Lady of the Moon

by Mary Gillgannon

  Chapter 8

  “Take them to our camp.” Fiach ordered. Cuill and Tadhg moved to obey.

  As Sirona and Cruthin were led away, she heard Bryn imploring Fiach, “Tell the other Learned Ones that Sirona is a seer and they won’t punish her so harshly. As for Cruthin, if you can make them believe Sirona convinced him that the gods were speaking to her, telling her to leave the ceremony, they may be lenient with him as well.”

  “They broke the sacred laws and shamed our tribe,” Fiach retorted. “Why should I help them?”

  “Because if you don’t, I’ll go back and tell my father you did nothing to prevent the deaths of two members of our tribe. He won’t be pleased. By rights, their lives belong to him, not to you!”

  “Their lives belong to the gods,” Fiach said coldly.

  Sirona’s heart sank. Bryn had tried his best, but it seemed unlikely his words would sway Fiach.

  She walked numbly back to the camp, where Cuill ordered her and Cruthin to go into their tents. Inside the hide shelter, Sirona tried to quell the queasiness in her belly. Would she come to the same awful fate as the young woman in her vision? It was not so much the thought of dying that troubled her, but the idea that if she were sacrificed, her spirit would never be at peace. It horrified her to think of ending up like that young woman, doomed to wander endlessly in the twilight realm between worlds. A sob welled up inside her. She pressed her fist into her mouth to stifle it. Please, Great Mother, help me!

  She recalled what she had experienced at the mound and the circle of stones—the light from the sky, the people who appeared out of nowhere, the image of Cruthin as Cernunnos. She’d known great magic. But was one night of dazzling wonder worth losing her life?

  Some time later, she heard Fiach’s voice outside the tent. She moved near the entrance, hoping to learn what their fate would be. A moment later, there was a strangled sound. “He’s gone,” Fiach cried. “Sirona!” Fiach thrust himself into her tent and dragged her out. “Where is he?” Fiach demanded, looming over her. “Where is he?”

  Sirona shook her head, too startled and stunned to answer.

  Bryn, who was standing nearby, seized Fiach’s cloak and tried to pull him away. “Leave her alone!” he shouted.

  “How dare you assault me!” Fiach cried, twisting from Bryn’s grasp.

  “Leave her alone,” Bryn repeated. He wrenched his eating knife from his belt and brandished it.

  “Your father will hear of this,” Fiach muttered. “He won’t be pleased.” To Sirona, he said. “Get up. Get up and tell me what you know of Cruthin’s disappearance.”

  She stood. “I know nothing.”

  Fiach’s gaze swept over her and a cruel smile touched his lips. “How does it feel to know your lover has abandoned you? You are cursed, as your mother was.” His mouth twitched, then he turned back to the others. “Tell no one about this,” he said. “We’ll leave for Mordarach tonight, before anyone can discover our prisoner has escaped. We won’t speak of Cruthin ever again. It will be as if he never existed. If you should see him in this realm, I want you to fetch as many warriors as you can and order them to kill him.”

  Sirona didn’t know whether to be relieved or despairing. If they were going back to Mordarach, then it was unlikely she would be sacrificed. But she would still be punished. Perhaps banished as her mother had been. The thought made her feel sick inside.

  Fiach turned back to Sirona. “Take down your tent and pack up your supplies. Quickly.”

  As soon as Fiach left, Bryn approached Sirona. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll help you get ready to leave.”

  * * *

  Sirona paused on one of the high peaks and surveyed the vast landscape around her. The mountain vistas that had seemed so exhilarating on the journey to the sacred isle now struck her as desolate and lonely. She watched an eagle circle, floating effortlessly on the wind currents. All she could think about was the bird’s ruthless search for prey, and that when it spied a hare or a vole or other small animal, it would swoop down and impale the helpless creature with its huge claws and sharp beak.

  The next moment, she thought of Cruthin, and her distress turned to anger. He had left her, and without a thought for what might happen to her after he was gone. She tried to tell herself he’d had no choice, that there was no way the two of them could have slipped away without notice. He had chosen to save himself, that’s all. But she knew she would never have abandoned him.

  “It’s a spectacular view, isn’t it?” Bryn came up behind her. “We’ve been very fortunate it’s been clear both times we’ve crossed the mountains. I’m certain it’s often stormy and blustery, or the sky is heavy with rain clouds. From here, doesn’t it seem you can see to the end of the world?”

  Sirona nodded, but without conviction. Beautiful scenery did little to lift her mood. Before leaving for the sacred isle, she’d promised her grandmother she wouldn’t get into trouble on this journey. How miserably she had failed.

  “Don’t worry,” Bryn said softly. “Once we get back to Mordarach, Fiach will have to defer to my father’s wishes, and Tarbelinus won’t allow the punishment to be too severe.”

  Sirona looked at him. No matter how much Bryn wanted to protect her, her fate was beyond his control. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me,” she said. “You’ve been a loyal friend.”

  He moved nearer, his brown eyes hot and intent. “I would like to be more than your friend, Sirona.”

  She searched her mind for something to say, a means of discouraging him. But after all he’d done for her, every response she thought of seemed too harsh. “Please, I don’t want to speak of these things.” She walked away, retreating once again into the anguish of her thoughts.

  * * *

  When they arrived at Mordarach, everyone came out to welcome them. As soon as she saw Nesta, Sirona stiffened. She could hardly bear to look at her grandmother.

  Nesta started to make her way over to Sirona. Before she reached her, someone asked, “Where’s Cruthin?”

  Fiach, who had been quietly talking to Tarbelinus, jerked around. His powerful voice rang out. “The young man called Cruthin has betrayed our tribe and offended the gods. We’ll speak of him no more. He is expelled from the grove, and from our tribe. If he’s ever seen near Mordarach, he’ll be put to death.”

  Everyone stared at Fiach in stunned silence. Then Tarbelinus said, “Come with me, Fiach.” To the rest of the tribe, the chieftain announced, “Later, when the travelers have washed and rested, we’ll celebrate their return.”

  Nesta finally reached Sirona. Her blue eyes were dark with concern. “What happened, Sirona?”

  Sirona shook her head, fighting back tears. The sense of shame and failure overwhelmed her.

  Nesta grasped Sirona’s shoulder. “What is it, granddaughter? Why are you so distraught? Is it because Cruthin’s been banished?”

  “I’m sorry,” Sirona whispered. “I thought... I truly believed we were being guided by the gods.” She turned away.

  Nesta let out a cry. “Whatever Cruthin did, you were involved as well?”

  Sirona nodded.

  “Let’s walk back to the hut. We can speak of this there.”

  When they reached the dwelling, Sirona sank down on her bedplace. The familiar scents—herbs and cooking—both soothed and tormented her. She might be on the verge of losing everything she cared about.

  “Sirona,” Nesta said sharply. “Tell me what happened.”

  She shook her head. “Not now, grandmother, I’m... I’m too tired.”

  Nesta let out her breath in a long sigh. “Very well. I’ll make you some broth. You should eat something after your long journey.”

  * * *

  She was being pursued by wild beasts. When she looked back, their yellow eyes glowed in the mist. She could see the glint of their vicious fangs. Their huge, gaping mouths. A voice told her to surrender, to stop running and let them kill her. But she could not. She did not want
to die like that, torn into bloody pieces. Alone in the darkness.

  “Sirona.” She woke to find Nesta gently shaking her. She clutched Nesta’s hand and sat up on the bedplace, trembling.

  “Sirona.” Nesta’s voice sounded strained. A moment later, Sirona turned and saw Tarbelinus sitting near the hearth. The chieftain seemed much too large for the small space. With his masses of tawny gold hair and big, muscular body, he reminded Sirona of a cat waiting to pounce on its prey. It was as if the terrors of her dream had followed her into the waking world.

  Tarbelinus spoke in his deep voice. “Sirona, you must leave Mordarach. I’m sending you north. Your father is a warrior there, with one of the Brigante tribes. Perhaps you can find him.”

  She was being sent away. It was as bad as she feared.

  “I’ll send an escort with you,” Tarbelinus said. “You’ll be safe, guarded at all times.” His expression softened. “It will be better this way. There’s nothing for you here.”

  Nesta made a choked sound. Sirona looked at her, feeling empty.

  “The chieftain wants to make certain nothing happens to you,” Nesta said. “Is that not kind of him?” Her voice dripped sarcasm.

  Sirona looked from her grandmother to the chieftain and back again. “Before I go, I want to hear the truth about Banon.”

  Something changed in Tarbelinus’s eyes. Sirona could sense hostility... and a kind of fear. “Nay,” he said.

  “Aye,” said Nesta. “She has a right to know.”

  Tarbelinus took a deep breath. “I’m responsible for your mother’s death. She didn’t deserve to die... like that anyway.” He paused. “But that’s not to say I’m sorry.” He gestured angrily. “She made my life miserable. She threatened my family. Terrorized Rhyell. I had to send her away. I promised Banon an escort, but... we parted in anger. I should have sent someone after her. But I didn’t. I must live with that.”

  He shifted his weight. Sirona could tell he longed to stand up and move about, but the hut was too small. He continued, “Before she left, Banon threatened us. Cursed us. Said the dun would be destroyed. That I would be led away in shackles. She said that Bryn...” He paused again, as if afraid to utter the words. “She said my son would be killed in the first battle he fought in. That’s why I’ve never allowed him to become a warrior.”

  So, that was the secret Nesta wouldn’t share with her. The reason Tarbelinus had made his son’s life miserable all these years—insisting he train to be a Learned One when he had no calling for it. Thinking about the unhappiness Bryn had experienced because of his father’s decision, Sirona grew angry. “You had no right to try to change Bryn’s destiny,” she said. “If the gods will it, then he will die in battle. His life until then should be of his choosing. Not yours!”

  “I have every right,” Tarbelinus said. “I’m not merely his father, but also his chieftain. I make use of the abilities of any man of the Tarisllwyth as I see fit.”

  “You will fail,” Sirona said. The memory came to her swiftly. “I’ve seen a vision of Bryn in battle attire. He’s meant to be a warrior.”

  Tarbelinus’s blue eyes flashed fire, and he struck her across the face. She fell back.

  Nesta knelt beside Sirona. “How dare you!” she cried.

  An image flashed into Sirona’s mind. A lovely woman with dark gold hair and deep gray eyes stood before Tarbelinus, hands on hips, taunting the chieftain. Her sneering gaze was cold and empty, heartless. Sirona realized she couldn’t blame Tarbelinus. Her mother had been cruel and selfish. She hadn’t cared who she hurt.

  And her blood runs in your veins. You are cursed as well. As the thought filled Sirona’s mind, she felt cold and sick.

  Nesta released Sirona. Straightening, head held high, Nesta faced Tarbelinus. “Leave us. I must prepare my granddaughter for her journey.”

  As soon as Tarbelinus had gone, Sirona turned a pleading look to Nesta, “Grandmother, come with me.”

  Nesta shook her head. “I would never survive the hardships of the journey.”

  Sirona felt tears spill down her cheeks. Nesta came to soothe her. “You possess the same sort of power your mother did, although you can choose to use it for good rather than ill. I’m convinced the gods have a purpose for you, and they will protect you.”

  “Are you very certain, Grandmother?”

  Nesta nodded. “Beyond my faith in the gods, I’ve insisted Tarbelinus give you a proper escort and furnish you with supplies and household goods. With that and the wealth you have from your mother—along with your fair face and youth—some northern warrior will be eager to handfast with you.”

  “But what about... being a Learned One?”

  “I’m afraid that path is closed to you now. It would have been difficult enough here, among your own people. But to go to another tribe and expect them to accept you as Drui....” Nesta smiled, although the expression looked forced. “Perhaps it’s better this way. You’ll be able to have the life of a normal woman, instead of enduring the rigid discipline of the grove. You’ll have children and enjoy the pleasures of a family.”

  “But I know nothing about running a household... nor being a wife!”

  Nesta placed a hand on her arm. “Our lives don’t always turn out as we expect, and most of us experience sorrow and disappointment. But sometimes joy comes from unexpected things. While Banon was always a trial to me, she gave birth to you. And raising you has been the greatest satisfaction of my life.”

  Sirona began to weep. She felt as if her life was over. For as long she could remember, all her energies were focused on being a Drui. Now that could never be.

  Nesta embraced her, holding Sirona against her frail, bony body.

  After a time, Nesta gently drew away. “There’s something else I must tell you. Something that Tarbelinus requires in exchange for your escort. It’s a small thing, and one that—out of kindness—you should be willing to do.”

  Sirona gazed at her grandmother warily. “What does Tarbelinus want?”

  “He wants you to tell Bryn that you don’t return his affections.”

  Sirona gave a quick, bitter laugh. “Why should that matter? I’m sure Tarbelinus has made it very clear to his son that he can have no future with me.”

  “That’s true. But Tarbelinus would prefer it if you told Bryn these things yourself. The chieftain has only recently discovered Bryn’s... fondness for you, and I think it reminds him of his own unreasoning passion for Banon all those years ago. He realizes Bryn won’t give up easily, and he thinks the best way to end his son’s hopes is for you to make it clear you don’t love him.” Nesta paused and her forehead furrowed. “That’s true, isn’t it? You don’t return Bryn’s feelings?”

  Sirona considered carefully. She’d grown up with Bryn, and until recently thought of him as a brother. But now, facing the prospect of losing him, she could see how much she’d come to depend him... and care for him. Those feelings might have turned into love if given the chance. But that could never happen now.

  “Sirona?” Nesta prompted.

  She met her grandmother’s gaze, “What would it matter if I said I loved Bryn? Tarbelinus would never allow us to be together.”

  “That’s true,” Nesta agreed. “And given that fact, no matter what you feel, it would be kindest if you told Bryn that you don’t care for him the way he does you. There’s no point making him yearn for something that can never come to pass.”

  The aching sense of loss inside Sirona deepened. There was no chance she and Bryn could ever be together. It would be cruel to make him continue to hope for such a thing. She nodded slowly. “Very well. I will do as Tarbelinus asks.”

  Nesta looked relieved. “You must speak to him soon. Tarbelinus is much more likely to be generous in the supplies he sends with you if he knows you have fulfilled your part of the bargain. As a matter of fact, I’ll fetch Bryn now.”

  While she waited, Sirona felt the bitterness build inside her. She was sick of Tarbelinus and
his belief that he could control the lives of those around him. He’d manipulated Bryn all his life, and now he sought to command even his son’s heart.

  A moment later, Bryn pushed his way into the hut. “You wanted to see me.” Warm brown eyes met hers. Seeing the longing and despair in their depths, Sirona’s heart twisted. Poor Bryn, forced into a life he despised, and all because of Banon’s prediction.

  She cleared her throat. “As you know, I’m going north.”

  “You mean, my father’s sending you north.” His voice was edged with fury.

  She shrugged. “The fact is, I’ll be far away from here. It’s likely I’ll never return.”

  “I could go with you.” Hope sprang into Bryn’s eyes.

  “Your father would never allow it.”

  His fierce gaze met hers. “I could follow you. I’m a man now. My father doesn’t control me.”

  If only Bryn could come with her. It would make all the difference. Her other losses would be almost bearable. But then reason returned and she shook her head. “Your father would pursue us, and when he found us, he would have his warriors drag you back to Mordarach. As for me... it’s likely he would have me killed.”

  Bryn stared at her. Then he nodded. “I could come and find you later.”

  Sirona remembered Nesta’s words. It wasn’t fair to allow Bryn to plan his whole life around her. She must force him to face the finality of the situation. “My grandmother... she implied that in order to be accepted into another tribe, I will have to handfast with one of their warriors.”

  “Why not handfast with me?” Bryn implored.

  Sirona winced, knowing the pain her words would cause. “Because you’re not a warrior, and except in your father’s tribe, you have no hearth to call your home.”

  Bryn looked as if he had been dealt a brutal blow. “It’s true,” he finally said in a ravaged voice. “But only because I haven’t been given a choice.”

  Sirona ached for him. There must be some way to ease his despair. All at once, it came to her. “You were right, Bryn. I do have visions of the future. In fact, I’ve had one of you. In it, you were dressed in battle attire. You appeared to me as a warrior.”

  His face lit up. “A warrior? What do you think it means?”

  “Perhaps it’s time for you to leave Mordarach, find a place in another tribe and train as a warrior with them. I don’t think any chieftain would turn away an able-bodied young man who vowed to serve him.”

  “Perhaps a tribe in the north?” Bryn said hopefully.

  “Nay. If you travel the same direction as I do, Tarbelinus would surely find you and bring you back. You must set out east or west or south, so your father doesn’t realize where you’ve gone until you’re far away.”

  Bryn nodded. “It’s a good plan.” He smiled at her faintly. “And since it was given to me by a seeress, I know it’s what I must do. I’ll find another tribe to train with. When I’m a blooded warrior and have a place in a tribe, I’ll come and find you.”

  His brown eyes burned into Sirona’s. The love she saw there both warmed her heart and tore it to pieces. It seemed to her that few people in life ever realized their dreams. If Bryn got his chance to be a warrior, he must be content with that.

  But what if her mother’s prediction for Bryn came true? What if by encouraging him to pursue his dream, she ended up sending Bryn to his death? She must tell him of her mother’s prophecy and let him decide for himself. “There’s one more thing, Bryn... the reason your father has refused to allow you to train as a fighting man. When you were a baby, it was predicted...” She could not bring herself to mention her mother, “if you became a warrior, you would die in the first battle you fought in.” She held her breath, waiting for Bryn’s reaction.

  He stared at her, eyes bright with emotion. “If I die, I die. But at least I will die knowing I have fulfilled my destiny. All the years training in the grove have taught me not to fear death. But I do fear not fully living my life while I remain in this realm.”

  Sirona nodded. She felt certain she was doing the right thing in freeing Bryn from the crippling control of his father. Only by leaving Mordarach could he ever have a chance for happiness. That happiness might be fleeting, but at least he would know it for a time.

  But what of her? She was losing everything, and all because she’d followed what she thought was the Goddess’s plan for her. That night at the mound and circle of stones had been magical, but not enough to make up for what she now faced. And even that experience was flawed. Because of her fear, she had rejected Cruthin and lost the opportunity to know sex magic. Her failure gnawed at her, despite her anger at Cruthin for leaving her.

  Bryn interrupted her thoughts. “Sirona, in your vision, did you see any sign or symbol on my shield that might tell me what tribe I will fight for?”

  She frowned in concentration, trying to remember. “You were older... with the long mustache of a warrior. You wore a kind of leather garment on your chest. I didn’t really take note of the colors you wore. But there was...” Her gaze snapped up to meet his. “... there was the outline of a white horse on your shield.”

  “A white horse?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ve never heard of a tribe that used such a symbol,” he said, his eyes wide in wonder.

  “Then perhaps you’ll have to search for them.”

  “I wish you would have told me this when we were still at the gathering. I could have asked around to find out which tribe uses the white horse as a battle emblem.”

  Sirona touched his arm. “Don’t let what I have told you guide your life too completely. So far, none of the things I’ve seen have come to pass. Instead, follow what is in your heart, what you sense the gods are telling you to do.”

  Bryn smiled sadly. “It’s true that I have a long way to go before I’m worthy of handfasting with you. But someday, Sirona, I will be a warrior. Someday when you need protection, I’ll be there. I won’t fail you.”

  As Bryn turned and left her—ducking awkwardly under the low porch of the hut as his father had before him—Sirona felt the tears begin to fall. She wasn’t certain what she wept most for: her own loss, or Bryn’s heartbreaking innocence of the cruelties of life.

  * * *

  Her circumstances were so luxurious as to be almost embarrassing, Sirona thought as they left Mordarach. Tarbelinus had provided a cart for her to ride in and two warriors to guard her. He’d also offered to send a bondswoman to wait upon her, but Sirona had refused. She didn’t see why some other young woman’s life should be disrupted along with hers.

  Sitting back in the cart, which was filled with sheepskins, blankets, cooking utensils and her new garments, she contemplated how different her “banishment” was from her mother’s. Her mother had left on foot, carrying few supplies, while Sirona was well provided for. Yet despite her comfortable circumstances, she felt a yawning emptiness.

  The idea of going to live with a northern tribe seemed like a tale told about someone else. She couldn’t imagine it, this new life among a people she’d never met. Although she tried to see some vision of her future, nothing came to her. As they traveled farther and farther away from Mordarach, her sense of despair deepened. She was leaving everything she’d ever known. Her grandmother, whom she’d never truly appreciated. The world of the grove, which had filled her days and shaped her thoughts. It seemed like she was dying, as surely as Banon had died. To the people of Mordarach, she would be dead. Like Cruthin, she would cease to exist to them.

  Cruthin. She wondered where he was. Had he returned to the mound on the sacred isle? Gone back to the mainland? She tried to see him in her mind, to catch some glimpse and reassure herself that he yet lived. But she saw nothing. She cursed silently. What was the point of having visions if they wouldn’t come when she needed them most?

  Her anguish deepened, and tears blurred her eyes as she watched the scenery pass. She became aware of a change in the landscape and realized they were
leaving the highlands. The hills weren’t as steep here and the contours of the land were a little softer. They were traveling into the territory of the Cornovii.

  With each step the oxen took, the pain built inside her. Finally, overcome, she called out to the two men. “Please, stop. I need to...” She searched her mind for some excuse to go off into the woods and spend her grief in private. “I need to relieve myself,” she finished.

  They halted the oxen. Sirona grabbed her pack and climbed down from the cart. As she started off into the woods, the tears welled up in earnest. By the time she reached deep forest, she was sobbing.

  She staggered forward, half blinded. Gradually she realized that if she went too far, she might get lost, and her fear of being left alone in strange territory caused her to halt. She slid to the ground and rubbed at her swollen eyes. Gazing up bleakly at the sky, she wished it were night time, so that she could see the moon. Arianrhod’s silver light would comfort her.

  She sighed, then, looking around, noticed several fluffy white blooms of a flower Nesta used in some of her medicines. The blossoms were formed of many tiny white flowers clustered together with one tiny purple flower in the center. As a child, Sirona had pretended that a wish made upon the secret purple center would travel directly to the ears of the gods and be granted. Now, she picked one of the flowers and inhaled the bloom’s perfume, then touched the purple center. “Please, Arianrhod,” she whispered. “Lady of the moon, who guides the silver wheel of the heavens, tell me what to do.”

  She sat there, waiting for an answer. After a time, she realized she must go back. Culhwch and Einion would worry if she stayed away too long.

  She started back to the cart, and had gone a little distance when she heard men shouting. At first she thought it was Culhwch and Einion calling for her. Then she realized the language was unfamiliar. She took a few more steps, and suddenly knew that Culhwch and Einion were in trouble.

  As she moved toward the voices. the sounds grew quieter. When she reached the edge of the trees, she understood why. Culhwch and Einion’s bodies lay on the ground by the cart. They had been no match for the warriors milling around the area.

  The enemy men were dressed very strangely, in short crys that bared their legs. They also wore metal helmets. Observing their foreign attire, Sirona decided they must be Romans. Bryn had been right. They had come this far west.

  She counted ten, twenty. Several explored the cart, digging among the supplies meant to equip Sirona’s household when she arrived in the north. Finding a waterskin, one man put it to his lips and drank. He made a face and dumped it back in the cart. She wondered what he expected it to contain.

  As the man continued to paw through the supplies, she worried he would find the jewelry in the bottom of the cart. Then she realized it didn’t matter. They were going to take the whole vehicle. As she watched, one of the men used a stick to prod the oxen forward. The other enemy warriors followed behind.

  Sirona closed her eyes. She had the faint hope that what she was seeing was a vision, a glimpse of something which might take place but had not yet actually happened. But when she opened her eyes, the sight of her tribesmen’s bodies told the horrifying truth. This was real. She was wracked by tremors, and her stomach threatened to heave itself up. For a time, she was afraid to move. The dread that the men might come back paralyzed her.

  She waited in the trees until almost twilight, then cautiously approached the place where the cart had been. Culhwch had a huge gash in his chest. The blood from the wound had soaked his crys like a dark lake spreading out over the fabric. He appeared so young. Sirona tried to remember how many years it had been since he’d had his man-making. Not more than five, she thought.

  A few paces away Einion lay face down. She thought of turning him over, but decided she couldn’t bear to. Einion had a wife and two small boys back at Mordarach. If she looked upon his face, knowing his family would never see him again, she would start weeping.

  And she must not weep. Must not mourn these men who would never have been in this place except for her. She had a task to complete before she gave in to her grief.

  She surveyed the area and began to gather up rocks, the largest she could carry. She piled them on top of the two dead men, hoping to protect their bodies from wild animals. A poor burial, but the best she could manage. She worked steadily, moving farther and farther away to gather the rocks. Her legs trembled with fatigue. Her back ached. But she kept at her task. When the moon appeared over the horizon, she knew it was Arianrhod offering her blessing.

  She guessed that near half the night was over when she finally decided the two mounds of stones were large enough. A determined animal could still dig its way in, but this time of year, with plenty of game around, perhaps the scavengers would find easier pickings elsewhere.

  She straightened, one hand on her aching back. “Culhwch and Einion, brave warriors both, I ask Arianrhod, lady of the moon, to carry your spirits on her fine pure light and set them gently down in the Otherworld. There may you live in happiness and plenty, fighting battles where no man is injured or suffers, and there is feasting and celebration for eternity.”

  Tears slipped down her cheek as she said the words. Then she gestured as she’d seen Fiach do and stepped back, away from the two rock cairns, waiting for the dead men’s spirits to be released and float free.

  Her task over, she staggered back to the forest and burrowed into a pile of leaves under a great oak tree. She fell into a dreamless sleep.

  When she woke it was twilight. She decided she must have slept the rest of the night and the day following. Although nothing had bothered her as she lay among the leaves, now that she was awake, she realized how vulnerable she was. This was exactly how her mother had died, alone in the forest, attacked by predators.

  The thought made her get to her feet and start walking. She left the woods and moved out into the open, finding the ruts made by the cart and following them back the way they had come. Her heart thudded with dread. Each breath she took seemed to catch in her throat. She had gone only a short distance when she realized her worst fear had come to pass. Glancing back at the moonlight-bleached landscape, she caught a glimpse of movement. Something was stalking her.

  She moved more rapidly, her panic building. Now she could hear the beast’s footfalls as it pursued her. She kept her gaze straight ahead and quickened her pace, although she didn’t run, fearing that as soon as she did so, the animal would pounce.

  Then gradually her mind began to function again. She reminded herself that she’d been trained for years not to fear death. And if she must die, she wanted it to be a good death, not this—being brought down like helpless, hunted prey. Determination filled her, and she made up her mind to stop and confront the predator. She slowed her pace and fumbled in her pack for her eating knife. A puny defense, but after all, Cruthin had killed a wolf with just such a weapon.

  As soon as she found the knife, she whirled and faced her pursuer. Twenty paces away was a huge wolf. In the moonlight, its fur seemed tipped with liquid silver. Sirona waited, breathless with tension. Then her fear ebbed away as the beast sat down on its haunches.

  She could feel the animal watching her, not with the fierce, feral yellow gaze of a predator, but with eyes that were dark, solemn and somehow wise. She was stunned. Death had seemed so close, and yet it had passed her by again. The gods surely must have a hand in this.

  She slipped the knife back in her pack and began to walk away. The wolf followed, moving closer. It circled around to block her pathway. “Not this way,” it seemed to be saying.

  Its dark eyes probed her, reaching out, as if trying to make her understand. All at once, she realized what the animal wanted. The wolf was trying to get her to follow it. “Did Arianrhod send you?” she whispered.

  The wolf watched her with its patient gaze. When she started toward it, it got up and loped off. She followed, wondering if she had gone mad.