Once Every Never

by Lesley Livingston

  “Clare!” Comorra exclaimed. “Hush, Meryn …” She leaned forward to pat his steaming neck, trying to calm him down. Clare saw now that the horse was barely more than a sturdy pony, not the thundering juggernaut she’d imagined. Meryn danced nervously and snorted, clouds of vapour pouring from his nostrils. Comorra backed him up and turned him sideways so that she could look down at Clare—who stood there in her sundress and sandals, feeling exposed and silly and chilled to the bone.

  “Hi,” she said, trying to sound casual. And as though she’d meant to materialize in front of the princess’s horse like that. “Long time no see. Or maybe not. I’m never sure …”

  “Shining One,” Comorra said as she swung her leg over her mount’s back and slid to the ground. She looked at Clare closely and tilted her head. “You are shivering!”

  With nimble fingers Comorra undid the raven brooch that held her woollen mantle and swept the cloak around Clare. As it settled warmly on her bare shoulders, Clare couldn’t help sighing with relief. The cold had been something of a shock after her shimmering and its usual fiery sensations. At least it was daylight out for once.

  “Do you not have early frosts in the Otherworld?” the princess asked her wryly.

  Clare smiled. “I know I’m not exactly dressed for the weather. I never really know what to expect when I come here.” She thought of the last trip—and the handsome young Druid who’d been there to ‘welcome’ her with a sword in his hand. “Or who …”

  “Did you mean to find Connal instead of me?” Comorra’s voice, musical and low, said one thing while Clare heard another. She was getting used to that phenomenon, but was beginning to wonder if she could get used to Comorra herself. The princess was remarkably straightforward. Blunt even. “You desire him,” she said. “Don’t you?”

  “Excuse me?” Clare squawked. “Where on earth did you get that idea from?”

  “In his house, the night of my father’s farewell. I saw the way you looked at him.”

  “What—wide-eyed with terror?”

  “He made you blush.”

  “He makes you blush, too, Princess.”

  Comorra blinked at Clare, her expression carefully neutral.

  “Oh, come on! He’s not exactly hard on the eyes, you know. I have a feeling he has that effect on most girls with a pulse.”

  Comorra allowed herself to return Clare’s grin and shrugged a bit shyly. “I used to think Tasca would have him. But … I do not think he feels that way about her and … I have dreams now of my own.” She tilted her head at Clare in an almost birdlike fashion. “Do you know that you are sometimes in my dreams, Clare?”

  “I am?”

  “In them, we meet on the bank of the Great River. There is smoke and screaming and Connal and my mother are there with chariots. And my sister … is dead.” Her gaze went cloudy at the memory of the dream. A dream that Clare knew was certain to become a reality. “Were you really sent to me by Andrasta? Are you my protector?”

  “Uh …”

  Comorra’s blue eyes squeezed shut as the memory of the dream images washed over her. “Tasca will not die. It is only a dream, is it not?”

  “I …” Clare absolutely did not know what to say. Her heart went out to the girl. And she shrank from the knowledge that what Comorra had glimpsed was, in fact, a scene from her future. A wave of guilt washed over her at the thought. Comorra’s premonitory dreams were—she instinctively knew—her fault. The girl had seen something she’d not been meant to see and it had been because of her.

  “Clare?” Comorra repeated, her voice melodic, the cadences almost haunting. Her pale blue gaze washed over Clare like a searchlight, self-possessed, wise beyond her years. “In my dream, Shining One, a Roman finds me. And takes me. But before he does so—I always give you this.” She held out the brooch that had fastened her cloak closed around her neck.

  Clare stared down at the bronze raven. It seemed to stare right back at her.

  “I put it in the pocket of your breeches,” Comorra said. “Just before everything goes dark.”

  Clare felt her eyes go wide. So that’s how it got there! she thought. I was right. I’m not a klepto after all—yay, me!

  “I know it is only a dream,” Comorra continued, “but this brooch is yours, now—truly—if only you will beg Andrasta on my behalf to keep my sister safe.”

  Clare groaned inwardly. She didn’t need to hear Al and Milo lecturing her about the dangers of monkeying around with the time stream to know that she couldn’t accept Comorra’s gift. Offering. Whatever. Because if she did there’d be no way for Comorra to give it to her in the future. Which of course, for Clare, was the past. But if she was in the past now, did that mean it was in her future as well? Her brain started to knot in the way it always did when she contemplated the matter. If she took the brooch, would it mean she’d be stuck in the past with no way to get home? She wasn’t willing to risk that chance.

  The eye on the pin seemed to wink at her.

  Clare’s mind raced. How could she get Comorra to keep the brooch without offending her or telling her what would happen in her future—an admission that would surely have other, equally dire consequences?

  “Uh …” She stopped and tried to imagine what Al might say. “That brooch was made for you, Comorra, um, Daughter of Boudicca.” It was harder than she thought. Then she remembered the words exchanged by Connal and the smith. “The fire spoke its shape to Llassar. It is the gift of Andrasta. It is … oh, hell. Look. Why don’t you just hang on to it? I think that’s probably what would make Andrasta the happiest. Y’know?”

  Comorra glanced down at the brooch and back up at Clare. Then she smiled a little. “Thank you, Shining One.”

  “Please. It’s really just ‘Clare.’”

  “I have always heard that the Fair Folk were hard, tricksy bargainers. But you are kind. And, in truth, I do not wish to part with it. It has been my favourite thing ever since Connal first pinned it to my cloak at my Warrior Making.”

  “That wouldn’t have anything to do with Connal now, would it?” Clare grinned. “There—see? Now you’re blushing!”

  Comorra ducked her head, but she was smiling now and the haunted look had left her eyes.

  “You know …” Clare said, reaching up to scratch behind Meryn’s ear as the pony nuzzled at her shoulder. “Before I met Connal, I always thought Druids were just a bunch of grumpy old men.”

  “Don’t let my mother hear you say that!” Comorra laughed. “She is Druiddyn, too! But I will grant you that, in some tribes, they are. Perhaps the Iceni are just very lucky.”

  Clare wished that were the case, that she could tell Comorra about what was in store for her people. She wished she could tell her to just pack up and head for the hills. “Luck” wasn’t in the cards for them. Clare thought it might be a good idea to try to change the subject, but just then another rider appeared at the far side of the meadow.

  “That is Macon,” Comorra said, shading her eyes. “One of my mother’s chieftains.”

  Clare hoped desperately that she’d remain invisible to him—for surely Comorra couldn’t readily explain her presence there. But as he approached there was nothing to indicate that he’d noticed anything out of the ordinary.

  She ducked behind Meryn’s flank. “I’m not here, okay?” she said to Comorra. “Remember how I told you that my magic hides me from the sight of most mortals? I’d like to keep my presence here quiet if that’s all right with you.”

  “Of course.” Comorra vaulted onto Meryn’s back and smiled down at Clare. The princess seemed delighted at the idea of an invisible companion. “Our secret. I promise. I would never betray a friend.” She turned back toward the approaching rider, her grin faltering as she read the expression on his face.

  “Macon,” she greeted him as he slowed his horse to a walk. “You look to be the bearer of unhappy news.”

  The man pulled his horse to a stop and inclined his head in a gesture of respect. Despite the chill
his cloak was thrown back over his shoulders, and Clare saw the designs of an intricate tattoo circling the bulging muscle of his upper arm. She knew a couple of guys back home at school who fancied themselves rock stars and would’ve killed for wicked ink like that.

  “Princess,” Macon said. “Your mother has been called to Londinium. She’s being feasted at the Roman governor’s mansio. The invitation has been extended to you and your sister as well. I’m to gather an honour guard of chieftains and we are to make ready to depart in the morning.”

  Comorra nodded and shifted her horse a little in front of Clare, as if to hide her from Macon’s sight. Not that she needed to—his roaming gaze had passed right over Clare without seeing so much as her shadow in the frost-whitened grass.

  “And who, exactly, is it that wishes to entertain Queen Boudicca in Londinium?” Comorra asked. “I have heard that the governor himself has gone to stamp out the flames of rebellion among the western tribes.”

  “He has.” Macon nodded, chewing on the corner of his moustache. “The Legions have gone west again in an attempt to impress upon the tribes just how much better off they would be toiling under the gilded sandals of the imperator than they are now, living as free men. And yes, Seutonius Paulinus will be riding at the head of that column.”

  “Then who—”

  “The Emperor Nero’s envoy, Seneca, lodges in the governor’s mansio in Londinium these days.”

  “Seneca?” Comorra frowned. “The moneylender?”

  “Aye.” Macon’s tones were shaded with disgust. “The same. That man is a menace—one of Nero’s slick-tongued bottom-feeders, with his hands in the imperial purse.”

  “I have heard mother say that he makes her almost long for the days of the old emperor, Claudius,” Comorra said. “What does he want with us?”

  “Only a friendly supper, according to the invitation,” Macon snorted. “Which was, in reality, more of a summons. He’s here under the emperor’s orders to ensure that proper tribute will continue to flow now that Prasutagus is gone. But I’ve a nasty suspicion that he’ll do more than that.”

  “Mother will know how to handle the Roman,” Comorra said firmly, chin lifted.

  “Aye, sweeting.” Macon smiled down at her with genuine affection. And, Clare thought, a hint of sadness. “Your mother knows a great many things. But with your father half a year dead now, the carrion crows are gathering at the edges of our land. Boudicca will have a fight on her hands before too long if she’s not careful. I have the uneasy feeling that Seneca’s here not only to safeguard tribute, but to call in the king’s old debts. And I’ve no doubt there’ll be rather more interest lumped on top of them than there should be by rights.”

  “What will happen to us?”

  “If Boudicca doesn’t pay, Rome may decide to find her in default. And then they will come with their soldiers and simply take what they want to call the debts even.” Macon’s eyes clouded with anxiety and his mount, sensing its rider’s mood, shifted nervously and whickered. “It was a dangerous road your father put us upon when he politicked with the race of men who perfected the art of double-dealing.”

  Clare had forgotten the cold as she listened to talk of things that were far beyond her frame of reference. And Comorra seemed to have forgotten Clare as she mulled over Macon’s news.

  “I must go and find Tasca,” Comorra finally said. “We will have to dress with care on the morrow …”

  “Aye,” Macon agreed grimly. “Don’t forget to wear your swords.” Then he wheeled his mount around and galloped back across the meadow, the horse’s hooves kicking up sparkling puffs of ice crystals.

  Clare realized with a start that she’d been fascinated by the talk of political intrigue—the very thing that had made her eyes glaze over in school. She also found it interesting—and somehow deeply gratifying—that Macon had spoken to Comorra not as a child or as a girl, but as an equal. She couldn’t imagine most of the adults in her world speaking like that to her …

  And, more than anything, she was proud of the fact that she’d actually understood what they were talking about. Al’s crash course in Iceni–Roman relations had really paid off—

  Al! she suddenly remembered.

  Okay, thought Clare, I should go now. Now would definitely be a good time to go …

  Comorra turned and held out a hand to Clare. “I must leave now, my friend.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Me too, actually …” Clare scanned the skies distractedly, hoping for a glimpse of dark-feathered wings. Nothing. Had she heard the call of a raven earlier and ignored it? Was Al in trouble? How long had she been gone? “Wait!” she said as Comorra took up the reins. “Your cloak.”

  “Keep it, Clare.” Comorra smiled down at her. “You need it more than I do.”

  “Not where I’m going,” she said, handing it up. “I hope.”

  Comorra tilted her head quizzically but reached out her hands for the cloak. “Go gently then, and return again in friendship, Shining One.” With that, she put her heels to Meryn, who broke into a swift trot and headed back toward where Clare could see a slow, lazy spiral of cooking smoke from the village spiralling up into the pale blue sky. Clare watched Comorra go and then turned in a full circle, rubbing her bare arms for warmth, scouring the skies for her raven. When a shadow in a stand of oaks at the edge of the meadow finally caught her eye, she hobbled over toward the trees, trying her best not to break an ankle on the uneven ground. In her strappy sandals, Clare’s feet were almost numb with cold.

  The raven sat hunched and quiet on a low-hanging branch. It rolled a grey eye at Clare as she stood beneath the tree looking up at it. It looked … grumpy.

  “Al?” Clare said, feeling slightly ridiculous.

  The raven ruffled its feathers in irritation and opened its beak. “Skreeee …” it croaked.

  “Oh, come on. I’m sorry. I got a little distracted. Call me home, will you?”

  The raven launched itself off its perch, circled once in the air, and uttered a harsh, imperative call. With great relief, Clare felt her blood ignite as her vision started to tunnel and the glare of the autumn sky dimmed to red and black.

  AS THE SPINNING AND SPARKLING of her shimmer-trip faded and the world around her bent itself back into shape, Clare almost shouted for joy. The rusted, peeling walls of the abandoned old warehouse solidified around her and she realized that she was outside the storage locker! She’d done it!

  “I did it!” she gasped.

  “You dawdled,” Al answered from inside the locker.

  “I didn’t!” Clare protested. “I—”

  The sudden sensation of Stuart Morholt’s stupid stupid James Bond gun-barrel jamming up against her skull—again—made her want to cry.

  “Crap,” Clare muttered.

  She heard Al sigh wearily. “Told ya.”

  “Are you gonna get tired of doing that anytime soon?” Clare asked over her shoulder, utterly deflated. Defeat snatched from the jaws of triumph—that’s what this was …

  “No. But then again, I won’t have the opportunity,” Morholt answered coldly. “Next time I’ll just shoot you straightaway.”

  “That strikes me as shortsighted on your part, Stu.” It had to be obvious, even to Morholt, that she was far too exhausted to be frightened just then. She walked a few paces forward and collapsed, shivering, on an old upturned milk crate, ignoring Morholt and his Walther PPK utterly. After a moment he lowered the pistol, looking as though he suddenly felt a bit silly for pointing it at a seventeen-year-old girl who apparently had no fear of it. Or him.

  Morholt bent and picked up the brooch where it lay on the floor. “My. What a clever little girl you are, Miss Reid. And don’t call me ‘Stu.’”

  “Get stuffed. Stu.”

  The knuckles on Morholt’s gun hand went positively transparent and his handsome face flushed purple with rage.

  “Hellooo …” came Al’s muffled voice. “Sidekick in peril in here.”

  Clare sighed. “You can
’t possibly be in any more peril in there than you would be out here, Al.”

  “Yeah? There’s a rat in here. A big one.”

  “I’ll bet the one out here’s bigger.”

  “You really are related to Magda, aren’t you?” Morholt snarled. “Apple, tree. Not falling far.”

  Clare glared sourly at him as her teeth began to chatter.

  After a staring contest he was clearly destined to lose, Morholt shook off his sports coat, draping it over Clare’s shivering shoulders.

  “Well, whaddya know,” she muttered, clenching her jaw. “Chivalry ain’t dead. Thanks. You’re all heart.”

  “Don’t push me, Clarinet. I really don’t have a great deal of compunction about making your existence particularly uncomfortable to get what I want. That said, you’re not much good to me with pneumonia.”

  “What is it I am good for, Mr. Morholt?” Clare looked up at him and pulled the jacket closer around her. It smelled subtly of high-end cologne.

  Morholt reached into an expensive-looking black leather briefcase—the objective of his “errand,” Clare surmised—and pulled out what looked like a cigar box. For really nice cigars. The rosewood lid radiated an antique sheen, and when Morholt lifted it the ambient light in the warehouse disappeared into the midnight folds of a rich, indigo velvet cloth. Wrapped in that cloth, which he tenderly folded aside, lay the Snettisham Great Torc, gleaming softly.

  “I want the rest of this,” he said quietly.

  “This?”

  “Boudicca’s hoard. Her treasure.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  Morholt knelt down in front of Clare and stared directly into her eyes with a fevered glare. He began to speak in a low, reverent, storyteller’s voice. “Once Boudicca realized that she faced ultimate defeat by the juggernaut of Rome, she drank poison. Her loyal chiefs spirited her away. They hid her dead body in an unknown grave that she’d had prepared in advance for just such an eventuality. Her final resting place has never been found. But she was, in all likelihood, buried with a wealth of gold and riches that would make the museum’s current collection seem flea-market paltry.”