Once inside Tacitus’ quarters, the seamstress folded her arms and glared at Nimue. Her message couldn’t be plainer. Not that it mattered. Nimue had no wish to engage her in conversation or sewing. She needed to answer Arianrhod’s command and take the opium.
Although she hadn’t encountered this Roman opium before, it had to possess the same magic as the sacred preparations the Elders used in order to enter the realm of the gods. Why else would Arianrhod have kept encouraging her to take the opium?
That she would be alone when she ascended into the higher realms while under the influence of the gods’ magic elixir terrified her, but she didn’t have a choice. If Arianrhod didn’t think her capable of undertaking such a sacred rite, then surely the Great Goddess would not have summoned her.
Nimue couldn’t imagine what Arianrhod wanted to command of her, that she couldn’t convey during Nimue’s normal daily worship. Neither could she imagine why Arianrhod hadn’t answered her when Nimue silently begged for guidance. But it was not her place to question. Only to obey.
She picked up a lamp and went into the bedchamber. With trembling fingers she tipped the tiny amount of sticky opium into a small bowl. Tacitus wouldn’t be back until that eve. She had plenty of time before she had to face him again.
She sat cross-legged on the floor by the wall opposite the door. From this position she was concealed by the bed should anyone casually open the door and glance into the room. Not that that was any great advantage, since if one of Tacitus’ servants took it into their head to look for her, and couldn’t see her, they would certainly investigate further and discover she was communing with her Goddess.
She’d face that problem should it occur.
Frowning, she prodded the opium mass with her forefinger. It was wrong to ascend into trance without appropriate rituals and incenses. But since it was also wrong for an acolyte to attempt such a thing on her own in any case, Nimue decided the lack of appropriate preparation was likely the least of her concerns.
She took a deep breath to still her erratic heartbeat and placed the bowl over the oil-filled lamp. It fitted snugly, as if the two pieces belonged together, and through the intricately carved openwork on the sides of the lamp she watched the flame flicker around its wick.
A sweetly pungent aroma drifted in the air and she wrinkled her nose with distaste. But since she would get nowhere by holding her breath she forcibly relaxed her muscles and inhaled deep into her lungs.
The Roman room vanished in a whirlwind and before Nimue had time to even gasp, she was plunged into an eerily familiar setting. A sacred oak glade surrounded her, and the silver moon descended in the starry sky. Fascinated Nimue gazed upward, and then looked back at the glade. And remembered.
This was the night of her initiation into womanhood.
Joy radiated through her and she embraced the feminine power that pulsed in tangible waves through the glade, strengthening not only the Druids but all the tribes of Cymru; reaffirming their position in the hierarchy of creation.
Nimue opened her arms, felt the magical potency of her foremothers surge through her blood. This night was hers. This night she had been chosen, and she would dedicate the rest of her life to the blessed Arianrhod.
And then her mother had taken her into her arms and whispered a secret so great, so terrible, that every dream Nimue had ever cherished trembled on a precipice of betrayal and despair.
Desperately she pushed her mother’s arms away, struggled to be free. Yet even as the agonized look on her mother’s face faded into the shadows of the forest, Nimue knew she would never be free of the burden that now crushed her heart.
From an incalculable distance came the haunting call of a single owl. Nimue turned, wildly searching for her beloved Goddess, but the glade was now deserted and even as she strained her eyes to see through the encroaching shadows, the night grew darker still.
Dread gripped her and she looked up to the sky. The moon was obscured by storm clouds, black and angry looking, and even Arianrhod’s starry wheel was entirely concealed from view.
“Arianrhod, hear my prayer.” The words fell from her lips but they were soundless, trapped inside her mind, and terror uncoiled deep in her breast and slid with malicious intent through her veins.
Why did her Goddess not come to her? Hadn’t Arianrhod herself called her to this place?
A shadow splintered from the forest that surrounded the glade. For one glorious moment Nimue thought her Goddess had heard her plea. That she had taken pity on her petrified acolyte and would offer her comfort. But as the shadow approached a new fear gripped her, one that dug talons of terror into the core of her being.
It was not Arianrhod who came for her. It was Gwydion, the Magician God, but what caused her to fall to her knees and press her forehead into the grass was the frightening certainty that this wasn’t the first time Gwydion had come to her in this sacred glade.
“Nimue, acolyte of my sister goddess Arianrhod, you have finally answered her call.” His voice was rich, melodic and again the petrifying certainty that he had greeted her in a similar fashion before gnawed through her senses. “Are you ready to prove worthy of the loyalty your goddess bestows upon you, despite the grave sin that pollutes your blood?”
“Yes, my lord.” Nimue kept her face plastered to the ground, too afraid to look at the great god who towered over her, illuminated by his own fearsome, glorious radiance. “I will do anything for my beloved Moon Goddess.”
She felt herself rise from the ground, although it was not of her own doing. Her body felt weightless, disconnected, and she feared the slightest breeze might send her through the Veil into the Otherworld. Desperately she wrapped her arms around her waist in a vain attempt to reconnect with reality, but instead all she could do was gaze into Gwydion’s fathomless eyes and fear for her sanity.
“Then fulfill your destiny and complete the vision of the High Druid Aeron.”
It was her dearest wish to fulfill the vision of that martyred Druid. She clung onto that knowledge but couldn’t prevent the unease that washed through her mind, diluting her purpose.
Before she’d met Tacitus, she’d wanted to destroy every Roman who dared set foot in her homeland. But now she was torn. And if Gwydion suspected how her loyalties conflicted, he would strike her dead in an instant.
“My lord.” Her whisper barely squeezed through her constricted throat as the great god began to fade into the darkness of the forest. Nimue remained paralyzed, her body and mind severed, and fresh terror seeped through her blood.
Had the Magician God guessed her tangled thoughts? Was this her punishment, to remain forever in the Shadowlands between worlds?
A rush of wind and the soft brush of feathers across her face snapped her from her rising panic. Body and senses realigned; once again she felt solid earth beneath her feet and the dark outline of the sacred owl filled her vision and eased her heart.
Save them all. The powerful, feminine whisper weaved through her mind, and she clung onto the words even though she didn’t fully understand their meaning.
The owl soared upward and Nimue followed its path across the cloudy night. And then her reverential gaze froze. Light and dark combined, an unmistakable tableau created from the swirling clouds by the Moon Goddess’ sacred wings.
The form of a newborn babe.
Nimue gasped, fell backward, and hit her head on something hard. Tacitus’ bed swam into focus and she blinked slowly, trying to sort her pounding thoughts as she leaned against the wall and fought against the waves of nausea that threatened to consume her.
In a blinding flash of clarity, she understood. Arianrhod was telling her that not everything would be destroyed. That a new life would be created from the ending of the old. That it was her duty to save not only the Briton queen and her daughter, but all those taken captive by the Romans. To lead them back to the magical enclave where they could make plans for their future, before she continued onward with the queen to the land of the Brigan
tes.
That was why she’d been compelled to make the over-gowns. So that the prisoners wouldn’t look like slaves when they made their bid for freedom. So they had a good chance of blending into the local populace.
Something sharp dug into the palm of her hand and with odd reluctance she uncurled her fingers. She knew what she would find. And she was right. It was the shard of bluestone she’d taken before the battle. The shard Tacitus had so recently returned to her.
The Moon Goddess’ command could not be clearer. Time was running out and Nimue had to make her stand.
Chapter 23
As Tacitus entered his quarters, he mentally stiffened his spine. There was no doubt in his mind that Nimue would be waiting for him, claws unleashed, ready to defend her actions earlier this day. He supposed he should be relieved that she hadn’t stood up to him when he’d accosted her in the slaves’ quarters. But Nimue was not a fool. She knew certain boundaries couldn’t be crossed in public. But when it came to just the two of them, she appeared to acknowledge no boundaries at all.
And curse the woman, but it was that very trait that so intrigued him.
He looked forward to her unorthodox conversation, the way she laughed at him, how she made no secret of what she truly thought even if she ran the risk of offending.
They had met only days ago and yet he could scarcely recall how he’d spent his free time before she came into his life. And with every day that passed the less certain he was that, when his tour of Britannia was over, he would be able to let her go.
The commander would never grant her manumission. Therefore he had no choice but to take Nimue to Rome with him. But it was a poor excuse for the truth. Because the truth had nothing to do with his commander at all.
Nimue drove him to the edge of distraction when they were together, and when they were apart she was never far from his mind. But today, instead of recalling the way she looked and gasped and the evocative scent of sex as she climaxed around him as he usually did, he’d been tormented by what she might be plotting next.
The thought of her in Rome staggered his mind. She would never fit into the role his society expected. Yet the thought of leaving her behind became more intolerable by the hour.
She wasn’t waiting for him, as she usually did, in the small living area beyond his office. He wasn’t sure whether to take that as a good sign or not. As he turned to make his way to his bedchamber, his seamstress appeared.
“Forgive me, sir.” She looked as harassed as she sounded. Gods. What had Nimue got up to now? “The Cambrian took me by surprise when she went to the slaves’ quarters. I didn’t know whether or not she had your permission to do so.”
He smothered a relieved sigh. At least Nimue had done nothing further to upset his servant. “Do not think on it. Nimue didn’t disobey me. All is well.” And now he was defending her. Yet he spoke only the truth. She hadn’t disobeyed him.
But she certainly must know that she had gone against his wishes.
The woman didn’t look reassured. “That’s a relief to me, sir, but I feel obliged to tell you that before she visited the slaves she conversed most intimately with the tribune—your esteemed cousin—in the marketplace.”
Blandus. Now he understood the sly glances his cousin had shot his way when they’d passed each other outside the commander’s quarters just now. He’d imagined it was because his cousin had discovered that Nimue had taken it upon herself to visit the slaves’ quarters without his permission. Not that he could imagine how his cousin had drawn such a conclusion. But the truth appeared even less appealing. Had Blandus attempted to coerce Nimue into a clandestine liaison? The very thought of it boiled his blood. How dare he?
“I see.” He strode toward his bedchamber and with every stride his irritation increased. It was one thing for Nimue to flirt and speak her mind with him. It was another thing entirely if she had done the same with his cursed cousin.
He pushed open the door, but she wasn’t reclining on the bed. Had he truly expected her to be? She wasn’t a Roman noblewoman and not once had she ever tried to mimic one. For some reason that thought irritated him further, although he didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if he wanted her to pretend to be something she wasn’t.
But if she wasn’t here, where in the name of Hades was she? Had she managed to evade his servants and the legionary posted outside his quarters and escape?
It was an outrageous thought. Of course she hadn’t. Such a feat was impossible. But the image of her standing in the slaves’ quarters when she had no right to be there, thudded through his mind.
He had the sudden certainty that if Nimue wanted to elude her watchers, she could.
“Nimue.” His voice was sharp, and relief stabbed through him when he caught a movement beyond his bed. He marched across the room and a faint, sweet odor drifted in the air that he could not immediately identify.
Then he saw her, sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, and shock punched through him. She looked up at him, her pupils strangely dilated, and in that same moment he registered the oil lamp in front of her and the burned residue staining the bottom of a small bowl.
He crouched beside her. “Nimue?” Relief that she hadn’t escaped mutated into alarm. Gods, what had possessed her to use the opium in such a manner? He should never have entrusted her with it. He’d assumed that, if she needed the pain relief, she would have diluted it with wine or water. Surely, with her healing knowledge, she knew that? Nobody but Oracles inhaled the fucking stuff. It was too dangerous.
“Tacitus.” Her voice was husky, as if she found it hard to speak. “I didn’t mean for you to find me like this. But I find… I cannot move.”
He glared at her to cover the flash of fear that whipped through him. Oracles and soothsayers were accustomed to taking the poppy to commune with the gods and to impart words of wisdom to their worshippers. But they had years of training, years of studying the ways of the gods and they understood how to protect themselves against evil shades that might try to enter their bodies while they were incapacitated.
Suppose Nimue had unknowingly entered that dangerous realm between the living and the dead? Suppose a malignant spirit had taken advantage of her innocence?
“What in the name of Zeus were you doing?” Without thinking, the name of the great god of his beloved mother’s people fell from his lips as he scooped Nimue into his arms. Her head lolled against his shoulder and the fact she didn’t protest at his action caused the worry to worm further into his chest.
He glowered around the room looking for the cloak he’d provided for her. Unlike the Roman gowns she wore it was a Cambrian garment, necessary for the chill weather, but he couldn’t see it anywhere.
Nimue stirred in his arms. She unclenched her fist and he saw a glimpse of the bluestone lying across her palm. “Arianrhod called me.”
He forgot about looking for her cloak and stared at her in disbelief. “What?”
Her eyelashes fluttered in an attempt to keep her eyes open. “I tried to find my Goddess. But she was…distant.”
A shudder crawled along his spine at her whispered confession. To his knowledge only those most intimate with the gods were allowed passage into the higher realms through sacred rituals and spiritual enhancing preparations. That was how it worked in Rome and he saw no reason why it should be different for the Celts.
Except the spiritual leaders of the Celts were Druids. And Druids were the sworn enemy of Rome, the scourge of the Emperor and were to be eliminated from every last dark corner of the Empire.
The few that had remained here after the Eagle had conquered their people had been driven from Cambria a year ago when a great devastation had ravaged the land.
His gaze fixed on the silver torque around Nimue’s throat. The other day he’d been taken by the elegant engravings on her bracelets and had found them oddly familiar. He recognized the same engravings, of the passage of the moon and detailed images of an owl, decorating the torque but that wasn’t
why he had found them familiar.
It was because the engravings on her silver jewelry were the same as the exquisite embroidery of the medicine bag that had been discovered with the Briton queen.
He could try to deny the truth, the way he’d denied it from the moment the suspicion had first arisen. But there was no longer any doubt in his mind.
Nimue was the healer who’d been traveling with Caratacus’ queen. But it wasn’t that knowledge that caused his gut to knot. It was the horrifying possibility that Nimue might be more than simply a Celtic noblewoman with an admirable skill for healing.
He wouldn’t believe it. Nimue was not connected in any way with the hated Druids who, during the initial invasion of this western peninsula, had incited fear and uprising among the natives of Cambria.
“Tacitus, put me down.”
“I’m taking you to Marcellus.” He stamped through the doorway but no servants were to hand. Just because Nimue used the poppy in the same way the Oracles did, didn’t mean anything. Perhaps she’d merely mimicked a ritual she’d witnessed an ancient Druid perform. “Where in Hades is your cloak?”
“If you put me down, I’ll get my cloak.” Nimue no longer slurred her words or slumped against him, but neither did she struggle to escape. Of course she isn’t a Druid. Those heathen creatures were wizened with age and the burden of their barbaric rituals and brutal sacrifices.
He stopped glowering around the room and looked at her, secretly shocked. He’d expected her to protest about going to see Marcellus. To assure him that there was no need. Unease spiked and all thoughts of Druids faded into the depths of his mind. Did she also fear for her health? Somehow that possibility magnified his own concern a thousandfold.
Carefully he lowered her to the floor, holding onto her arms until he was reassured she wasn’t in danger of collapsing. She shot him a glance he couldn’t quite fathom—an odd combination of exasperation and amusement. He wasn’t sure whether to be charmed or insulted.
The Druid Chronicles: Mystical Historical Romance Page 78