Once Every Never

by Lesley Livingston

  “You are weary,” he said. He unclasped his cloak, spreading it on the ground near the water’s edge and bidding her to sit.

  “Thanks,” Clare said, sinking down gratefully. Her legs felt like jelly. Having come that close to Boudicca was like falling into the zoo enclosure of a Bengal tiger. A really pissed-off Bengal tiger. Clare’s adrenalin had spiked through the top of her skull and now she felt lightheaded.

  “What brings you to visit the Iceni this time, Clarinet?” Connal asked softly.

  Clare raised an eyebrow. “You still think I have an uncanny way of showing up at inopportune moments, don’t you?”

  Connal glanced sideways at her. “It is … an unsettled time among my people right now. Dangerous.”

  “I know. Believe me.” She didn’t mean to snap, but Clare was getting a bit tired of everyone questioning her motivation. “I didn’t exactly plan it, but I’m kinda glad I showed up when I did. If I hadn’t, Comorra might still be lying out in the forest bleeding to death.”

  Connal’s eyes went wide with alarm and he started to get up. Clare put a hand on his arm.

  “She’s fine. Llassar patched her up and Boudicca’s with her now. I’d give them some space if I were you.”

  A look of intense relief washed over Connal’s features as he sank back down beside Clare. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and murmured to himself, “I was so afraid she had fallen to the same fate as Tasca …” Then he opened his eyes and looked at Clare. “The Iceni owe you a great debt of gratitude, Clarinet. Thank you.”

  “Hey. No problem. I’m just … just glad I was in the right place at the right time.”

  The darkness seemed to settle upon them like a heavy velvet cloak. If Clare ignored what she knew was going on all around them in the rest of the village, she would have said that it was almost tranquil. “Are you thirsty?” the young Druid asked, reaching into the satchel that was slung across his shoulder. He brought out a drinking cup made of polished horn and dipped it into the silvery stream.

  Clare nodded her thanks as she took the brimming vessel and tipped it to her lips. She was thirsty. Her mouth had been so dry from fear that the cold, clean brook water, even with its slightly metallic tang, went down better than an icy can of Coke. She savoured it, along with the relative stillness of the night away from the mad crowd. Away from the blood and horror and gathering doom. The quiet of the moment and the steady, calm companionship of the young man sitting next to her were wonderful.

  Connal seemed to feel no great need to force conversation or to ask her any of the thousands of questions about her that must have been buzzing around his mind. She was thankful for that. In the distance the faint, angry sounds of the gathered tribe rose and fell like surf, too far away to be heeded. But also too close to ignore.

  “What happens next?” Clare asked finally.

  Connal shrugged. “If the tribe agrees with Boudicca—and I cannot see how they will not—then we go to war. It is as simple as that. And as complicated.”

  “Oh.”

  “The goddess Andrasta will paint her limbs with woad and wash her hair in blood and hitch twin ponies of smoke and shadow to her war chariot. The fiery trail from her wheels will scorch the sky and the world will burn.”

  “Uh … that’s a euphemism, right?” All this talk of Andrasta as if she were a real person—or entity, at least—had made Clare almost believe that such a thing might happen.

  Connal uttered a little, mirthless laugh.

  “Do you know of war in your world, Clare?”

  Clare nodded. “Yeah. Unfortunately. It sucks.”

  Connal smiled and shook his head. “You have a succinct way of putting things—even in your strange language. War does indeed ‘suck,’ as you say.”

  “Connal … can’t you talk to Boudicca? Can’t you change her mind?” Clare ignored the voice in the back of her head that yelped Are you insane? You can’t just try and change history like that! Knowing what she knew, she would have felt like a jerk not to try.

  “This is our land, Clarinet. The Romans will have it over Boudicca’s dead body.”

  “You got that right,” Clare murmured. It hurt her just to think about it. “Connal, talk to her. You’re a Druid. Isn’t she supposed to listen to guys like you?”

  “The only one the queen ever really listened to was Prasutagus.”

  “That’s just great!” Clare threw up her hands in exasperation. “He’s dead!”

  “Aye,” Connal interrupted her. “He is dead. And he might not be if he had listened to her.”

  Clare blinked at the young Druid in confusion. “You’ve lost me.”

  “What I told you the night of the king’s funeral wasn’t true. I didn’t know the truth at the time, but … the king did not die of a broken spirit, Clarinet. He did not die of illness or accident.” Connal reached into the pouch at his belt and held up a small, dry bit of something that looked like a piece of bark. “He died of this.”

  “What is it?” Clare began to reach for it without thinking. Connal pulled it away before she could touch it. “It is a kind of mushroom. The Roman is a clever animal, you see.” He smiled mirthlessly. “And somehow, in small amounts, dried and crushed to powder, this found its way into the many jugs of rich red wine that the Romans gave to the Iceni king as a measure of their ‘friendship’! How unlucky for Prasutagus that he had a taste for wine.”

  “Oh …”

  “And how unlucky for the Romans that Boudicca would never touch it.” Connal’s grin faded. “The only thing that she would ever drink was good stout beer made by her own craftsmen … and that predilection will cost the Empire dearly. Llassar hasn’t told the queen yet, but she suspects.”

  “How does Llassar know?”

  “We Druiddyn are trained in the art of healing—a consequence of which is that we are also trained in the darker arts of harming. We must know the one to effectively bring about the other, sometimes.” Connal’s eyes were cold as he returned the poisonous fungi to his pouch. “This poison is subtle, effective … and leaves only a slight discolouration at the back of the victim’s throat. Llassar discovered it as he was preparing the king’s body for the pyre.” His handsome features clouded at the memory. “But that is what this war is all about, Clarinet. The Empire would take that which does not belong to them and they will do it by any means necessary. War, treachery, politicking, it does not matter to them. There is no honour in that, and no honour in them, and no honour in us if we let them! Even though I know well that we will lose in the end.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  Connal shrugged, staring off at where the tribe had gathered and the torches burned. “The Iceni are a warrior people. Rome is a war machine. We fight with all the passion in our souls. They fight with none. What Boudicca doesn’t understand is … that is why they will win.”

  “And when the queen loses …”

  “She will die.” Connal was matter-of-fact.

  “So over Boudicca’s dead body it is then, huh?” Clare said, her tone bitter.

  Connal shrugged again. “And mine.”

  “Wow. That’s thinking positive.”

  He smiled sadly at her. “I know my fate, Clarinet. It is tied to the queen’s. I can no more escape my death than I could have escaped my birth. It is my destiny.”

  Connal’s casual disregard of his own impending doom made her want to weep with frustration.

  “Why does the thought of my death upset you so, Clarinet?”

  “Because I … you’re …” Clare couldn’t exactly come right out and say that, among other things, his death would be a pointless waste of a total hottie, but she also couldn’t help thinking it.

  His eyes narrowed, glinting with a subtle mirth. “It does upset you, doesn’t it?”

  “Of course it does!” Clare protested, her cheeks growing hot. “I mean … death is just bad and stupid on principle. Especially if it’s pointless!”

  “But you are one of the Fair Folk, C
larinet.” Connal leaned close to nudge her with his shoulder. “We have always been told that the dwellers of the Otherworld do not give much thought or care to the mere mortals of this realm.”

  He was teasing her. It was so not fair. Clare began to feel a bit flushed.

  “Yeah, well,” she muttered, “you’re not exactly the kind of mortal I would ever refer to as ‘mere’ …” The sparkle in his gaze seemed to have effectively shut down Clare’s internal editor function. She was still talking and couldn’t seem to stop. “In fact,” she heard herself say, “you’re probably the un-merest mortal I’ve met in a long time. See … uh … ‘mere’ as a word—uh—adjective, I think, doesn’t really quite cover it where you’re concerned. You know—you as a mortal. You have a lack of mereness. What’s the opposite of mere? Never mind. Not important.”

  “Clarinet?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. And also, if it’s okay by you, I’d like to shut up now …” Or possibly just go somewhere and swallow my own face. She could feel her cheeks turning brighter and redder as Connal began to laugh. She was grateful for the darkness.

  It took Clare a long moment of sustained embarrassment to figure out that he was laughing with her, not at her. She started to laugh then herself.

  Connal leaned back on one elbow and regarded her. “Are you really from the Otherworld, Clarinet?” he asked.

  Clare snorted, caught up in the moment. “No. I’m really from Toronto. Normally. I guess at the moment I’m from Londinium. Except now we call it London.”

  “Now?” Connal tilted his head quizzically.

  “Uh—then. Never mind. Forget I said that. You probably wouldn’t believe where I come from even if I could somehow manage to explain it to you. Which I can’t. Or you’d just laugh at me. Because it’s complicated. I’m complicated. I’m a complicated girl.”

  “I like complicated girls,” Connal said and smiled again.

  It should be illegal to possess a smile that devastating, Clare thought.

  “And I promise not to laugh,” he said.

  Clare sighed and hugged her knees. Was there any harm? Seriously. If Connal told anyone else her story they’d probably just label him the village idiot and ignore him. Besides, the Iceni were about to become far too preoccupied to worry about her. Time-stream monkey outrage notwithstanding, it would be nice to share her secret with him …

  “Okay,” she said. “Here’s the deal: I’m not from the Otherworld, but I am from an other world. Strictly speaking. In space and time, at least. I’m from the distant future.” She paused and waited for his reaction.

  “I see.” Connal smiled, pretty obviously trying not to be patronizing. “And what is that, exactly? The ‘diztan-fee-you-chur.’ I do not know that place. Is it an island?”

  “You have got to be kidding me.” Clare blinked, mildly put out that her revelation hadn’t provoked a more dramatic response. “How come you can understand everything else I say?”

  “I do not know. I understand the meaning of most of your words, even if the sounds are unfamiliar. But that word—it has no meaning for me. It is only a sound.”

  “It’s two words,” Clare frowned. “Distant and future.”

  “Ah!” Connal’s face lit with sudden comprehension. “But ‘distant’ pertains to space, Clarinet. ‘Future’ pertains to time.”

  “Well then, what do you call two thousand years from now?”

  “Irrelevant.” He shrugged. “A dream.”

  Could it be? Clare wondered. Could it actually be that these people had no actual concept of the far future? Of the progression of history beyond that which—as Connal said—pertained only to them?

  “Well that certainly gives new meaning to Carpe diem …”

  Connal cocked his head, his expression turning wary. “Do you speak in the tongue of the Roman?”

  “What—Latin? Oh yeah. I guess.” Clare grimaced at the unintentional faux pas. “I mean … no. I took it for half a semester in grade ten and totally flunked out. That’s about the only thing I remember from that class, and it’s just an expression that managed to survive into my era. Sorry. No offence.”

  “I have heard the words before—from the Roman traders that hawk their tawdry wares in the market stalls at Camulodunum—but I do not understand them. What does ‘carpe diem’ mean?”

  “It means ‘seize the day.’ Live for the moment.” Clare smiled ruefully. “You know—tomorrow may be too late and you may never get another chance to do something that you really want to do.”

  “A Roman concept I can understand,” Connal murmured. “And appreciate.”

  And then he kissed her.

  Clare felt her eyes go wide, but after a moment, she kissed him back.

  “Carpe diem,” he whispered against her lips as his hands wrapped around her shoulders and he pulled her toward him, gently but with determination. Clare felt her own arms wrapping around his neck and then his hands were in her hair, tangling in her gold-brown curls and holding her face close to his as his lips pressed against hers. Connal smelled like fresh air and moonlight and woodsmoke and fresh green growing things. He tasted like brook water. Clare felt as though her skin was on fire everywhere he touched her.

  It seemed, as kisses went, you really couldn’t beat a first-century Iceni Druid in a secluded, moonlit grove.

  It would have been nice if they hadn’t had company.

  But even with Connal’s hands cupping the sides of her head, Clare heard the sharp, hissing intake of breath from over her shoulder. She broke from the kiss and turned in time to see Comorra, bandaged and bloodied, swaying slightly on her feet. She drew her sword from her belt. There was a wild, dangerous look in her eyes.

  Clare scrambled to her feet and dodged backward as Comorra lunged at her, the blade of her sword whistling through the air in a deadly arc.

  “Hey!” Clare exclaimed. “What the hell?”

  “He is not yours!” Comorra snarled, slashing once more with the blade.

  “Comorra!” Connal cried out. “Stop!”

  Clare ducked again, the blade narrowly missing her cheek. Comorra had her non-sword arm wrapped around her torso, as if trying to hold herself together. If she hadn’t been wounded, Clare had the suspicion that she’d probably already be missing a vital body part or two.

  The princess came at her again, but this time Connal was able to get around her and wrap her in a tight bear hug, confining her arms to her sides. She struggled weakly against him, tears of rage and hurt streaming down her face.

  “She cannot have you, too,” Comorra wailed weakly. “She has taken too much from me already.”

  “What?” Clare shook her head. Suddenly the Iceni words weren’t making any sense to her. “What are you talking about?”

  “I know,” Comorra said. “I know now. What you are … You are a thief of souls come to take those dearest to me.”

  “Okay. You are delirious and suffering from blood loss. Obviously.”

  “Thief!”

  “Connal … what is she talking about?”

  “I came to find you,” Comorra’s voice choked on a half-sob. “To thank you. I thought you were my friend. I truly did. But now I know.”

  “Know what?”

  “You were there the night my father burned.” Comorra spat the words as an accusation. “You are here now that my sister is dead. You watched as that Roman took me away on the riverbank and you did nothing.”

  Clare had a sick feeling in her stomach. Really … how must that have looked to Comorra? “I couldn’t!” she protested. “I didn’t know how—”

  “But you knew we were going to Londinium—you were there when Macon told me of it. Did you skulk there too, watching as they whipped the flesh from my mother’s back? My mother will go to her death soon and I will lose her.” She half-twisted in Connal’s grip, her expression wild and anguished. “I cannot lose you too, Connal.”

  “You won’t,” Clare said
emphatically.

  “So say you. When you are here”—she strained against Connal’s hold on her—“trying to steal him from me even now. I told you. I told you I wanted him. And yet here you are with him. Will you take everyone from me who I love?”

  A crushing weight of betrayal fell down on Clare as if from a great height. Comorra certainly had a point. She had known that the princess was smitten with the hot young Druid prince. She’d known that. And still she’d kissed him. Without a thought for the feelings of the girl that she’d come back in time with the express purpose of saving. How screwed up was that?

  “I am tired of losing.” Comorra sagged back into Connal’s arms. The fight seemed to go out of her and he turned her gently around.

  “Little bird,” Connal said gently. “You have not lost. You have not lost me. You are not well. Come, let me take you home.”

  Comorra straightened, shrugging off his arm and lifting her chin. “I am well enough. Strong enough. Choose, Connal. And then come to me when you will. If you will.”

  She turned and walked back toward the roundhouses of the town.

  Clare took a few steps in her wake. “I should probably talk to her,” she said. “Explain things. Explain that she didn’t really see what she thought she saw …”

  Oh? said a dry voice in her head. So what really did just happen here, then? Clare wasn’t sure. She knew that her heart was still racing and that it wasn’t entirely because Comorra had attacked her. It was because Connal was standing there, close by her, in the moonlight. And she could still feel his kiss on her lips.

  “I think maybe you should go,” Connal said. He shook his head, a weary expression on his face. “It was nice to think that, for a moment, I could forget what was to come. I could forget myself. It was foolish of me. My priorities are my people. My princess and my queen … and the fulfillment of my destiny.”

  He turned and looked at her, and for a moment Clare was struck with a powerful sense, not of déjà vu, but of familiarity. With the planes of his face so sharply outlined in moonlight and the shadow of stubble on his cheeks and chin, he looked older. Sadder. He looked like—