Celtic Fire Part 12

"The lad woke the entire village two nights past, raving like a mad wolf in the mud. The clan gathered 'round him as he screamed his Druid curses."

Rhiannon's stomach rolled. "What do ye mean?"

"A death wish it was. For Glynis and her babe."

"Nay," Rhiannon whispered. "No curse. A vision. He canna help it. They come unbidden."

"Owein has the Sight?" Cormac asked sharply. "Does Madog know?"

"Aye. Where is Owein now?"

"I dinna ken, but Edmyg vows he will kill the lad if he comes near the village. He's forbidden any to speak to him."

"He'll have sought Madog," Rhiannon said, her mind racing. "I must go to him."

"Aye," Cormac said. "Ye must. Deliver the Roman into Edmyg's hands and I'll see ye safe to the Druid's door."

Chapter Six.

Twilight deepened into night as Lucius stood outside Rhiannon's bedchamber, wanting more than anything to enter.

Walking through her door would mean leaving Aulus outside. Once within, the aura of futility Lucius breathed like murky air would vanish. The lilting cadence of Rhiannon's voice would drive the self-reproach from his head. Her warmth would banish the chill failures from his heart. He would catch her scent, a s.h.i.+mmer of forest greenery and summer mist. Her body would tremble with need when he touched her, even as she pushed him away. The very thought of it caused Lucius's rod to harden with pleasure akin to pain. To feel his nymph's surrender, to bury himself inside her ...

Lucius had no doubt that making love to Rhiannon would fill the aching chasm that had become his soul.

Yet still he hesitated and, after another long moment, left her door untouched. He shoved open his own. The heavy wood thudded shut behind him, but not before Aulus had slipped into the room. Lucius lit the handlamp and watched the shadows retreat to the corners.

He told himself Rhiannon needed more time to accept the idea of becoming his concubine. He rationalized that patience would bring her to his bed far more quickly than heavy-handed persuasion.

Fine tales, but lies. In truth, he'd grown wary of the nymph and the power she seemed to wield over Aulus.

In the world he inhabited, logic ruled. As a senator's son, he'd been born to a life of tradition and duty. Schooling in rhetoric and philosophy, a decade of military service, a political career that commenced by the thirtieth year-the age Lucius had currently attained. Lucius had never questioned the path mapped out for him until Aulus's ghost had sprung from the sands of the Eastern desert.

His brother's unrest had cracked the very foundation of Lucius's ordered world view. If the dead did not stay safely within their graves, what prevented any part of life from violation? And if one beautiful nymph could command his brother's soul ...

He sent Aulus a piercing look. "What power does she wield over you?"

Aulus developed a sudden interest in the ceiling beams.

Lucius fought the urge to grasp his brother by his ghostly shoulders and shake some life into him. "Is she a witch?" He stepped closer. "Do you fear her?"

Aulus drifted toward the bed. The creation was another Egyptian monstrosity, gilded and garish, double the size of any bed Lucius had ever seen.

"Look at me when I speak to you, by Pollux!"

With an air of infinite weariness, Aulus sank to the cus.h.i.+ons, still avoiding Lucius's gaze.

"She's hardly one of the hideous daughters of Diana described by Horace," Lucius muttered. He strode to the side table and poured himself a cup of wine. "Still, who's to say a beautiful woman cannot command witch's powers as easily as a hag?"

He drained the cup and refilled it. "If she has the power to keep you from her presence, perhaps she can banish you from mine as well."

Aulus's head snapped up. Fear illuminated his pale eyes. His shoulders had gone rigid, giving him an eerie semblance of solidity. Lucius looked closer. His brother looked weary, haggard. Haunted, even, if such an irony were possible. Lucius set his cup on the table and moved as close as he dared.

Ice and despair enveloped him.

The smoldering veil of peat smoke skulked into Owein's lungs, dragging at his breath like a wolf b.i.t.c.h hauling her kill to her young. He s.h.i.+fted on his lumpy pallet and drew his blanket over his head. The thick woolen fabric might have blocked the worst of the haze, but it did little to m.u.f.fle the wet rasp of Madog's snores.

Searing pain spread through Owein's temple, a sensation by now so familiar that he could barely remember a time when agony had not been his companion. A vision of Glynis's still body rose in the sight of Owein's inner eye. The image of a newborn babe strangled by its birth cord joined it. The child was a lad, a son Edmyg should have planted in Rhiannon's womb.

Owein's face went hot with rage. He'd seen Edmyg and Glynis coupling in the forest on more than one occasion. He'd told Rhiannon, hoping she would renounce him. But she'd refused, despite Edmyg's betrayal. Why?

Guilt that her own babe had died before its first breath had been drawn? Shame that a second child had refused to take root in her body? Or did Rhiannon believe that as the Brigantes' strongest warrior and Niall's brother, Edmyg deserved the t.i.tle of king? Owein knew most of the clansmen thought as much, but he didn't agree. To his mind, Edmyg's arrogance, quick temper, and slow wit were poor traits for a ruler.

His fingers tested the taut muscles encased in his upper arm. For a man of fifteen winters, he was strong, but he was no match for a seasoned warrior who had seen nearly twice as many years.

If only he were older, stronger, he would challenge Edmyg for the right to lead the clan and hold the dun for Rhiannon. Then his sister could choose another mate. A man worthy to be called king.

The magnificent battle played out in Owein's imagination. In the scene he was a giant of a warrior, broader and fiercer than any the Brigantes had ever known. He swaggered toward Edmyg, buoyed by the cheers of his kin. He unsheathed his sword like lightning. His thrust was swift and merciless. Edmyg crumpled, clutching his chest, blood streaming from the wound. Owein lowered his weapon and turned to Rhiannon. Her eyes were s.h.i.+ning with tears.

Her eyes were s.h.i.+ning with tears.

Owein jerked upright, his breath coming in gasps, his right temple pounding so violently that he thought it would burst. A dream image of Rhiannon's face hovered before him, but Owein knew beyond a doubt that he was seeing his sister as she was, at that very moment.

The tears she cried were real. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing them to remain dry as he watched his sister sob. What abuse had her Roman captor visited upon her? When the vision faded, he threw off his blanket and crawled toward the door.

Once free of the hut Owein sucked in a clear breath of midnight air and let it out in a long stream. The cries of the night creatures throbbed about him. Above, a hazy gibbous moon tried to break free of the clouds.

Rhiannon's absence ached like the ghost of a severed limb. No balm could hope to soothe it. He stifled a sob, longing to feel her arms come about him in a swift hug or her fingers, light as a breeze, ruffling his hair. To his shame, he'd begun protesting such attentions. He'd told Rhiannon that as a man he would no longer tolerate such an overt show of affection. Her response had been naught but lilting laughter.

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 anch.o.r.ed 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 pa.s.sed 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, splas.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 s.h.i.+ning gate gleamed in the light of a thousand suns.

Annwyn.

The land of faeries and G.o.ds, 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 pa.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 G.o.d's antlers tore into the Roman's gut, pulling b.l.o.o.d.y 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.