Nimue lifted the torch.
Mithras was a god of men. She had never before entered one of his domains. Yet this place was as she suspected it would be. The chamber was empty of all the accoutrements which would once have been used to worship, taken away by those who had also buried the entrance against future use. All that remained in the cold square chamber was the stone altar—carved out of the rock which made this hill.
Nimue looked at Merlin. “Beneath the god’s watchfulness there is another sensation…can you feel it?”
Merlin shook his head. “It is not for me to feel or see. Where?”
She turned on her heels, looking for a direction, until she was once more standing and facing the altar.
“It is a part of the hill,” Nimue murmured, studying it. “Here before he came, here before his worshippers arrived. Here long ago…”
Merlin moved closer to the altar and bent to study the carvings. They were sacred to the bull worshippers, but of no surprise to Nimue. She had seen them in her dream.
“Here. Look at this,” Merlin said. “This is not of his design.” He pointed to the long side of the altar.
Nimue brought the torch over and bent to peer at the carvings with her aged eyes.
“It is the Christian symbol,” Merlin said. “Perhaps those who cast down this place put it there in warning. Their god is a jealous one.”
Hilt, cross-guard and blade. Nimue shook her head. “No, it is a sword.” She reached for the shape hewed from the ancient stone and pressed it.
The rumbling was just as loud this time, yet the ground did not shift as it had before. Instead, the altar slid to one side with a grinding of stone upon stone. Sparks leapt.
Beneath the altar was another set of steps, leading into blackness. Thick air wafted, making Nimue wheeze and stagger backward.
The grinding stopped. Instead, came the soft, rhythmic plink of water upon water.
Merlin caught her arm once more. “If you enter that place, you will die. I can feel it.”
“I am already dead,” Nimue said gently. She pointed to an unlit torch sitting against the wall behind the alter. “Wait for me here.”
Merlin reached for the torch as she lit it for him.
Then Nimue stepped into the dark beneath the altar.
THE PRESENCE WHICH GUARDED THE tomb was no paltry god. It was an immortal power, part of the earth, nature and all living things. It held no emotions and was not swayed by petty offerings and sacrifices. It had no pride to be mollified with prayers. It simply was.
It had been set to guard against all comers except he who owned this place. As Nimue stepped through the shield it had raised, the implacable will tore through her, searching for the signs which would mark her as the one for whom it had been waiting. She was not the one, of course, and it left its indelible mark on her soul.
Nimue made herself step to the bottom of the last broad step, into the calf-deep, ice water which had accumulated there. When this tomb was first made, it would have been dry and clean and well lit, while the mourners laid the grave goods carefully. The stone casket faced west, the direction of the Otherworld.
There was nothing Roman here. This was a place which followed the ancient ways and called upon one of the oldest powers to guard it.
The torch flared and jumped, making the black surface of the water gleam and shift. The water had destroyed nearly everything left for the great man. Only a massive shield remained on the eastern wall…and the casket itself.
It sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by water, a small island of stone, for no simple wood and iron resting place would do for one of Britain’s greatest leaders.
Her heart leaping and hurting in her chest, sickness rushing through her with cold, silvered fingers, Nimue moved through the water toward the sarcophagus.
There were no remains in it. Macsen Wleddig had died in Aquileia, near Rome. They had executed him like a common criminal, dragged his body through the streets and left it for dogs to feast upon. Those who mourned him had built this place for his spirit to find its way back and rest in peace when it did. They had laid his possessions around him, in the old way.
The old ways dictated that his personal weapons would be laid by the eastern wall. If they were there, they were beneath the water. Nimue rested her hand on the casket, to catch her breath, as she tried to see through the black liquid.
The burning heat by her knuckles made her snatch her hand away. Nimue raised the torch to study the casket itself.
The sword had been laid on top of the plain stone lid, perhaps years after this room was built, and after a long, slow and perilous journey from Rome. It would have been stolen from Macsen Wleddig’s conquerors, then smuggled in carts, hidden in packs and stowed beneath sacks of grain as it made its way from Rome, across Gaul, to Britain. If the Romans had discovered it on its journey here, they would have taken it back, determined to prevent one of Britain’s greatest symbols of defiance and independence from returning to its people. Perhaps Helen herself had laid the blade upon the empty casket. Nimue suspected it was so.
Over the generations the sword had remained hidden here the water had seeped through the rocks. In that time, sedimentation from the weeping water built over the sword, clinging to the damp scabbard, until it built up in solid layers of calcified, gray rock over the top of the blade.
The jeweled hilt and golden pommel were untouched metal, glinting in the light of Nimue’s dying torch.
She did not reach out to touch the great sword. Her knuckles burned still from resting close to it. It was not her role to take the sword. The hand which could safely lay itself upon the hilt belonged to the true heir.
She had found the sign Britain yearned for.
Nimue closed her eyes and gave silent thanks.
Chapter Ten
Mair had spent years drinking quantities of wine. It was one of life’s greatest pleasures. Therefore, she had grown accustomed to the effects. It was a rare morning for her to wake to the bleary, furry sensations which warned she had drunk too much the night before.
She held still as her head thumped, taking in the angled, striped awning laying over her, which did not adequately shield the sunrise from her aching eyes.
She covered them with her hand and discovered she was naked beneath the fur.
Her memory of the previous evening slammed into place between one horrified heartbeat and the next.
Mair sat up, bringing the furs with her, taking in the angled space beneath the awning.
Like most nights on the road, when camp would be struck at dawn the next day, the Corneus tents were not fully raised. Instead, they were draped from the sides of the highest carts and anchored with stones and pegs. It provided a crawl space beneath which kept off rain and dew, and provided a tiny measure of privacy.
The remainder of the tent hung vertically from the top of the cart, hiding the wheels and preventing anyone who ducked to look beneath the cart from seeing into the crawl space.
Rawn sat with his back against the wheel. He wore his trews and nothing else. He was tying his boot closed. At Mair’s indrawn gasp, he looked up.
His blue eyes narrowed. He held up a hand. “There are Corneus soldiers sleeping three paces away,” he said, his tone soft.
His warning stole the air from her lungs. She breathed in again, wariness washing over her.
Rawn went back to tying his boot, his tanned flesh gleaming in the morning light, as Mair sorted out the sequence of events from the previous night.
After Bedivere had left her bent over the neck of her horse, scrambling to adjust to the idea that she must return to Corneus at mid-summer, they had reached Ermine Street as the sun lowered. Cai declared they would camp by the road for the night, which would give them an easy day the next day.
Mair moved mechanically, taking care of Leolin. Despite the sharp smell of succulent meat roasting over fires and stews bubbling in pots, she had no interest in eating.
Instead, she found a
large flagon of wine and carried it to the surgery tent, which had been raised to protect the wounded who traveled on the carts during the day. With determination, she drank steadily.
As usual, Rawn found her there shortly after full dark fell. He settled beside her and took a drink from the flagon. “I saw your face when you were talking to Bedivere,” he said, his voice low.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She took a deep swallow herself.
“About what?”
“About leaving.” Then she grimaced. He’d made her say it, anyway.
Rawn stiffened. “You’re leaving? You?”
As she was already feeling the heavy buzz of the wine, Mair supposed she was imagining the hoarse note in his voice. “It was not my choice,” she told him, her own voice ragged, but each word was clear. She was proud of how evenly they emerged.
“I don’t understand. You can’t leave. This place—Arthur—means everything to you.”
Even though she thought she had cried more than enough, the tears rose once more. Mair swore and dashed her eyes with the back of her hand and drank, trying to drown them.
It was useless. They rolled down her face, making her head and her heart hurt. She wept and drank and relayed to Rawn every awful word her brother had told her that afternoon.
Rawn drank, too. It seemed to her Rawn was taking as much wine as she. He asked questions, demanding answers, which would bring her right back to the heart of the hurtful truth—that she must return to Corneus, come mid-summer.
It was an inescapable fact which tore her chest apart every time she considered it…and she did come back to it, over and over, as one ran their tongue over a throbbing tooth.
When the flagon was empty, silence settled between them. Her tears were done. She could not shed more. She was empty. Depleted.
Defeated.
Rawn stirred. He was hot against her flank, which told her how cold it had become. Mist was forming. It was late. Most of the camp was snoring, the fires burned low.
“We should sleep, or we will be forced to ride the carts like invalids, tomorrow,” Rawn muttered, his voice thick with the wine.
They helped each other to their feet. Mair could balance, but only if she moved slowly. The land, which was flat here, tilted for a moment, then realigned itself. She reached out for anything to help her re-balance and found Rawn. She gripped the thick folds of his cloak, furled around his shoulders. He held her steady.
She was fascinated by his body heat. He seemed to glow against her pithless, chilled body. Mair squeezed the wool in her hands and gave it a little shake. “We won’t be able to do this anymore.” Regret touched her.
“You are only now realizing that?” His tone was amused, but low and deep, for it seemed the entire camp slept, except for them.
“Yes,” she admitted. Would she have said it if her head had been clear of wine and upset? She would never know, for what she did say next shocked even her. “I will miss you most, Rawn.”
He grew still.
She gave him another shake. “Why did I say that?”
Rawn shrugged. “It is the wine which uses your lips now.”
“Is it?” she asked seriously. She couldn’t seem to let go of his cloak.
Rawn rested his fingertips against her wrists, as if he might pluck her hands away. Instead, his fingers curled over her flesh. Sizzling. “You don’t want to complicate your life, remember?” His voice was low.
“It isn’t me complicating it. It is the wine. You just said so.” And she kissed him.
It took a great many long heartbeats, before she realized what she was doing. Even then, her shock was stunted. She felt, instead, a mild sense of surprise which was muted by wine.
She didn’t tear her lips from his. Instead, their mouths hovered close to each other.
Rawn was breathing hard. “The wine speaks with a powerful voice,” he murmured. His voice strummed through her.
Why had neither of them protested? Or apologized? Why had they simply stood there, with no space between them? He was hot and strong and solid against her.
Mair lifted her gaze to meet his. Even in the almost complete darkness of a moonless night, his eyes were still blue. His gaze didn’t flicker away from her as she thought it should. This was territory they had silently agreed never to stray upon, for it would add layers to their friendship, sinking it beneath the weight of other concerns. Rawn should at least feel confusion, if not guilt, or anger at her for putting their friendship at risk.
Instead, his arm came around her back, like an iron band. “One kiss for friendship’s sake,” he breathed. His heart thudded against her, too. “If you take a second kiss, Mair, you will change everything.”
“Does that make you afraid?” she asked. Surprise strummed through her once more.
“It should terrify you.” Rawn’s voice was even deeper than before. He raised his hand and gently—oh, so gently!—lifted a thick strand of her hair away from her face, brushing it back over her shoulder. It had come loose from the clips and combs she used to hold it in place and out of the way during the day.
Mair untangled her hands from the folds of his cloak. She meant to drop them and step away from him, for he was right. This was something she had scrupulously avoided.
She had no objections to helping Rawn find a bed partner for the night. She was not that petty. Only, she avoided the entanglements, herself. She only had to look at the misery the menfolk of the women in the Cohort put their partners through, to know she didn’t want such agony in her life.
Only now she was standing so closely—no, she stood against Rawn—and she could not object to the pleasure of having his body touch hers this way. Held this way, she could register properly how tall Rawn was. How wide his shoulders. His scent…which was not at all objectionable. Her hands, instead of dropping, smoothed their way up around his wide neck, to link behind.
Rawn lifted her chin. It was a simple touch of his finger. His gaze was steady. It seemed to pierce through her and see everything. What he said confirmed he could see into her mind.
“You are upset. To seek comfort is understandable, Mair. You believe you know me, that I could provide that comfort, but you are wrong. I will upset everything, if you press this. Deep in your heart, you know that. Walk away, Mair. Turn and go, and in the morning, I will help you recover from the wine the way you have helped me so many mornings. We will laugh together once more. Then we can seek each other out on the battlefield, after the fighting is done and know that at least one person cares enough to know we have come through unscathed.”
It felt as though she had been kicked in the chest. “Only, I won’t be on the battlefield anymore,” she breathed.
Rawn cursed and closed his eyes, and she understood that he had mis-spoken. He had drunk much, too. He was operating with faulty judgment, just as she was.
So…he could be wrong. Everything he just said might be wrong.
She didn’t want this moment to end. This little, enclosed, private moment, where it was just the two of them and she didn’t have to concern herself with what came next. She could just…enjoy.
Mair kissed him again.
Rawn groaned and pulled her up against him, tighter and then tighter still, until she could barely breathe. It was no longer her kissing him. Rawn held her face and ravaged it with his lips, plundered her mouth and left her so breathless, she couldn’t even moan her pleasure.
At last she unlinked her arms, found her balance and took his hand. She led him to the temporary shelter beside the Corneus cart, where he slithered beneath with her and pulled her up against him once more. This time, his lips didn’t stop at her chin.
He did not halt even after they had both muffled their cries of pleasure the first time. And he did make her forget everything and just enjoy this single, shining moment.
MAIR CLUTCHED THE FUR AGAINST her and brought her knees to her chest, as everything which had happened since they stopped for the night tore through her mind. Ev
en as she felt a retrograde horror at her own stupidity, her gaze roamed over Rawn’s bare shoulders, taking in the satiny flesh. He was tanned, which was remarkable for so early in the summer. He preferred sleeveless tunics, cut shorter than most, so his arms were exposed to the sun when he was not wearing armor.
She had not appreciated before the full strength in his arms and his body. Now, she knew better. She had let her fingers play over his arms as he strained over her, last night, absorbing the bunched muscles, the taut sinews. The softness and smoothness of his flesh…and the taste.
He had woken the beast in her. Now she could not dismiss the images from her mind. Her body ached from the activities of the night and the beast craved more.
Rawn’s blue eyes met hers. He lifted his finger to his lips, warning her once more. Then he reached and picked up his discarded tunic and put it on, and shook out his thick, dark locks.
Mair realized she was watching him move, caught up in the interplay of muscle and flesh and bone, while remembering the storm that flesh had roused in her.
Even now, her heart was hurrying. Heat gathered in her belly.
Someone just on the other side of the draped tent gave a great yawn and stretched, their joints popping. The sounds were distinct, as if the man was sitting right beside her.
He likely was. Rawn’s warning had been accurate.
Mair pressed her lips together, holding in all the words, all the questions. Her surprise. Her dismay. She dammed back with pure willpower the fear building in her.
Why, oh why, had she taken that second kiss? Rawn had warned her not to.
What had she done?
What had she destroyed?
Rawn picked up his cloak, gathering the thick folds in one hand. Then he swayed toward her and curled his other hand around her neck. He leaned close, so his lips were brushing her cheek, close by her ear.
She held still, so she would hear what he said. Then she would have a measure of the damage this night had delivered.
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