Celtic Fire Part 4

The bedraggled company started along a path skirting the ridge above the fens. Owein set his eyes to the north, where two peaks formed what looked like twin thrones. There, according to the Old Ones, Briga, the Great Mother, once sat with her consort, Kernunnos, the Horned G.o.d. The Druid circle lay in the shadow of the crags, sheltered by the sacred oaks and guarded by the skull of the Roman slaughtered at Samhain.

Owein trudged just to the fore of his uncle, Bryan. The sooner home, the better. Rhiannon would be sick with worry until he returned. He allowed himself a small smile. When his sister saw him, she would run her fingers through his hair as she'd done since before he could remember. He would protest, of course, but in truth her touch would chase away the horror of yesterday's battle, if only for a moment.

A slight figure dropped into step beside him. Reese, Bryan's youngest son. Born two winters after Owein, he was the youngest member of the raiding party. The lad's boots thudded on the sodden cus.h.i.+on of last year's leaves, the crook of his bow slung over his shoulder as he walked. Reese hadn't been allowed in the thick of the battle, but had used his weapon to cover the older warriors.

Owein slid a glance sideways and nodded. "I'm much obliged to ye, cousin. If not for your arrows, I'd be riding yon pony, or worse."

Reese squinted up at him. "I dinna understand ye, Owein."

"Ye shot when I dropped from the trees onto the Roman commander." Owein's heart pounded at the memory. A reckless move it had been, but the hot urge to show up Rhiannon's loutish mate had gripped him like a fever. "Your arrows distracted him. Had your hand not been quick on the bow, the foreign dog would have surely gutted me."

His cousin's gaze remained puzzled. "But I shot nowhere near ye. I was hidden on the opposite side of the road."

Owein frowned. None of the older warriors carried a bow-he'd been sure Reese's arrows had saved him. He set his stick in the mud and hoisted himself over the jumble of rocks blocking the trail. Someone Someone had been concealed in the willows during his mad skirmish. The unknown archer had hara.s.sed the commander and saved Owein's life. But who- had been concealed in the willows during his mad skirmish. The unknown archer had hara.s.sed the commander and saved Owein's life. But who- A soft whinny came from the brush, followed by a crackle of twigs. Owein whipped his head around as Bryan gave a low whistle. Another nicker, and then a snow-white mare crashed through the branches. The pony didn't stop until she reached Owein's side.

"Derwa," he whispered. Rhiannon's pony. A horrible suspicion formed in Owein's mind. His sister had a steady hand on the bow-she'd often shot targets with him when he was a lad. His gut contracted on a stab of nausea more painful than the slice of a Roman sword.

Reese grabbed Derwa's reins. "This be Rhiannon's pony."

"Aye," replied Owein. "How did the beast come to be so far from the village?"

The mare nudged Owein's shoulder with her nose. Then she tossed her head and turned, as if expecting him to follow.

"No," Owein croaked. Dear Briga, don't let it be true. Dear Briga, don't let it be true. Did Rhiannon think so little of his battle skills that she would follow him to war? Did Rhiannon think so little of his battle skills that she would follow him to war?

He grabbed the pouch tied at Derwa's neck and tore it open. The bitter scent of coltsfoot and silverweed, herbs Rhiannon had brewed for him just two days before, a.s.saulted his senses. She'd come after him, but where was she now? She would never have let her pony wander without a rider.

His sister was dead or taken prisoner.

Owein's nausea surged anew. He doubled over and emptied his stomach on the trail.

Chapter Three.

The Roman bedchamber was at once wondrous and terrifying.

Sunlight streamed through the shuttered windows, casting bright stripes across a floor paved with bits of colored stone. Beyond, a smooth wall rose to a ceiling ribbed with square-hewn timbers. Exquisite paintings danced across the flat walls, images of tiny men and women so breathtakingly real that Rhiannon half expected them to move.

She marveled at the floor. The s.h.i.+ning stone fragments wove a fearsome beast from the colors of the rainbow. The enormous catlike monster bared long, sharp teeth as it swatted at its prey, its mane of golden fur glittering with the reflected light of the sun. Did such a monster truly exist? Or had it been conjured from the artist's nightmares?

A s.h.i.+ver ran the length of Rhiannon's spine. She s.h.i.+fted on her raised pallet. Her wounded leg throbbed, but the pain was not unbearable. The soft wool of her blanket warmed her naked skin. The women who had bathed her had taken her ruined tunic and left no replacement. Had the oversight been deliberate? The thought brought a rush of dread.

She pushed herself upright, one hand gripping the curved end of the bed that rose a handsbreadth above the mattress. Intricate carvings etched the wood, twining vines painted so realistically she could almost smell the cl.u.s.ters of small, round fruits nestled among the leaves. A matching terminal rose at the foot of the mattress, giving the bed the aspect of a boat. And indeed Rhiannon had never felt quite so adrift as at that moment.

There was but one door-had it been barred? One window on the opposite wall. The square chamber was small and spa.r.s.ely furnished, but the few items it held were, like the bed, luxurious. A long wooden table, bearing a tall ewer, stood against the wall. A smaller bench was within reach of the bed, as was a wide stool with crossed legs. A metal tray, filled with glowing coals and supported on squat legs, lay on the floor. Languid heat rose from it into the air, without the haze and odor of smoke that accompanied a hearth fire.

The hairs on Rhiannon's nape lifted despite the warmth. Never in her life had she been enclosed by flat walls. Her own dwelling was comprised of circular walls and capped by a high conical peak. She gazed at the shadowed corners of the chamber. Who knew what dread beings lurked in the unnatural angles of this place, untouched by the spirals of the Great Mother's spirit?

Rhiannon forced a swallow past her dry tongue and gathered what courage she could. It would do her no good to worry about unseen demons. The all-too-real Roman commander provided the greater threat. She had to flee before he returned. Pulling the blanket about her, she pushed herself to a sitting position. She would try the door. Perhaps it would open.

She swung her legs over the edge of the cus.h.i.+ons. The movement sent a hot poker of pain through her wounded leg. Dark patches clouded her vision. She leaned heavily on the raised end of the bed and waited for the blotches to clear.

A creak of hinges sounded behind her, then, "Ut vales?" "Ut vales?"

She wrenched her body toward the voice, gasping as another burst of brilliant pain enflamed her right thigh. A lad some years younger than Owein had slipped into the chamber and closed the door behind him. He stood now with his back pressed against the smooth wood, as if needing the strength of the oak to remain on his feet. One hand clasped something hung on a leather thong about his neck, the other gripped the door's latch as if he were ready to flee should Rhiannon prove to be a threat.

She blinked at the thought. He stared back at her with the dark, bright eyes of a bird-frightened yet at the same time fascinated. Black curls tumbled about his face. He wore a plain white tunic, tied at the waist with a leather cord and edged at the hem and sleeves with stripes of crimson. Leather sandals clad his feet.

She drew the blanket more firmly across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and sank back onto the cus.h.i.+ons. She'd seen this lad. She frowned, trying to remember.

"Ut vales?" he asked again, hesitant. "Are you well?" he asked again, hesitant. "Are you well?"

Rhiannon tried to answer, but her mouth felt dry and foul, like new-shorn wool, and she managed only a dull croak. She wet her lips with her tongue and tried again, forming the Roman words with care. "Parum bene." Not well enough. "Parum bene." Not well enough.

The lad's face registered his surprise. "Do you speak Latin?" His hand dropped from the door latch. At Rhiannon's nod, he took a tentative step in her direction.

She swallowed again, thickly. "Aqua?" "Aqua?"

He frowned, then crossed to the table, where he grasped the high curving handle of the ewer and filled an accompanying cup, all the while keeping one hand clasped on the object strung at his neck. He approached her bed, halting a few steps away and offering the drink with one outstretched arm.

"Wine," he said.

She anch.o.r.ed the blanket with one arm and leaned forward, ignoring the stab of pain in her leg. When her fingers closed on the cup, the lad s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand away and retreated a few paces.

He watched as she drank. Rhiannon took a cautious sip, letting the cool, sweet liquid bathe her tongue before she swallowed. So this was wine. She'd heard of the drink. She had imagined its flavor to be similar to cervesia, cervesia, the barley beer she brewed for Owein and Edmyg. In reality, the two drinks couldn't have been more different. the barley beer she brewed for Owein and Edmyg. In reality, the two drinks couldn't have been more different.

She took another long draught. Roman wine tasted like the summer sun, bright and sparkling. Its scent teased her nose with enticing flavor and bubbling mirth. If cervesia cervesia were a drink of the earth, dark and vital, then wine was a drink of the sky, playful and capricious. were a drink of the earth, dark and vital, then wine was a drink of the sky, playful and capricious.

She drained the cup, catching every precious drop of moisture. Only when she had finished did she think to look more closely at the vessel that had held it.

Another wonder.

The cup was wrought of a clear material like ice, yet it was warm in her hand. Frozen ripples within it scattered the sunlight like faerie lights. Surely some G.o.ddess had crafted the cup in Annwyn, the magical land beyond the setting sun.

She raised her gaze to the lad. "What is this?" she asked, stroking the smooth rim of the cup with one finger.

"Gla.s.s. Have you never seen it?"

She shook her head and handed the treasure back to him. The lad returned it to the table; then, struck by sudden boldness, he edged closer to the bed. "I'm Marcus."

"Salve, Marcus." Marcus."

He gave her a cautious smile. The hand at his throat loosened, revealing a gold ornament.

"Have you a name as well?" he asked in a rush. "Or are your people like beasts that have no need of them?"

She followed the rapid flow of his words with growing amus.e.m.e.nt. "I'm called Rhiannon."

"Rhiannon." Marcus rolled her name on his tongue as if testing its flavor. "Rhiannon." He frowned. "That doesn't sound like a girl's name."

She bit back a smile. Marcus's expression was clear and guileless, much like Owein's had been at that age. "It is, I a.s.sure you." She let her gaze roam over the lad. His hands and feet were large, as if they had sprouted in advance of the rest of his frame. He would not grow to be so tall as Owein, she guessed, but one day his shoulders would be broader and his arms as strong.

The smooth skin of his forehead puckered over his eyebrows. "What do you eat?" he asked, his eyes bright with antic.i.p.ation. "Do you tear the flesh from a man's bones and boil it in your cauldron?"

Rhiannon did smile at that. "That's a meal I've yet to try," she said with mock gravity. "Do you suppose it tastes better than venison?"

Marcus paled, his fingers tightening once again on the charm at his neck. "I've heard tell your women eat their children if they're not good, then birth fairer ones from their bones. Uncle Aulus sent such a story to me in Rome. Is it true?"

Rhiannon raised her brows. Marcus spoke of the crone Cerridwen, one of the many faces of the Great Mother. After eating one disobedient child, she birthed another of great beauty. Who was this lad's uncle to have known such a story? "That story holds truth, but not in the way you mean," she said. "My people love their children. We eat venison, boar, and grouse. Never babies."

"Oh." Marcus looked relieved and disappointed at the same time. "But your blue warriors are fierce," he said as if to console her. He s.h.i.+fted his gaze to the window, but not before Rhiannon saw a flash of terror in his eyes.

All at once, she knew him. The Roman commander had fought like a madman to protect this lad during the battle, much as she had fought to protect Owein.

He turned back to her. "Even so, Father says the blue men lack discipline. They cannot stand against the Roman army."

Of course. She should have known at once who he was. He looked so like his sire. And like another man, whose ident.i.ty flitted about the corner of her memory like a swarm of midges, refusing to take form. A tendril of unease unfurled in her chest. She wished she could remember.

Marcus was clenching and unclenching his fingers on the gold charm so fiercely that Rhiannon thought its thong might snap.

"What do you wear about your neck?" she asked.

The lad looked down at the ornament as if he'd never seen it before. "Oh." His hand dropped away, revealing a golden ball. "It's a bulla. bulla. It protects me from evil." It protects me from evil."

Rhiannon chuckled. "And you think you have need of it in my presence?"

The lad had the good grace to blush. "I've worn it always, since before I can remember." He forged on with painful honesty. "But you're right, I thought perhaps I might need it here." He grinned, showing a deep dimple in one cheek. "You're much nicer than I thought you would be."

The hinges on the door groaned again, saving Rhiannon from a reply. Marcus gave a guilty start. An old man strode into the chamber with a sure step, a small wooden bowl nestled in his hands. Rhiannon recognized him as the healer, much improved in appearance, who had tended her wound the night before. His short gray beard had been washed and combed and his bloodied mantle replaced with a clean one. An ornate pin held the saffron fabric fast at one shoulder, drawing up the folds to reveal a floor-length striped tunic decorated with wide bands of embroidery at the neck, sleeves and hem. The incongruous scent of spring flowers clung to his wizened form.

Rhiannon looked at Marcus and resisted the urge to laugh. The lad looked as if he would rather sink into the tiled floor and fight the cat-beast than face the old man.

The healer turned a fierce eye on him. "Why are you here?"

Marcus swallowed. "I'm ... I'm talking to Father's new slave, Magister Demetrius."

Slave. Rhiannon closed her eyes. Yesterday she'd been a queen. Rhiannon closed her eyes. Yesterday she'd been a queen.

The healer spoke again, this time in a language Rhiannon didn't understand. After a slight hesitation, Marcus answered in the same tongue.

The old man snorted. "Your Greek is abysmal, young Marcus. Go to the library and take up your Aristotle. I will come to you when I am finished here."

"As you wish, Magister." Marcus scooted past the healer and collided with a woman who had suddenly appeared in the doorway. Water sloshed up over the edge of the large clay bowl she carried and hit him in the face. He sputtered, ducked around her, and disappeared.

The healer shook his head. "Zeus help me."

He moved to Rhiannon's bedside, gesturing for the slave woman to enter the chamber. She advanced, setting her bowl of water on the low table near Rhiannon's bed. A younger woman laden with linens followed in her wake, bare feet slapping on the wet floor.

The first woman crossed the room and flung open the shutters. Light flooded the room, sending blessed illumination into the shadowed corners. Rhiannon drew a deep breath, feeling her courage strengthen. The second woman gave Rhiannon a shy smile and placed her bundles on the bed.

Demetrius dismissed the slave women and they hurried from the room. Rhiannon watched the healer's approach with wary eyes.

"How fares your leg today?" Without waiting for an answer, the old man grasped the lower edge of Rhiannon's makes.h.i.+ft cloak and pushed it to one side.

She s.n.a.t.c.hed the blanket's hem from his fingers. Her fingers curled into a fist, ready to strike should he reach for her a second time.

The healer spread his arms, palms up. "I mean no disrespect," he said gently. "I must examine the injury. Surely you realize that."

Rhiannon's shoulders hunched. His words were true enough. She knew only too well what became of wounds left untended. And no doubt both the healer and the commander had seen her unclothed the night before, when she lay unconscious. Her face flamed at the thought.

"Very well." Anchoring the top of her blanket about her throat, she drew back the lower portion with her free hand.

"You must lie down, girl."

Rhiannon shook her head. She would not put herself in such a vulnerable position.

"As you wish." He slid his hands under her leg, straightened it at the knee, and unwound the bandage with practiced precision. To Rhiannon's surprise, the gash was neatly closed with precise st.i.tches, as if her skin were a length of fabric mended with the finest of needles.

The healer took a clean cloth from the bundle on the bed and dipped it in the bowl of water the slave woman had left. He washed the last traces of blood from the wound, then smeared the contents of the smaller wooden bowl over his handiwork. The remedy soothed immediately.

"The gash is not deep," he said. "It should heal without causing a limp. Do not put undue weight on your leg for a full day at least." He replaced the discarded bandage with a clean length of cloth, nodding toward the remaining linens as he worked. "Clothing, I believe-one of the women must have located something suitable for you."

When she did not answer, he clucked softly. "What has happened to your tongue, girl? It wagged freely enough yesterday."

"I find I have little to say this day."

He let out a barking laugh, showing a tooth encased in gold. "The G.o.ds be praised."

She glared at him, lips pressed together.

His expression softened. "You are fearful now, of course, but you will adjust quickly enough to your new situation. You may even find it preferable to the life you left." He snorted. "And since Zeus knows this household is overrun with slaves, your duties are not likely to be taxing."

"Save for those I will perform on my back."

The healer's grizzled eyebrows shot up. "So. The fire has not quite died." He chuckled at some private amus.e.m.e.nt as he wiped his hands on a discarded cloth.

A third slave woman arrived, her st.u.r.dy arms bearing a tray laden with enough food to feed Rhiannon and several others besides-savory pork roasted with nuts, two soft round loaves, winter apples, and a large clay mug. The woman set the tray on the table by the bed. She threw a wide smile in Rhiannon's direction before collecting the soiled linens and exiting the chamber.

"Eat, then, and rest your leg," the healer said. "I will look in on you later."

When he had gone, Rhiannon slipped the blanket from her shoulders. She shook out the folded fabric on her bed and found a long tunic of the softest linen she'd ever held in her hands. It had been dyed an apple green and st.i.tched so carefully that its seams were all but invisible. She slipped it quickly over her head, eager to cover herself. It slid over her skin like a caress. She belted it at her waist with a braided leather cord.

Though clothing had been quite welcome, her stomach protested the smell of food. She suspected any nourishment she tried would not remain long in her stomach. The mug, however, was filled with cervesia, cervesia, not wine. She could probably keep that down. She lifted it to her lips and took a cautious sip. not wine. She could probably keep that down. She lifted it to her lips and took a cautious sip.