Lady of the Moon

by Mary Gillgannon

  Chapter 5

  When they were close enough to see the beach clearly, the fisherman pulled in his oars and climbed out of the boat. He stood in the waist-high surf and gestured for Cruthin to join him. The two of them guided the boat to shore, landing it on the broad beach. Nearby, the other boats had already arrived. Sirona helped Cruthin and the fisherman unload the supplies. Then she retrieved her pack and watched the fisherman guide the vessel back into the water.

  Cruthin looked around, his face glowing. “I can’t believe we’re finally here. Pellan told me there are several sites on the isle that were built by her people. I intend to find one of them.”

  Although the thought of visiting one of these places excited Sirona, she still resented that Cruthin had been the one to learn these things. “We’ll be expected to attend the gathering and take part in ceremonies,” she pointed out. “I doubt we’ll have time to explore the island.”

  “There’ll be plenty of Drui and students to assist with the ceremonies. No one will notice I’m gone. Or if both of us are, for that matter... if you’d like to go with me.”

  “I would like to learn more,” Sirona said, “but I can’t forget Fiach’s warning. He said if we failed to show proper respect and reverence to the gods, we would be punished severely.”

  “Fiach can’t watch us every moment. He’ll be busy with meeting other high Drui and planning the ceremonies.”

  Sirona nodded. “I suppose we might have an opportunity to slip away for a short while and look for one of those sites.”

  Cruthin smiled at her, a dazzling warm smile that immediately made her uneasy. “It’s agreed then. I’ll come find you when I’m ready.”

  Dichu and Bryn approached, each dragging one of the loaded hides. Dichu halted, panting. “I can’t believe we’re expected to transport our own supplies all the way to the gathering. We should have brought Ioworth to help.”

  “Then who would watch the cart and the oxen?” Sirona asked. “Without them, the return journey would be very difficult.”

  “The Decangi have slaves to do most of the work,” Dichu said. “As do many of the other tribes.”

  “The bondsmen of our tribe had to stay at Mordarach to begin the harvest,” said Bryn, coming up beside Dichu. Sirona noted that his hide was loaded with about twice as much as Dichu’s. “Tribes that can afford to send many people on a journey like this are obviously more prosperous than we are.”

  “Since we don’t have slaves, we should force the fisherfolk to help us,” grumbled Dichu.

  “How would we force them?” Bryn asked. “We’re dependent upon them to take us back across the straits,”

  “They seem little better than animals to me,” said Dichu. “They should be pleased to serve us. We’re Learned Ones and far above them in the eyes in the gods.”

  “They believe in different deities than we do,” Sirona said. “Isn’t that so, Cruthin?”

  “Aye,” Cruthin answered. “They have their own religious beliefs. And I hardly think you could say they are inferior to us. In fact, they may possess more power and influence with the gods than we do.”

  Dichu gave a snort of contempt. “If the gods favor them so much, why do they live in such rude hovels?”

  “They choose to live the way they do,” Cruthin said. “They could become like the Segonti and live in a walled settlement and herd cattle and till the fields. But they prefer to earn their living from the sea, as their ancestors did before them.”

  “Why are you stopping here?” Fiach came up, scowling. “It’s a long walk to the gathering place, and I would like to arrive before nightfall.”

  Dichu gave a groan and began pulling his burden along the sand. Cruthin grabbed one of the hides from their boat and started off. Sirona approached the remaining hide. Bryn came up next to her. “I can drag your burden as well as mine.”

  “I think I should do my part. Otherwise Dichu will say that women are weak and worthless and don’t belong among the Learned Ones.”

  “At least let me carry some of it.” Bryn bent down and began transferring the heavy items—skins of mead, cooking pots and two tents—to his hide. They set out after the others. Fiach walked in front, carrying his ceremonial staff and the crimson leather bag that contained the sacred objects of the tribe. Behind him followed Cuill and Tadhg. Tadhg carried his own pack and his harp, Cuill, his pack and Fiach’s. The students brought up the rear, each carrying personal items in satchels or leather packs over their shoulders and also dragging a hide full of supplies.

  They left the beach and entered the forest, proceeding slowly down a well-worn pathway. As she walked, Sirona’s heart raced. All her instincts told her that her visions were somehow connected to this place. But the sense of warning she’d felt before coming to the sacred isle remained. She struggled to push her uneasiness aside and focus on the present. Leaving Bryn behind, she gradually made her way to Cruthin.

  “Can you feel them?” Cruthin whispered as she drew near. He jerked his head toward the woods surrounding them. “Ancient spirits dwell here.” Sirona glanced around at the gnarled branches of the great oaks and beeches twined with ivy, black bryony and sacred mistletoe. Cruthin continued, “They’ve watched this pathway over many, many lifetimes. They observe and wait, then whisper what they see to the Great Mother. Their message is carried in the rustle of their leaves and in their seed pods and pollen drifting on the breeze.

  “And the Great Mother hears,” he continued. “She knows that people pass this way, intruding on her domain. She tolerates us, but feels no connection to us.” He turned to look at Sirona. “How arrogant we are in the grove, thinking we can make the gods listen to us. What are we but one small tribe? No more significant than one hill among the highlands, one star among the heavens. Our manner of worship is flawed, too. I can see that now. The Great Mother does not heed boring chants and rituals. She wants fire and light. She wants celebration and music.”

  Sirona skin tingled with expectation as Cruthin continued, his voice hushed and reverent. “Pellan told me how her people build bonfires on the tops of the hills to celebrate the turn of the seasons. They make no sacrifice, but feast and dance, all the while drinking a special beverage that makes the stars glow brighter and fills their minds with powerful visions and dreams. Pellan was only allowed to go once, and she said she woke up the next morning with an aching head, but also with incredible memories, as if she had visited places far away, other worlds and other times.”

  Cruthin sighed. “I wish we didn’t have to go to the gathering. Nothing important is going to happen there. Most of the Drui are old and ignorant, too caught up in their endless traditions and rituals to understand real power.” He made a face, then looked at Sirona. “I’m convinced the Goddess guided me here because she wants me to visit one of these sacred places. She wants me to hold a ceremony there.”

  “Did Pellan tell you what to do?” Sirona asked. “Do you know how to hold a ceremony honoring the Goddess?”

  Cruthin nodded. “I have everything I need. Now I’m merely waiting for the right time.”

  “Tell me more about the ceremony. What happens? What rituals are involved?”

  Cruthin shook his head. “I won’t speak of this anymore, not until we have the ceremony. Discipline is required when dealing with the gods. There is a pattern to all things and it must be followed.” Cruthin’s pupils appeared large and dark in the dim light, as if they had swallowed the irises of his eyes. Gazing into his rapt, fervent face, Sirona knew a thrill. But it was mingled with suspicion. She wondered if he really knew how to hold a ceremony, or if he was just pretending in order to impress her. It seemed very likely the latter was true.

  Sirona turned her attention back to her surroundings. Along the pathway, some of the trees were marked with offerings, a piece of cloth or strip of leather, the fur of a squirrel or bright bird feathers. They must be getting close to the gathering place. Thank the gods. Her arms and shoulders ached from dragging the
heavy hide. She wondered how Bryn managed to pull twice as much.

  The forest thinned, then abruptly opened out into a huge clearing. In the center, dozens of wooden poles supported a great thatched roof covering a structure large enough to shelter all the Tarisllwyth plus two other tribes. The building had no walls, and in the open area around it were scores of people.

  Halting at the edge of the clearing with the rest of the Tarisllwyth, Sirona was amazed by how many Learned Ones were there. Some were young and vigorous, but the majority were old, with gray and thinning hair and a certain frailty in the way they carried themselves. Their clothing also varied. Although the full Drui wore crys and cloaks marked with the three sacred colors of red, green and white, the patterns and colors of their bracco ranged from bright saffron to brown, from deep red to blue or green. Many wore their hair pulled back from their faces, while some wore it plaited, like the Tarisllwyth. The majority, especially the older men, had beards.

  “I didn’t realize there were so many Learned Ones in Albion,” she remarked.

  “There are even a few women,” said Bryn, coming to stand beside her. He glanced pointedly at Dichu.

  Fiach said gruffly, “If you don’t want to be putting up tents and gathering water and firewood in the dark, you’d best get busy.”

  “Where should we make camp?” Bryn asked as he surveyed the tents and lean-tos scattered around the clearing.

  “I don’t have time to decide every little detail,” Fiach snapped. “Find a suitable spot and see to your tasks.” He hurried off toward the large structure. Cuill and Tadhg dropped their packs on the ground and set off after him.

  “Once again, we’re left behind to do the unpleasant work,” complained Dichu. “I vow, if I’m ever head Drui, I’m going to have a servant who does nothing but wait upon me.”

  “You’ll never be head Drui,” said Cruthin.

  “Then who will? Certainly not you.”

  Sirona tensed. She hated this bickering.

  Thankfully, Bryn distracted them by saying, “What about making camp over there?” He pointed to an area on the other side of the clearing, near the edge of the woods.

  “You would pick a place far away,” said Dichu. Despite his complaining words, he grabbed the edge of his hide and began to drag it the direction Bryn indicated. Sirona and the others followed.

  When the tents were in place and the supplies unloaded, Sirona offered to fetch fresh drinking water. She hoped to have a chance to speak to one of the female Drui, or perhaps someone who was a seer.

  She set out carrying the waterskins. Among one of the larger groups, she saw a tall woman with sandy hair streaked with gray. As Sirona approached, the woman smiled and said, “Welcome. It’s good to see a young woman at the gathering. I’m Dysri, of the Cunogwerin, a branch of the Brigantes.”

  Sirona nodded a greeting. “I’m Sirona of the Tarisllwyth. Can you tell me where I might find fresh water?”

  “Aye, there’s a stream nearby where the water flows over the rocks and is fresh and clear. Come with me. I’ll show you.” Dysri started to walk into the woods. Sirona followed, encouraged by the woman’s open, friendly manner.

  A little way down the path, Dysri glanced back at her. “Did you know that at one time at least a score of female Drui attended the gathering? But fewer and fewer women are allowed to enter the groves these days.”

  “Why do you think that is?” Sirona asked. “Do you think that there are fewer women Drui because the female deities have lost importance?”

  Dysri gave a soft laugh. “Men can be so foolish. The goddesses represent things eternal and profound: the fertility of the earth and all creatures, the streams and rivers and lakes on which all life depends, the lady of the moon who marks the rhythms of the seasons and guides the wheel of stars across the sky. To suggest that female power is not important shows great ignorance.”

  They reached a small stream, and Dysri took Sirona to a place where the water spilled over the rocks and tumbled down into a clear, glistening pool. “When there is prosperity and plenty, people often forget about sacred meanings and turn their minds to other concerns,” Dysri continued as Sirona began to fill the waterskins. “This is a time of men, of warriors and battles, of struggles for power and dominance between tribes and against the invaders. Because the Great Mother is not believed to directly influence such things, She and Her realm have been deemed unimportant.”

  Sirona glanced at the older woman. “You speak of the Great Mother. Where did you learn about Her?”

  “Among my tribe She is still accorded the highest place of honor among the gods. Is it not so with your people?”

  “We worship many goddesses, but none of them are thought to possess the sort of power you speak of.” Sirona realized this woman was discussing the same things Pellan had told Cruthin. On a hunch, she asked, “I’m interested in discovering some of the places where the Great Mother was once worshipped. A friend of mine was told there are such sites on the sacred isle. Is that true? Can you tell me how to find one of them?”

  Dysri nodded. “But I’ll warn you, it’s not as simple as seeking out a circle of stones or an ancient mound. The Great Mother shows herself to very few... usually only those who carry the blood of the ancient race of the isle.”

  Sirona straightened, her excitement growing. “My grandmother says I’m descended from them.”

  Dysri cocked her head in interest. “Your grandmother? Is she Drui, too?”

  “Nay, only a healer.”

  “Among my people, Drui are often healers as well as training in the grove. Indeed, I’m a healer myself.”

  Sirona draped the full waterskins over her shoulders and the two women started back. “My grandmother says that my ancestry may also be the reason I have visions.” She looked at Dysri shyly. “Do you think that’s possible?”

  “Aye. Very possible. Tell me, what sort of visions do you have? Do you see the future? Or the past?”

  “I don’t know. I’m trying to find someone who can help me understand the things I’ve seen. Do you have any suggestions?”

  Dysri grew thoughtful. “If your visions come from the Goddess, I fear you won’t get much help from anyone here at the gathering. The Great Mother is not accorded much respect among Learned Ones these days.” She glanced at Sirona. “And you’re so young. I fear it will be difficult for you convince people of your abilities. Perhaps you should be careful about who you discuss your Seeings with. Drui are really no different than other people. There’s as much petty jealousy and competitiveness among those trained in the grove as among any group of warriors.” She smiled faintly. “Perhaps that’s because most Drui are men, and the male force makes them aggressive and ambitious.”

  “And the female force—the energy of the Goddess—you think that’s different?”

  “Aye. Although the Goddess can sometimes be as fierce and ruthless as any male deity. But male and female energy are both necessary for life to exist. There must be a balance between those forces, as in all things.”

  “I appreciate your advice,” Sirona said. “But I would still like to know how to find one of the places sacred to the Great Mother. Can you help me?”

  Dysri didn’t speak for a time. Then she said, “There’s a site not far from here. But I can’t tell you how to find it. Your spirit must guide you. If that doesn’t happen, then you’re not meant to go there.”

  “Could you at least tell me which direction to begin my search?”

  Dysri pointed. “It’s that way, toward the sea.”

  “Thank you,” Sirona said.

  When they reached the edge of the forest, Dysri said, “Come back to my tent with me. We could share a meal before the gathering.”

  Although Sirona was intrigued by her conversation with Dysri, she feared being away from the Tarisllwyth camp for so long. “I’ll join you in a little while,” she said.

  “My tent is over there.” Dysr
i gestured. “Come and join me as soon as you can.”

  Sirona carried the waterskins back to their camp. Bryn was sitting on one of the hides, eating. “Have some food,” he said. He motioned for her to hand him one of the waterskins. He took it and drank rapidly.

  She sat down beside him, then wondered if she should do so. Recalling the way he’d acted the night before, she grew uneasy. Getting to her feet, she said, “Where’s Cruthin?”

  “Oh, he’s around somewhere. Sit down and eat. I traded some of our mead for freshly cooked bannocks and cheese. It’s delicious.”

  “But we brought food with us.”

  “Not as good as this.” He held out a fresh bannock, which smelled wonderful. Sirona’s stomach growled, but she forced her hunger aside. “I should find Cruthin.”

  Bryn scowled at her. “I’ll eat it all if you don’t join me now.”

  Sirona started to walk away. Bryn called out, “Don’t go far. Fiach says everyone’s going to the meeting hall.” He jerked his head in the direction of the huge timber structure. “I’m fairly certain they’re going to discuss the Romans.”

  “I’ll return shortly,” Sirona told him.

  She searched the open area and finally found Cruthin coming out of the forest with a load of firewood. “I’ve met someone you should talk to,” she said excitedly. “Her name is Dysri and she told me more about the sacred sites of the Old Ones. She said one of the places isn’t far from here. Perhaps this would be a good time to look for it, while all the Learned Ones are busy.”

  Cruthin shook his head. “Tomorrow the moon will be full. It’ll be better to go then.” “But tomorrow there will be ceremonies. It will be difficult to get away.”

  “I’m not ready yet,” Cruthin said. “I still have some things to prepare.”

  “Such as?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t tell you.”

  Again she wondered if he really had a plan. “Don’t you want to meet Dysri? She told us to come and eat with her.”

  “Did she tell you anything of the mysteries? Did she explain what rites and rituals the Old Ones used?”

  “Nay, but we’d barely met. You can’t expect her to share such knowledge with someone who’s almost a stranger.”

  “It’s likely she doesn’t really know very much. Pellan told me to be wary of the Learned Ones. She said that years ago, they tried to steal her tribe’s magic. They tortured some of her people, trying to get them to reveal their secrets. She says you can’t trust the Learned Ones, at least in matters like this.”

  Sirona could hardly imagine Dysri torturing anyone. “Perhaps Pellan doesn’t know very much about the mysteries either,” she said coolly. “Perhaps she warned you away from the Learned Ones so you wouldn’t talk to other people and find out she’s lying.”

  Cruthin’s mouth quirked. “Perhaps you wish it was you who was alone with me by the sand dune last night.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Sirona responded, feeling embarrassed and angry. “I have no interest in engaging in loveplay with you! I have no time for such things!”

  Cruthin cocked his head and regarded her with heavy-lidded eyes. “Sex magic is often part of ceremonies honoring the Goddess.”

  “Who told you that? Pellan, I suppose.”

  “Nay. She showed me. Sex magic is very powerful. If you give me a chance, I’ll share what I learned with you.”

  Sirona turned away. She suspected Cruthin was manipulating her, trying to get her to lie with him to satisfy his own needs. But what if his assertion was true? “I’m going to find Dysri,” she said. “I’m going to ask her if sex magic is part of the Old Ones’ rituals.”

  “You’re never going to discover the mysteries if you’re not willing to take any risks,” taunted Cruthin.

  Sirona hurried to Dysri’s camp. She was very disappointed to find the place deserted, except for a servant tending the fire. “Where’s Dysri?” she asked.

  The man answered with an accent so rough and harsh, it took a moment for her to understand his words. “She’s gone into the meeting place with the rest of them.” He pointed to a wooden platter of mealcakes on a rock by the fire. “You should eat. There’s plenty.” Sirona’s stomach had been growling ever since she smelled Bryn’s food. She sat down on a cowhide by the fire and began to eat.

  The man brought her a skin containing a slightly bitter beverage that reminded her of the curmi the Decangi had brought. He also offered her a basket of berries and a small white cheese. “Thank you. You’re very generous,” she told him.

  It seemed odd that a servant should treat her so cordially, but perhaps Dysri had mentioned her and said she would be coming back. She scrutinized the man. He was fairly old, and moved with a limp, but his dark, wavy hair was untouched by gray. His fair skin was sprinkled with small brown freckles and he had light eyes, perhaps gray or pale blue, although she couldn’t tell by firelight. He seemed to possess a mixture of the characteristics of her own race and the darker coloring and smaller stature of the fisherfolk.

  “What’s the name of your tribe?” she asked him.

  “I serve the Brigantes,” he said. “They’re from the north.”

  Serve. So, he was a slave. Remembering Cruthin’s words, she couldn’t help asking, “Have you ever heard of the Old Ones?”

  The man smiled. “I am one of the Old Ones.”

  Sirona stared at him a moment. Then a thought came to her. “Why are you a slave? How do they make you serve them?”

  “I’ve chosen this,” the man answered. He pointed to his leg. “When I was young, I was chasing a great stag and fell among some rocks and broke my leg. It was a very bad injury. My people took me to a woman healer. She straightened the bones in my leg and gave me medicine. She healed me, and now I owe her my life.”

  “Was it Dysri?” Sirona asked.

  The man nodded.

  “But why do you owe her your life? Your injury was not so bad that it would have killed you.”

  The man shook his head. “My people are hunters, and a hunter with a wounded leg is worthless. Life is harsh for my people. It wouldn’t have been fair to ask them to provide me with food for the rest of my life because I couldn’t hunt.”

  “They would have let you die?”

  The man nodded again.

  “And so you serve Dysri now.”

  The man smiled. “It’s not an unpleasant life.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Lovarn. It means ‘wolf’. Hard to believe that I was once as fierce and strong as one of those beasts.” His smile widened.

  “I’m Sirona. I thank you for your generosity. Do you think Dysri will be back soon?”

  “I don’t know. She’s eager to meet with the other healers. But you could wait for her,” Lovarn suggested.

  Sirona nodded. “For a while. In the meantime, tell me about the Old Ones.”

  “What do you wish to know?”

  “I’ve heard your people possess magic.”

  “Some of us do.”

  “And that you worship a female deity called the Great Mother.”

  “My people live simply. We don’t need many gods. If the earth should grow barren, the animals would die and we would die as well. The earth is our mother. She is more important than anything.”

  “Is it true your people built the great stone cairns and raised the standing stones?”

  “Aye. But that was a long time ago. We no longer possess the magic used to create those things.”

  “It’s been lost?”

  “Some of it lingers, but it is rare to find anyone who can use it. Most of my people no longer try. Why should we bother? The magic didn’t save us from your people. They conquered us and enslaved us and pushed us into the wild and barren lands. Our children went hungry and our numbers declined. Now there are few of us and many of your people.”

  “My people? What does that mean? Anyone who is not one of the
Old Ones?”

  Lovarn nodded. “The Pretani. And the Scoti, from across the sea.”

  “But if you had magic, how did they defeat you? And if the Great Mother is such a powerful deity, why did she allow you to be defeated?’

  “The Great Mother represents the power of the earth. The actions of men aren’t important to her, for they don’t affect the things that are eternal: The rivers and streams. The trees and plants. The animals. All the things of this realm. She doesn’t care for one kind of animal over another, so why should she care for us more than other men?”

  “Because you petition her. You sacrifice to her.”

  Lovarn shook his head. “That’s not our way. In our rites we try to reach out to the Great Mother, to become one with Her. But we don’t bargain with Her as you do with your deities. We don’t believe She will save us. Why should She? If we’re meant to die out, then it will be so.”

  “But that is sad! So much has been lost. The magic has dwindled and almost disappeared.”

  “You don’t understand. Magic can be used for evil as well as good. And it’s dangerous. Those who wield magic must always pay the price.” Lovarn’s expression grew hard. “To use magic is to change things. There are few people who are wise enough to do that. We’re all part of the pattern, and if one piece of it is altered, then the whole pattern changes. It’s like a stone dropped into a lake. The ripples fan out, out and out, until the whole lake is affected.

  “Magic is power and very few people can wield power without destroying a part of themselves. You must be very strong to do so. And the selfish desires that have a hold on our hearts make us weak and vulnerable. Unless you can say that you do not have such desires, then you shouldn’t use magic.”

  Although she couldn’t explain why, Sirona had the sense that Lovarn was speaking of Cruthin. He was so determined to seek out knowledge, no matter the cost. In his arrogant quest to know the mysteries, he might well be risking his life. The thought aroused the familiar sense of foreboding. Sirona suddenly felt an urgent need to find Cruthin and make certain he was well.

  She rose from her place by the hearth. “Thank you for the food. And for talking to me.” Despite his age and the fact that he was a slave, Sirona felt strangely drawn to Lovarn. She smiled at him one last time, then started off.

  The meeting of Drui was finished and everyone had returned to their camps. Two dozen fires glowed here and there in the clearing. Sirona saw a group of bards near one fire, practicing with their instruments. She heard the lilting melody from a pipe, like the voice of a small runlet. Then the drums joined in, loud as thunder, yet rhythmic like the sound of mighty footsteps. Soon after, harp music rippled through the air, glistening and bright. The melody tore at her heart, as if the strings being plucked were inside her.

  She walked through the clearing and observed Fiach and Dichu with some Learned Ones she didn’t recognize. Continuing her search, she saw Bryn with some other young Drui. She approached the group. A young man wearing the garments of a full Drui was speaking. “Strategy is for the chieftains to worry about,” he said. “Our responsibility as Drui is to earn the favor of the gods. We must increase the number of our sacrifices, and be scrupulous in carrying out every detail of the rites of those sacrifices. We must also consider whether we haven’t grown meager and grudging in our offerings. Once we spilled human blood in our rites. Then we decided that the practice was wasteful. But what if human blood is what the gods desire? It could be that the reason that the gods have turned away from us and allowed the Romans to gain power is because we have turned away from the old ways and become stingy in our offerings.”

  The man’s words caused a choking dread to rise up inside Sirona. She remembered her first Seeing and the terrifying images of the young woman being killed. She quickly moved away from the young Drui, not wanting to hear any more.

  A dozen fires lit the area with a soft glow, and from all directions came the murmur of voices. There were so many people gathered here. How would she ever find Cruthin? She decided to head back to Dysri’s camp. Even if the Brigante woman hadn’t returned, Lovarn would be there.

  But when she reached the camp, there was no sign of Lovarn or Dysri. Sirona decided to wait and sat down by the hearth. The beverage skin Lovarn had offered her was still there. She drank some more of the bitter liquid and it made her sleepy. Sleepy enough that she curled up in her cloak and closed her eyes.

  * * *

  “Sirona. Little one.”

  She woke to see Dysri leaning over her. Sirona sat up stiffly, trying to remember where she was.

  “I wouldn’t have left if I’d known you would come back,” Dysri said. “There’s still plenty of food if you’re hungry.”

  “I ate already. Lovarn said there was plenty.”

  “Lovarn?”

  Sirona tried to collect her thoughts. How could Dysri not know who Lovarn was? “You know, the man whose leg you mended, and so to repay you, he now acts as your servant.” When Dysri didn’t respond, Sirona realized something was wrong. “Why are you staring at me? Why don’t you answer?”

  Dysri released a long slow breath. “The man named Lovarn is dead. He died a long time ago.”

  “Nay. That can’t be! I sat here and spoke with him. It was just before nightfall.”

  Dysri sank down beside Sirona. “May the Great Mother keep us,” she murmured.

  Sirona felt cold. It must have been a vision. But this one had been so real. She could remember every detail.

  After a long while, Dysri said, “I did once treat a man named Lovarn. He had a terrible leg injury. The broken bones were poking through the skin and the wound had begun to putrefy. I told him that to save his life we must cut off his leg. He refused. He said he would rather die. And so, after a few days, he did.”

  “But you... you must have been kind to him. You must have tried to heal him and that’s why he remembers you. And perhaps his spirit does serve and protect you, even if his body is no more.”

  “Perhaps,” Dysri said. “Tell me, what did he look like?”

  Sirona described Lovarn.

  Dysri nodded. “Aye,” she said. “I remember him. It seemed such a waste that a vital, handsome man like him should have to die. But the Old Ones don’t fear death. They understand as well as any Drui that life and death are simply different faces of the same thing.”

  “He told me about the Old Ones. And about magic and the gods. He seemed to be warning me.” The chill inside Sirona deepened.

  “Has anything like this ever happened to you before?” Dysri asked.

  Sirona shook her head. “There was no hint that Lovarn wasn’t real, even though we spoke at length. Other times when I’ve had visions, it has felt as if I were watching from a distance. But Lovarn was right there, close enough to touch. As real as you seem to me now.”

  The more she talked about it, the more it bothered her. She’d had a long conversation with a spirit. And the things he had told her. Hints of danger. Insinuations that she was seeking something she could never possess.

  Suddenly Sirona didn’t want to talk about the Old Ones. She wished she had never brought up the subject. “I thank you for your concern and generosity, but I think it’s time for me to go back to my tribe’s camp.”

  “There’s no need for that,” Dysri protested. “You could sleep here. Almost everyone will be talking long into the night. I doubt you’ll be missed.”

  “If my friend comes back to our camp, I want to be there.” That was not the real reason Sirona had decided to leave. She wanted to be away from Dysri’s camp, to forget about meeting Lovarn.

  “As you wish,” Dysri said. “But if you should ever want to talk, feel free to search me out. You appear to possess extraordinary gifts for someone so young. I would hate for those gifts to be wasted, or for you to be hurt trying to wield a power that’s too great for you.”

  Lovarn had also spoken of power and the perils in using i
t. Everywhere she looked, there seemed to be a premonition of danger.

  She thanked Dysri once more, then returned to the Tarisllwyth camp. Bryn had built a fire and was staring into it with a gloomy expression on his face. Despite her worries about encouraging his interest, Sirona sat down beside him.

  “They’ll never do anything,” Bryn muttered. It sounded like he was gritting his teeth. “They’ll never agree to fight the Romans.” He picked up a piece of wood and poked angrily at the fire. “I went to the gathering. At first I was full of hope. One of the men who spoke was Cangerix, the chieftain of the Durotriges. He told how the Romans have overrun his lands, built fortresses and demanded tribute. He even said they had banished the Learned Ones from his territories. Cangerix asked for the aid of the Learned Ones in petitioning the gods to favor his cause. He also asked them to go back to the leaders of their tribes and urge their chieftains to make war against the menace that threatens all of us. Then Elidyr, the head Drui of the Durotriges, spoke. He warned that if the Romans aren’t stopped, someday all of the Learned Ones would vanish and with them all the knowledge our people have nurtured and honored since the land first rose out of the sea. He made it sound like a call to war. I was ready to shout out a battle cry and offer to lend my sword arm to the cause.”

  Bryn let out a groan. “But then everything went awry. Another group of Learned Ones began insisting the Romans are not a threat. That as long as our people pay them tribute, the enemy will allow us to honor our gods and continue our traditions. The meeting went on and on, with one group arguing for fighting the Romans and another group arguing against it. After a while, I could tell it was hopeless. These stupid fools are never going to do anything. They’ll talk and talk, debating and arguing, and in the end, nothing will happen.” He shook his head, obviously distraught. “By Beli, I wish I’d never come!”

  “I’m sorry,” Sirona said. She wondered what he thought of the young Drui’s suggestion that they return to the practice of sacrificing human victims. But she wasn’t about to bring up the matter.

  Bryn looked at her, face flushed, eyes bright in the firelight. “You understand, don’t you? You realize the Romans must be defeated, that if we don’t drive them out of Albion, they’ll eventually enslave us all?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” Sirona answered. “I’ve only really heard about the Romans this sunseason. What you say makes sense, and yet...” She tried to make her voice soothing. “War frightens me. It seems like such a waste of life. What if you go into battle with the Romans and ended up being killed? You’re so young, your whole life ahead of you. Think how your parents would feel. You’re their only child, the only real legacy they leave behind.”

  Bryn stared at her a long while. Sirona grew uncomfortable and wondered if he was angry with her. Although she sometimes grew tired of Bryn’s attentions, she still valued his friendship.

  At last he said, “As a female, you must think the way you do. Women are the keepers of life, so it is natural for them to be cautious. I won’t condemn you for your reluctance to engage the enemy. But I do blame the men who think like you, especially the Drui. For it’s clear to me that if the Romans prevail, all that we are taught in the grove will eventually perish.”

  His words made Sirona feel cold inside. It’s true, a voice whispered. As the Pretani defeated the Old Ones and drove them to the margins of the land, so the Romans will do to us. Someday we will be only a memory, a dream of glory and greatness that is no more.