The Druid Chronicles: Mystical Historical Romance

by Christina Phillips

  His gut knotted. It was degrading enough that he had bought Nimue. He wouldn’t further soil his soul by selling her. “She is beyond price.”

  The commander shot him a look that he couldn’t decipher. As if he had read too much into that statement. Fuck, why had he said anything at all? He just wanted this over so that he could get on with his life.

  A life without Nimue.

  “You care for her.” The commander’s voice was oddly gruff. “I will remember that, Tribune.”

  Tacitus glared at the older man as he returned to his documents. He had no wish for the commander to assume he knew anything about Tacitus’ feelings for Nimue. And what in Hades did he mean by he would remember it?

  The only thing the commander was likely to remember about this encounter was that Tacitus had illegally freed a slave. But once the documents were signed, there was little that could be done about it.

  Finally, the commander handed him the documents and Tacitus scrutinized them before making them official. He straightened, and looked his commander in the eye. He had no intention of lying, but neither did he particularly want to raise his commander’s ire unnecessarily.

  “I’ll arrange for Nimue to be returned to her people.”

  The commander stood. “I’ll accompany you. I look forward to seeing her reaction to such news.”

  Two thoughts hammered through Tacitus’ head. First, he would have to tell the commander that Nimue was already with her people. And second—there was something very odd about the commander’s entire attitude when it came to Nimue.

  He straightened his already rigid spine. “She is no longer under Roman control.”

  Tension crackled in the air as the commander stared at him. Finally he exhaled a measured breath, clearly battling for some degree of control.

  “Where is she, Tribune?”

  “Back where she belongs.”

  The commander’s jaw clenched. “You let her go?”

  “Yes, sir.” If the commander chose to make an example of Tacitus, he would require the influence of his powerful family to prevent dire consequences. How ironic that his father should be the one to assist in Tacitus’ only time of need, considering the actions that had led him here.

  To Hades with it. He’d rather be disgraced than call on his father for nepotistic intervention.

  “You let her go.” The commander slammed his hands onto his desk and leaned forward. He looked furious yet there was a strange undertone of awe in his voice. “Despite how you feel about her?”

  Curse all the gods in existence. Why was his commander fixated on the thought that Nimue meant something to Tacitus? Was it truly so obvious?

  “Rome would destroy her.”

  His commander looked at him as though he’d never seen him before. As if he had just experienced a terrible revelation from the gods themselves. Slowly he sat down and once again, it appeared that he aged before Tacitus’ very eyes.

  “Yes.” His voice was hollow and there was a glazed look in his eyes. “Rome destroyed her. As she always claimed it would.”

  Who was the commander speaking of? Unease mounted and when finally the older man jerked his head in dismissal, relief washed through Tacitus and he made good his escape.

  Nimue stood in the center of the small glade in the forest. A circle of massive bluestones surrounded the edge of the glade and an earth-covered dolmen had been constructed countless generations ago. It had been used for sacred rituals during the time Caratacus and his rebels had hidden from the Romans, and an elusive sense of otherworldly power swirled in the air.

  She stared up into the night sky, but only blackness loomed. Not even a glimmer of silver pierced the canopy of cloud. Yet there hadn’t been a single cloud during the day and there was no scent of rain.

  The women and children who had been captured by the Romans had arrived safely in the enclave. Several others, from various tribes, had also found their way back from the battleground and they’d all greeted her as their savior.

  Tomorrow was the full moon. It was the night she was to perform the sacred rituals to restore the magical protection to the enclave. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t the first idea what she was supposed to do. She knew that, when the time came, the knowledge would be hers.

  Would the skies finally clear? Would Arianrhod, in all her shining magnificence, once again grace the night?

  Her Goddess hadn’t come to her since Nimue had returned to the enclave, despite how fervently she’d prayed. Was it because Arianrhod knew that Nimue’s heart was no longer committed to ridding Cymru of the enemy? Because she knew her acolyte had already given her heart to the enemy?

  The following morn, as Nimue purified her body in preparation for the coming night, the dark sense of malignancy that had haunted her for the last two days magnified. Her stomach churned, her palms were sweaty and it wasn’t her imagination—the forest was unnaturally silent. It didn’t feel as if freedom beckoned on the horizon. It felt like a terrifying abyss threatened to destroy everything she had ever known.

  Or was that simply her crippling guilt attempting to rationalize how close she was to betraying her Goddess, her heritage and her people?

  With shaky fingers, she undid one of her small leather pouches and took out the brooch Tacitus had given her. Even looking at it caused her heart to ache and she curled her fingers around it, unheeding of how the jewelry dug into her flesh.

  Tacitus, my love. She pressed her clenched fist against her naked breasts and saw, in her mind’s eye, her Roman’s face in the moment before he’d turned from her forever.

  How could she have let him go? Would agreeing to be his concubine have been so very dreadful? Yet how could she desert her people, the land of her birth, when they needed her most?

  Even if the terrible conviction that gripped her—that the promised devastation was wrong—didn’t feel as if it sprung solely from her own conflicted loyalties?

  But if that conviction was not entirely hers, then whose was it?

  Chapter 34

  “Glad to return to Rome.” Blandus scowled at the legionaries who were training on the field beyond the garrison. Tacitus grunted in response. Rome no longer held the appeal it had before the battle with Caratacus.

  Before he’d met Nimue.

  “The Senate,” Blandus continued, “is a far more civilized battlefield than those we encounter in these far-flung provinces. The facilities here are appalling. I’ve never endured such primitive conditions.”

  The facilities were barbaric when compared to what they were used to in Rome. In less than three months, Tacitus’ tour of duty would be over and his political career admirably advanced. With the fall of Caratacus, his military record glowed. He could pursue law, his long-held ambition.

  Or he could remain in the Legions.

  The thought pierced through his mind, as clear and sharp as if he had spoken the words aloud. For a moment he froze, disoriented by the power of the thought and the solid certainty that it wasn’t only a viable alternative…

  But his only alternative.

  In Rome, as his concubine, Nimue would wilt. But if he remained in the military and took posts throughout Britannia and Gallia, Nimue could remain in a more familiar environment.

  Still under the yoke of Rome. But at least she wouldn’t be stigmatized the way she would if he took her home.

  He’d already asked her to be his concubine. She had refused. Why did he think her answer would be any different now, simply because his plans for his future had changed?

  But he knew the answer already. It was because this time Nimue truly did have a choice. Because this time he’d ask her not when she was enslaved; he would ask her now that she was a free woman.

  Dusk settled, drifting through the forest, malicious fingers of darkness unrelieved by a shimmer of silver from the skies. Even now, on this night, Arianrhod denied light to her people.

  A polished stone altar stood some distance from the dolmen. A fire burned in the center of
the glade and from the light of the flames, Nimue watched the women, children and the handful of men who’d returned to the sanctuary daub ancient symbols onto their skin.

  Torches blazed at the four corners of the altar and Nimue pulled one from the ground. She knew exactly where the shard of bluestone she’d stolen needed to be placed, and yet an overwhelming compunction compelled her to ensure she knew the way.

  As she left the glade, she couldn’t fathom what she was doing. Did she intend to go through with the ritual tonight? Her Goddess refused to hear her pleas and Arianrhod would never forgive her for such betrayal. She would be struck down without mercy. Could she willingly sacrifice the life of her unborn child for the lives of Tacitus and her father?

  She pushed through the encroaching forest as despair seeped from her heart and corroded her soul. The life of her babe for the life of her lover. How could she live, knowing she was the one who had killed Tacitus? Yet how could she sentence his child to eternal torment for having defied a direct imperative from her Goddess?

  Something small and dark hurtled by her head and she gasped, fell to a crouch, her eyes straining to see beyond the flickering pool of light from her torch. Disbelief shuddered through her as the fleeting shadow imprinted into her brain.

  A young owl.

  Even as the thought formed, she heard a sickening thud and without thinking she rushed forward toward the sound. An ash tree loomed from the shadows and she stopped dead, momentarily paralyzed by the appearance of Gwydion in one of his majestic manifestations.

  The god had heard her treacherous thoughts. He had come in his sister-goddess’ stead to exact vengeance.

  Above the terrified pounding of her heart, she heard a rustle in the undergrowth. Her torch dipped and there, at the base of the ash tree, lay the injured owl.

  And slithering toward it, the dark spear shape on its head clearly visible, was an adder.

  “No.” She thrust the torch at the snake and instead of instantly vanishing back into the undergrowth it turned to her, fangs gleaming in the flickering light. Rage pumped through Nimue and, unheeding of the connection between god and tree and creature, she thrust the torch again until it abandoned its prey and disappeared.

  Nimue fell to her knees, plunged the tapered end of the torch into the ground and carefully scooped the owl into her hands. Its fragile heartbeat and unnatural stillness sent a new wave of terror thundering through her blood.

  How could an owl, the manifestation of Arianrhod, die at the hands of her own brother?

  Save them all. The feminine whisper that weaved through Nimue’s mind was not powerful, as it had been during the last vision she’d experienced. But ethereal fingers trailed along her arms as, this time, understanding of the cryptic words unfurled.

  Arianrhod did not speak only of the women and children who’d been captured by the Romans. She spoke of all the people of Cymru, both native and invader.

  The owlet’s eyes opened and in the flickering torchlight she saw the crescent moon gleam in the bird’s glassy stare. Mesmerized she watched as the crescent dimmed, became less defined; disappeared. And as the light died, so too did the owl’s heart.

  “Blessed Arianrhod.” Her whisper echoed through the trees and the undergrowth stirred although there was no breeze. The elusive presence of her Goddess surrounded her, a fragile brush against her flesh, a mystical caress deep within her soul. Love flooded through her and warmth seeped into her veins, filled her heart and cocooned her womb. Arianrhod had come to her at last.

  Just as swiftly, darkness descended and ice speared through her breast. The terror returned but it was savage, unformed, and she glanced wildly around the shadowed forest in search of answers to unknown questions.

  It couldn’t be true. But despite her panicked denials, the last few moments hammered through her head in a constant refrain.

  She had watched Gwydion destroy Arianrhod. Her goddess hadn’t sent her brother god in her stead to visit Nimue during the last few days because she was angry with her acolyte. She had not sent Gwydion at all. And the only reason she’d failed to answer Nimue’s prayers was because, somehow, Gwydion had prevented it.

  It had been Gwydion who’d wanted her to take the opium. Only when she was under its influence could he penetrate her mind and manipulate her to his will. By taking the drug, she’d made it harder for Arianrhod to reach her. But still her Goddess had protected her. On the night before she and Tacitus had reached the fortification, she’d been consumed by the imperative to take the opium. Only the sight and haunting sound of an owl had prevented her from searching for the drug. Arianrhod had fought, in the only way she could, to keep her acolyte’s mind clear of Gwydion’s influence.

  Nimue had wanted to discover how the High Druid Aeron had manipulated the Source of Annwyn to his will. She’d been so certain that Aeron was a martyr, a hero to all the people of Cymru. That he had been following the will of the gods when he’d created the first magical enclave and attempted to cleanse Cymru of the invaders.

  But it was not her Goddess’ will that she resurrect the magic of the bluestones. It was Gwydion’s. It had always been only Gwydion’s will. And he would destroy everything in his path, immortal, native and invader, in order to claim the mystical power that was the birthright of the Moon Goddess.

  Only here, deep in the forest for this one tangible moment, had Arianrhod been able to manifest a physical vision. A warning of what might be if Nimue did not act.

  Her Goddess offered no guarantee that Nimue would survive the outcome. But she knew she had no choice. Gwydion, master god of Illusion, could not be allowed to succeed in his fratricidal ambitions.

  Chapter 35

  Despite the lingering twilight, Tacitus knew he was close to where he’d last seen Nimue. Just up ahead were the two great oaks. How he would then find her when she could be anywhere at all within the forest, was another matter. Yet he was convinced he would succeed.

  The gods were with him. Whether they were the gods of his mother or his father’s heritage, he wasn’t certain, but why else would his commander have given him leave to bring Nimue back?

  Sword in hand he led his horse along the nonexistent forest path. The light was fading and yet again clouds obscured the moon. The sensation of being followed had eased as he entered the forest but returned now with a vengeance. He felt unseen eyes watch his progress and the hairs on the back of his neck rose, but all he saw were shadows.

  A rush of air ahead caused him to freeze, senses alert, but even as his brain recognized the sound as that of an arrow a body tumbled from the oak in front of him to land with a heavy thud at his feet.

  He saw an arrow protruding from the man’s throat, a dagger in his hand. Tacitus swung round, sword at the ready for any other would-be assassin, but the forest remained silent.

  Who in Hades was the archer? To strike a target in this light, in these conditions was astounding. That the warrior hadn’t been aiming for Tacitus, even more so.

  “It is I, Nimue.” Her voice whispered through the twilight as her slender figure approached. Relief, desire, thankfulness rushed through him at how easily he’d found her. That she was well and obviously under her people’s protection. He looked beyond her, for the warrior who’d accompanied her, but nothing else stirred. She reached his side and pressed her palm against his jaw. A touch he’d never thought to experience again. He covered her hand with his. She felt so fragile beneath his fingers. He would never let her go again. “You returned to me, Tacitus.”

  “We have much to discuss.” And discussing their future in the middle of a forest when assassins lurked behind every tree, was not ideal. “I couldn’t wait any longer.”

  She gave a brief nod, as if his unexpected appearance made utter sense to her. “We must be quick.” She knelt by the fallen man and his instinct to pull her away, to shield her from death, vanished when he saw her began to methodically strip the body. “Hurry. Change your clothes. You can’t come into the enclave dressed as a Roma
n tribune.”

  He stared at her. He understood her words and yet they made no sense. “Why should I wish to enter the enclave? I’ve come to take you back so that we can talk.”

  She glanced up at him, and for the first time he noticed strange shadows cast about her face, although he couldn’t imagine from where they came.

  “Yes. We will talk. But first there’s something I have to do. I can’t leave yet, Tacitus. Cymru hovers on the precipice of eternal darkness.”

  She spoke in riddles, as the Oracles did in Rome. He didn’t want to make the comparison yet it was impossible not to.

  Here in the forests of Cambria, in this strange half-light between day and night, Nimue exuded a presence of authority, the authority that came with being chosen by the gods.

  She clearly had no intention of leaving with him straightaway. Since his whole purpose in speaking to her was based on the fact she was now a free woman able to make her own choices, the enticing image of sweeping her into his arms, onto his horse and away from the forest was not a feasible option.

  He gritted his teeth and ripped off his cloak. “Where is the archer?” He glared in the direction from which Nimue had appeared but still could see nothing. The thought of being watched by a stranger while he took on the disguise of a Cambrian peasant wasn’t something he relished.

  She paused in her task and looked up at him. “I came alone. My Goddess warned me you were in danger. Another heartbeat and I would’ve been too late to save you.”

  The Wings of Mors trailed the length of his arms in a caress of death. Speechless he stared at her and only now saw the bow slung across her shoulder. The bow he’d returned to her earlier.

  The bow he had never really envisaged her using with such shocking skill.

  “You.” He cleared his throat and cast a swift glance at the fallen man. The warrior who had been poised to kill Tacitus; who would have killed him had Nimue not stopped him with such breathtaking accuracy. “You did this?”