasperated sound and picked up a brown gull’s egg from a small basket. He broke it into the cauldron, and his arm beat faster and faster.

“He’s bringing food to the captain and the others. Captain says the boy is my helper, now. He does what I tell him. And to feed you.” That last part sounded like an afterthought. Isis did not look at her when he spoke.

Sabrann inched out from under the table and stood, holding on to the table. Her feet hurt, and every muscle felt sore. But the smell of porridge set her stomach growling. She sniffed at the clay bowl Isis placed on the narrow table.

“Its
puls punica
. Phoinikes eat it all the time,” he said.

She took a testing bite. “Who are the Phoinikes?”

“Ha! That is what the Greeks call us. The red ones—the Phoenicians.”He sniffed in disdain. “We are Carthaginians from the great city of Carthage.”

“You don’t look red,” she said, puzzled.

Isis laughed. “We’re only red when we chase a Greek,” he said and laughed even harder.

Glas’s head popped around the doorway, his eyes round. “The captain wants to see you, Sabrann, and he says come quickly!”

He led the way to the steep stair. Sabrann hobbled behind on bandaged feet. It was more like a ladder than a stairway, with a long, wooden railing on one side to hold onto. She climbed slowly to the top, and onto the deck.

There was no land in sight, only the dark sea with its big, rolling swell and the gray sky above. She felt dizzy, looking at the waves.

There were the noisy sea gulls, flying high above the deck. Seamen went about their work. Many only wore loincloths, but the seas off the great island of Albion were cold, and some had covered themselves in tunics made from pieces of sail cloth or blankets. One old seaman stood off to one side of the deck, guiding a long handle that reached down into the waves like a big paddle and moved two oars on either side of the ship. He wore a long, canvas cloak, covered in black pitch, like the ship. A strong wind blew, and fans of ocean spray rose high over the sides, drenching the oarsman, but rolling right off his slick cloak.

She was afraid to move. Her legs wobbled as the deck move up and down and the porridge rose up in her throat. She took a step forward, lost her balance, and fell.

“It will be alright when you get used to it,” Glas said and helped her up. Even with his withered leg, he didn’t seem bothered by the shifting deck. He guided her by the arm toward the front of the ship, where a door stood open, under a small upper deck.

The captain stood by the door, stern and unsmiling. He looked down his long nose at her bandaged feet. “Good. I see you can walk. Akmu-en-Swnw said you should be healed enough today. We have an important meeting.”

“Yes, Akmu-en-Swnw helped me,” she said. “But I need to know when we can go home and …”

He gave her a withering look. “No questions. We’ll talk later. When we go inside, don’t talk to him unless he asks you a question. Do you understand?”

She nodded reluctantly, and they entered a dimly lit cabin. A clay oil lamp, centered on a sturdy table, burned low. She sniffed the air like a hunter; her nostrils flared. Many smells filled the still air: the burning lamp oil, men’s unwashed bodies, a whiff of porridge, and some sweet scent she did not recognize. A high portal on one side let some daylight into the room.

It was sparsely furnished. On one side a small table dropped down from the wall on iron chains—a half-eaten bowl of porridge rested there. A box bed piled with blankets hugged the wall on the other side of the room.

Admiral Himilco commanded the room; all eyes turned toward him. The captain, Akmu-en-Swnw, and Thombaii leaned against one wall. Glas hovered near the door, out of sight behind the carpenter. The Admiral stood in front of a large piece of tanned hide nailed to the wall. It was covered with lines and small drawings and other marks. A young man wearing a long tunic sat on a stool at the table, a reed pen in hand. A carved cedar box and a large roll of papyrus lay open in front of him. He looked up at her and winked. A flowery scent rose up from him, and filled Sabrann’s head; his curly hair framed a face beautiful as a girl. She felt dizzy and swayed a little as the ship moved.