Once Every Never

by Lesley Livingston

  “I don’t think so. But, then, I can be pretty silly sometimes, so I’m probably the wrong person to ask.”

  Comorra laughed a little.

  “Besides, silly’s not so bad.”

  “No.” Comorra turned her head and gazed through the trees to where her mother’s harsh, strident tones rang through the air. She was accompanied by a chorus of steadily rising shouts and cries from the gathering throng. “But that is …”

  “Yeah. That can’t be good.” Clare frowned, already knowing the outcome.

  “War is never good.” Comorra shook her head sadly. “Despite what my mother would say.”

  The girls watched as battle chariots and a few fast-running men and women split off from the fringes of the throng, heading in all directions.

  “Where are they going?”

  “To the other tribes. To gather as many of our people as will come to fight the Romans.”

  “Comorra, what exactly happened in Londinium?” Clare asked. She knew what Al had told her. What the history books said. But she doubted it was the whole story.

  “We went to the governor’s mansio. It was a trap. Seneca goaded my mother into refusing to pay any of the king’s debts by heaping ridiculous amounts of interest on top of them and then calling her honour into question. She would have paid back the original loans—she would have! But what Seneca wanted … it would have paupered us as a tribe.”

  “This Seneca guy sounds like a creep.”

  “He is a loathsome toad. When we arrived, he was toying with my father’s torc. My mother had given it to the Romans on the night of my father’s funeral. He dangled it from his fingers as though it were a worthless bauble and then, later that night, he put it around the neck of one of the serving girls. She giggled and pranced around in it like a fool. Seneca told her that it suited her—like a collar for a good dog.”

  “And your mom didn’t just kill him on the spot?” Clare was aghast. She could only imagine the kind of humiliation the proud queen would have felt—or maybe that had been the idea. Maybe Connal had been right when he’d told her that by presenting the torc to the Romans, Boudicca had probably started a war. Seneca’s actions had most likely sealed the deal—and maybe that had been the queen’s intentions all along.

  “My mother would not brook such an insult, of course.”

  Right, Clare thought. Of course …

  “We tried to leave, but when we got to the courtyard the Roman soldiers surrounded us. They took my mother out into the public square and …” Comorra squeezed her eyes shut but then opened them again after a moment, as if willing herself not to cry. “They chained her to a post and they flogged her.”

  Clare winced. She remembered what Boudicca’s back and shoulders had looked like. It hadn’t been any kind of punishment at all. It had been torture, plain and simple, for the sick amusement of a bunch of decadent Romans. And it had been a message to the Iceni. One that had backfired rather spectacularly.

  “Mother didn’t even cry out,” Comorra said with pride and awe. And horror. “Then everything turned to chaos. The Roman citizens—and even some of our own people—went mad with blood lust. They cheered each stroke of the whip. Now I understand why the Romans have the coliseum in Rome. They are a vicious people …”

  “How did you guys get away?” Clare asked.

  “There were also those in the mob who were loyal to Boudicca. Those who had been loyal to Prasutagus, too. Some of them rebelled, protesting the treatment of the queen. They set fires, broke through to where my mother was chained, and set her free. Connal went in search of Seneca’s serving wench so that he could take back my father’s torc.”

  Clare preferred not to contemplate how he’d achieved that. She preferred to think he’d simply asked politely. She doubted it … but she refused to give it any further thought. There were some things that she wished to remain blissfully ignorant about. But at least she knew now how Connal had come to possess the torc he’d handed back to the queen that night.

  “My mother’s chiefs fought to get past the gates to our chariots,” Comorra continued. “Many of them fell. I escaped with Tasca, but we got separated in the madness. I tried to go back but the soldiers … they were merciless. They cut our folk down like wheat as they fled. And so I ran.”

  “Down to the river,” Clare murmured. “I know. That’s when we first met.”

  Comorra looked at her in vague puzzlement.

  “I mean—that’s when we first met tonight. By the river.”

  The princess nodded. “And when that soldier caught me and tried to take me back to Londinium … I fought.”

  “I guess you won.”

  Comorra shook her head a little. “He lost.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For not being able to help you.”

  The two girls sat there for a long moment, silent amid the rage roaring through the night just beyond the shelter of the trees. But eventually Clare noticed that Comorra seemed to have gone utterly limp. And where her arm rested against Comorra’s ribs, she felt something wet. Warm. When she pulled her hand away it was sticky with blood.

  “Oh God! You’re hurt!” Clare eased the girl back against the trunk of the tree. “Why didn’t you say something? Wait here—I’ll get help!”

  Comorra’s head nodded forward and she looked as though she might faint.

  “Hang on,” Clare pleaded. “Just … hang on until I can bring help!”

  She leapt up and ran, breaking from the cover of the trees and standing on the lip of the little rise, waving her arms over her head.

  “Help!” she shouted. “I need help over here!”

  The men and women rushing past ignored Clare as if she wasn’t even there. Which, of course, she wasn’t. Just as she had tried to attract Boudicca and Connal’s attention when Comorra first got into trouble, Clare was useless. Helpless.

  No. Not this time. She was not about to let Comorra bleed to death just because she wasn’t supposed to exist in that time. Clare’s mind spun. If she suddenly appeared to one of the frothing-mad mob members she’d likely get cut down. Frantic, she started to run. In the near distance, she could see the hunched shapes of the thatch-roofed houses of the town. Maybe one or two stragglers were left in Venta Icenorum that she could approach for help.

  She slowed when she saw a familiar figure stalking past one of the buildings just outside the town. It was Llassar—the Druid blacksmith—the one who was responsible for everything that had happened to her in the last few days. He had a bulky travelling pack slung on one shoulder and his long cloak flapped in his wake. The singed tangle of his hair and beard wreathed his broad face like a mane and Clare saw the gleam of a sword hilt at his side. The master smith walked with long, loping strides, and Clare had to really sprint to catch up with him.

  She ran down the little hill and through the yards surrounding the stables—and when Llassar paused for a moment to shift the weight of his pack, she made her move. Clare lunged down the path and slapped the palm of her hand flat against the huge man’s burly chest. It was like sticking her finger in an industrial-wattage light socket. She flew through the air on contact and Llassar flew in the opposite direction, a look of extreme shock and surprise on his sun-browned, soot-stained face.

  “Mighty Cernunnos!” he swore, as he landed hard on his hip in the dust. He shook his head and looked around, his gaze suddenly snapping up to zero in sharply on Clare’s face. His breathing was quick and shallow but he moved slowly, warily, as he got back up to his feet. His eyes never left Clare’s face as he backed up a step and moved his hand to the hilt of his sword.

  “Please,” Clare said, holding out her hands, palms up. “Please, Mr. Smith—Llassar—please don’t be afraid. I am … shit. What the hell did she call me again? Oh, right! I am tylwyth teg.”

  Llassar’s eyes went saucer-wide and his nostrils flared, giving him the look of a startled muskox.

  “I am a friend of Prince
ss Comorra.”

  “Comorra …”

  “I was there the night you made her brooch. The raven pin with the red eye.”

  Llassar gaped at Clare open-mouthed.

  “The stone. The red stone. Remember? I helped you choose it. Not—I mean, hey, you were really bagged that night—not that you wouldn’t have probably picked that one anyway, I just gave you a nudge. I’m Clare. Clarinet. At least that’s what Connal calls me but, I mean, it’s really just ‘Clare’ and …” She was babbling, she knew, but she had to make him understand before he either ran for the hills or ran her through with his sword. “… and I’m here because I need your help.”

  “Andrasta’s wings,” Llassar whispered. He stood perfectly still. And then, after a long moment, he took a tentative step toward her. “You … you are real.” His voice was full of wonder. “I thought Comorra had been fooling with me …”

  “She told you about me?” Clare was surprised. Comorra must have trusted the blacksmith a lot.

  He nodded his head slowly, his eyes never leaving her. “She did. I didn’t believe. That is, I wasn’t sure. But I can see you, too!”

  He reached out with one huge, square, dirty-nailed finger toward Clare. As he touched her cheek another electric-shock crackled in the air—only tiny this time, like carpet static in a dry house. He touched her hair and her forehead and then poked a bit at her shoulder.

  “Dude.” Clare rolled her eyes. “I’m real.”

  Llassar tilted his head. Growing up, Clare had had a beagle named Reggie that used to do the same thing when she talked to him—as if he could understand what she was saying, but just had to listen very carefully. She couldn’t blame Llassar—she’d had to do that too at first. And some of her words doubtless didn’t translate into the Iceni tongue. Clare made a mental note to stop using expressions like “dude.”

  “I never really—I mean—I thought …” Llassar stumbled over his words, searching, it seemed, for the right thing to say to a being from the Otherworld. “I fear you have chosen an … awkward time to visit the House of Iceni.” His gaze went to the distance where Boudicca still stood riling up the locals. But then he turned back to Clare and held out his hands, palms up in a sort of formal greeting. “Forgive me my crude behaviour, Shining One. And welcome.”

  “It’s just ‘Clare.’ I’m not really all that shiny at the moment. But, y’know, whatever …” Clare sighed. This was getting way too complicated. Now there were three people who knew of her existence, and all the while Milo’s voice repeatedly echoed through her head: “Don’t monkey with the time stream!”

  “Clare …” Llassar rolled the sound of her name around his mouth.

  “That’s me. Good ol’ Clare, monkeying with the time stream,” she groaned. “Oh, God …”

  “Which god do you speak of?” Llassar’s gaze grew sharp with interest. “Are you their messenger? Are you sent by Andrasta? Do you travel her ways? Do her bidding?”

  “Uh …” Clare stammered, “I … can’t really say.”

  “I understand.” Llassar nodded. “The Fair Folk must keep their secrets close.”

  These people take all this paranormal stuff way too well, thought Clare. But in their world it had probably been an awful lot easier to believe in the supernatural than it was for people in the twenty-first century. She suddenly had an inappropriately hilarious mental picture of bringing Al’s laptop with her on the next trip: “Behold! The power of Google compels you!”

  Too bad that shimmering fried electronics. And first-century wi-fi probably sucked worse than it did back in Morholt’s warehouse … Stop. You need to focus.

  “Comorra is hurt,” Clare said, grabbing the burly smith by the hand and leading him back to the little hill. “She’s bleeding and needs help.”

  “The princess!” Llassar exclaimed, his pace quickening. “Where is she? Is she all right? We thought the Romans had captured her.”

  “Yeah, uh … they did.” Clare squirmed a little inside, thinking of the part she had inadvertently played in that capture. “She got away.”

  They reached the stand of trees where Comorra lay, her breathing shallow but steady. The princess opened her pale blue eyes when Llassar knelt beside her, her pain-clouded gaze registering dull surprise.

  Clare shrugged. “If you can’t trust a Druid … who can you trust?”

  “Your faerie is real, Comorra.” Llassar smiled gently, moving her arm away from the rent in her tunic so that he could examine her wound.

  “Of course she is real! I am too old for imaginary play-fellows, Llassar.” Comorra smiled back, trying to muster up a teasing tone. She looked older—far beyond her years—and in her eyes was the weight of unsought wisdom. “Would that I were not …”

  The Iceni princess gritted her teeth and hissed in pain as Llassar pulled away the fabric that had stuck to the gash along her ribs. Clare grimaced in sympathy and swallowed against the slightly sick feeling at the sight of the blood.

  “It is a long cut, but not deep,” Llassar said. “Not too deep, anyway. I think I shall have to practise my needlecraft upon you.”

  Llassar got a shoulder under Comorra’s uninjured side and Clare supported her on the other. His travelling pack kept getting in the way, though, so Clare offered to carry it for him. The smith hesitated, but after another glance at Comorra he handed over the lumpy pack. Clare sensed something familiar in its oblong contours, but she shouldered the awkward thing and followed in Llassar’s wake down the darkened path toward the little roundhouse the princess called home. The way was deserted—the entire tribe, it seemed, had gathered in the field beyond the town to hear their queen speak.

  Clare and Llassar made Comorra as comfortable as possible on the sleeping platform in the thatch-roofed hut. She looked around as the Druid bent over a brazier, heating a small bronze cauldron that sat on a metal tripod above the coals. Like the inside of Connal’s hut, Comorra’s was tiny, but more cozy than cramped. It was neatly arranged with sumptuous tapestries—rich hangings and cushions and rugs. The furnishings were mostly wood, decorated with intricate, knotted carvings. In the corner a small hanging loom bore a half-finished length of brightly checked green and gold cloth.

  Llassar rummaged around in a basket of sewing and weaving supplies and returned with a small spool of finely spun thread and a long bronze sewing needle. Then he went back to the fire and added some kind of powdery substance from a pouch at his belt to the heating water. It smelled the same as the concoction Connal had used to treat her wound—a sharp tang like pine and lavender. Clare sat by Comorra’s head and held her hand as Llassar washed the wound with the hot, scented water.

  “The herbs are cleansing,” he explained to Clare, “and they will help to numb the flesh surrounding the wound.”

  But Clare could tell from the way Comorra gripped her hand that it didn’t numb it enough. She doubted very much that she could have put up with the pain of the slim bronze needle sewing her flank shut, but Comorra barely made a sound as she sucked air through tightly clenched teeth while the Druid smith worked.

  After he was done his needlepoint, Llassar took a thin length of plain woollen cloth and began tearing it into strips to make bandages to cover Comorra’s stitches. He had just tucked in the last bandage and was returning the cauldron to the fire when the leather flap that curtained the doorway was suddenly, violently ripped aside. Clare almost went into cardiac arrest as Boudicca stormed into the room.

  She scrambled to get out of the way as the flame-haired warrior queen crossed the floor of the tiny hut and knelt beside her daughter.

  “Comorra!” Boudicca’s husky voice cracked with emotion. “One of the chiefs told me that he had seen Llassar carrying you this way. Oh, my dear one—I thought the Romans had you prisoner still …” A cloudy frown darkened the queen’s brow. “You are hurt.”

  “I’m all right, Mother.”

  Boudicca stared into her daughter’s eyes for a long moment. “Yes,” she said finally, as thoug
h she had looked for—and found—a strength in her daughter that she hadn’t necessarily known was there until that moment. “You will be, I think.” She took her daughter’s hand gently in her square, calloused fingers. “Comorra … your sister is—”

  “I know.” Comorra’s eyes brimmed with pain and loss. Boudicca gathered her into an embrace, careful of the bandages she wore. Llassar eyed the queen’s own wounds and began to tear more strips of cloth.

  Watching silently from her place in the corner, hidden from the queen’s eyes, Clare’s heart hurt as she thought about the night that Comorra had tried to barter her brooch so that Clare would watch over Tasca and keep her safe. She wished there had been something—anything—she could have done. But, really, there wasn’t. Not then, not now.

  I’m just a girl. A girl who could travel through time. But still, when you got right down to it, just an everyday, average girl. Clare used to hate the thought of her averageness. But at the moment it seemed to be a lot less complicated and dangerous way of life. The best thing—the only thing—she could do now was to leave Comorra and her mother to grieve in private. And so, as the fierce queen rocked her only surviving child gently in her arms, Clare shared a glance with Llassar and then slipped out the door into the night.

  17

  Clare headed toward the trees, lost in thought, the toes of Al’s borrowed purple sneakers scuffing along in despondent rhythm. She was just under the canopy of sheltering boughs when Connal caught up to her. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised to see him there.

  She nodded at him in wordless greeting and they walked awhile in silence. A short way from Comorra’s house they came to a small hidden garden next to the banks of a little meandering river, barely more than a brook, that splashed through the trees near the timber wall that encircled the town. It was remarkably peaceful. The moon had risen high into the sky and its pearly light fountained down through the leaves, sparkling in the ripples on the water and the dew upon the grass. Clare stumbled in exhaustion and Connal steadied her with a hand on her arm.