by Hazel Hunter
For all that we have meant to each other as brothers, please, I beg you do this for me.
Gwyn Embry
With shaking hands Bhaltair rolled up the scroll and replaced it in the puzzle box, locking down the lid. He had no doubt Gwyn had written the truth. It also explained how such an ancient druidess could hold such power over Oriana. He’d seen with his own eyes the power his former acolyte wielded. A young druidess with only the gift of mimicry could not have cast such spells.
He could not permit Barra to go on possessing the lass. In order to contain her soul and prevent her from taking another innocent, he would have to force her into the confines of an enchantment she could not escape.
His own words whispered in his mind: No one guessed that Barra yet lived. I myself reckoned her long banished to the grove of stars.
Druid kind that had turned to dark magic could not ascend to the well of stars, and thus were denied reincarnation. After death they remained in the grove, the place between the mortal realm and the afterlife. Created by the Gods for souls to meet before journeying on together, it also served as a place to confine those unworthy of rebirth. No one knew exactly what happened to the dark souls once they reached the grove, but none had ever escaped it.
Bhaltair tapped his fingers on the box. He would need a sacred grove portal and a very specific spell to send the bone conjurer there once he pried her soul from Oriana…
Bhaltair went still.
“By the Gods,” he said lowly as the notion expanded in his thoughts. He closed his eyes. “And no’ only the bone conjurer.”
Chapter Six
MORNING SIFTED THIN light through the Great Wood, dappling Taran as he followed the track of small boots from Dun Mor’s labyrinthine entry. They led directly to a clearing containing stacks of felled timbers, where two figures came together. He concealed himself behind a large oak and listened.
“Hey, Manath,” Rowan said to the clan’s woodsman. “The chieftain said you might need a hand with splitting those ash logs. Are they for the new flooring in the kitchens, or are you just preparing to build a really big fire?”
“’Tis for the floor, my lady,” the clansman answered, sounding somewhat perplexed. “But the work, ’tis no’ easy.”
“If you guys had already invented log splitters, it would be,” she told him. “But these still look pretty green, so some wedges and a couple of hammers should crack them in no time. Mind if I show you how I do it?”
Moving through the brush as silently as he could, Taran finally found a spot where he could look down on the pair. Rowan had just taken off her fur cloak, revealing the odd garments from her time that she wore. He’d grown accustomed to seeing her wear his, which she had left behind in the stables. Her long, dark braid swung over her shoulder as she bent to take her tools from a satchel. Manath stood well back from her, his expression both wary and doubtful.
Seeing her made Taran’s heart pound hard and fast in his chest, and for a moment he had to avert his gaze. Since she’d left to live in the stronghold he’d been in a state of perpetual, wretched longing. He remained ever-vigilant for her, as if some part of him expected her to return any moment. When he could no longer abide waiting he’d begun spending more time in the stronghold, just to be near her. He took pains not to let her see him. More than one night he’d relieved the sentry near her chamber so he might stand outside it and simply listen to her soft breathing as she slept.
Brennus had caught him surreptitiously watching Rowan at the morning meal yesterday, and later had taken him aside to speak with him about the dark lass.
“She sees clearly the dangers of remaining,” the chieftain told him. “Yet she would risk it, and I couldnae deny her. She reminded me that we’ve all the right to choose our path.”
One knot in his chest loosened, while another snarled. “Aye, so ’twould seem.”
“I dinnae ken what you said or did to change her mood, but the lass works as hard as any of our brothers,” the chieftain told him. “The men no longer shy from her presence, and Bridei begins to ask for Rowan to aid him now. ’Tis as if she’s become another wench.”
“I’m glad of it,” Taran said, keeping his expression remote. “Rowan’s strong, and shall well serve the clan.”
“If ’tis truth, then why do you skulk about after her?” Brennus asked flatly. “Both Cadeyrn and Ruadri tell me they’ve spied you thus, and now I find your eyes on her. What about the lady plagues you?”
“Naught.” He knew he had to tell the chieftain something to appease him. “I’ve worried her temper might cause trouble. She’s a penchant for fits of anger.”
“No’ since she returned to the stronghold. The lass barely utters a word unneeded.” Brennus’s black eyes narrowed. “Odd, that.”
“I’d thank you to forget I spoke ill of her,” Taran told him.
The chieftain’s suspicious expression faded. “Aye. Althea seems glad she’s grown so obliging. She said to Ruadri ’tis as if some evil enchantment lost its grip on her.” He clapped Taran on the shoulder. “Your methods work as magic on wenches as well as horses.”
It had been that last comment that echoed in Taran’s head all night, and now followed him as he shadowed Rowan. Her accusation about his control of her by voice had been true, but using persuasion had always been his gift. With a handful of words, he could convince the most reluctant Skaraven to confide in him.
His battle spirit gave him power over all horses, and the ability to ride and fight as if part of his mount. The old Pritani legends had it that choosing the centaur meant spending a lifetime devoted to the herd, which Taran had gladly accepted. He’d always felt closer to animals than his own kind. But his power manifested through thought and touch, not voice.
A sharp cracking sound drew his attention back to the clearing, where Rowan straightened over an ash log that had fallen neatly split.
“There you go,” Rowan told Manath, gesturing to the halved wood. “Have you thought about using some slate under the cookstoves? Stone works better near the fire, obviously, but it can reflect the heat, too, and help shorten the cooking time.”
Near the fire.
Her words throbbed in Taran’s head, and darkness cloaked him as he heard them again in another’s voice.
“Come near the fire and warm yourself, Tarn,” a dark-haired druidess said as she knelt to add more wood to the blaze. “’Tis growing cold now.”
Taran glanced around the wide, open glen surrounding them. Tall carved stones formed a ring a short distance away, and a light frost spangled the grasses. A lean horse wearing but a blanket and a rope bridle nudged his hand, and he released it and watched it graze.
“’Twill snow soon, I reckon,” the young druidess said and glanced up at him, her pale green eyes solemn. “We might shelter with the Dawn Fire tribe. ’Tis said they welcome outcasts, and their settlement lay but a few leagues beyond the hills.”
She had a full, curved form, and beneath her robe her belly swelled with child. Yet Taran knew she was Rowan, just as Rowena had been.
“I should take you back before you’re missed, Wren,” he told her, and crouched down to take her hands in his. It didn’t shock him to see how old and twisted his fingers looked against her young skin. Touching her gave him such pleasure that he closed his eyes for a moment. “Your tribe willnae accept your leaving.”
“I offered them reason, and they refused to heed me. ’Tis no’ their concern.” Wren touched his cheek, spreading her gentle warmth across his wrinkled skin. “I’m yours, Tarn. I felt it the moment we touched. Now that we’ve mated, I shall always be yours.” She brought his hand to the curve of her belly, and he felt a small thump beneath his palm. “Your daughter agrees.”
Memories came to him of the many nights they’d met in secret. The passion that they shared for each other would not be denied. During a spring evening they’d conceived this child, and he would never regret that.
“I’d name her Rowan, if that ’twould plea
se you.”
The druidess wrinkled her nose. “After the berries? But they’re so bitter.”
“Yet they’re beautiful and strong. They endure snow and cold and never falter. I shall ask our lass to carry the name on through her bloodline.” He caressed the outline of a tiny foot. “’Twill help me find you again when I return from the well. I searched so long for you in this incarnation that I’d near given up hope.”
“’Tis the way of the Gods and their jests. You’ll always find me, my love.” She glanced up at the stars and smiled, but then she shot to her feet. “The tribe’s defenders. No.”
Taran turned to see a group of druids marching across the glen. Each carried a torch and a scythe, and were led by a tall, silver-haired druid wearing a ferocious scowl.
“Take my mount and ride. Seek the Dawn Fire,” Taran urged her. When she shook her head, he turned her to face him. “Our child mustnae come to harm. Your sire–”
“–must accept my choice,” she told him firmly. “You’re my husband, and my daughter’s sire. He cannae deny us.”
The druids fanned out, surrounding the fire and them, while Wren’s sire came closer and scowled as he surveyed them both.
“In time I may overlook your defiance, Wren,” her father said, his deep voice haughty. “I accepted that you would bear this child without naming the sire. Now I see why you wouldnae.” He met Taran’s gaze. “What you’ve done, you bastart, ’tis unforgivable. When I bring you to justice I shall beg them permit me open your veins with my dullest blade.”
As headman of Wren’s tribe her father had grown powerful and very proud. Where another sire might have consented to the unlikely match, he saw it as insult. Nothing Taran could say would persuade him otherwise.
“You shallnae harm him,” Wrens said as the defenders closed in on them. She made a beseeching gesture. “We’re mated now, Sire.”
“Not before he made you his hoor.” Her father’s face grew mottled with rage, and he snatched a scythe from one of the defenders. “I willnae wait to drag you before the conclave, Ovate Carden.”
As the druid swung the scythe at Taran’s neck Wren screamed. The sound wounded him so deeply that he barely felt the blade cut through his neck.
The Great Wood surrounded him an instant later, and he looked down to see Rowan and Manath hammering at another wedge-studded log. He reached for his throat, almost startled to find it unmarked, and drew his hand away wet with sweat.
That name Wren’s father had called him—Ovate Carden—could not be his. He had not been an old, lecherous druid bent on corrupting a young innocent. None of what he’d seen in the vision could have happened. Two different Pritani tribes had come together to breed the Skaraven, and he was Skaraven. None of them possessed druid blood…
Taran’s eyes looked in the direction of the stronghold. None of them were druid kind except Ruadri, who had been sired in secret by Galan, one of their druid trainers. Taran’s hands fisted.
Mayhap no’ only the shaman.
Fury and disgust poured through Taran as he stalked through the woods away from the clearing. The clan believed Brennus despised the tree-knowers more than any Skaraven, but Taran’s hatred ran much deeper. He’d never forgive their kind for what they had done to him and his brothers during their mortal lives. He could not possibly share their bloodline.
Though he intended to go to the stables and work off his fury, his boots took him in a different direction. The river by the stronghold had frozen enough for him to cross it in three strides. From the other side he made his way to the sacred oak grove.
No Skaraven except Ruadri could open the well-hidden portal.
This would prove him right. When he touched the icy ground in the center of the stones it would sense his Pritani blood and remain closed. He stood over it, his chest heaving with his anger before he went down on one knee and slapped his hand against the ground.
A round, swirling abyss appeared beneath his palm.
Chapter Seven
ROWAN’S EYES BURNED as she watched the orange-red embers flicker in the great hall’s hearth. She’d begun sitting by the fire every night after the evening meal, trying to stay awake for as long as she could. She’d worked most of the week with Manath, and now every muscle in her arms throbbed. Wedge-hammering and ax-chipping the rough surfaces of the flooring logs had pushed her to the brink of exhaustion. Yet she knew the minute she closed her eyes and tried to sleep the nightmares would start again.
“You should be in bed,” Emeline’s gentle voice said as the nurse offered her a mug of steaming brew. “Here. A peace offering to help.”
“Thanks.” Rowan took a sip and tasted herbs and honey. “Nice and sweet. Will it knock me out cold?”
“Probably not.” The nurse sat down in the chair beside hers. “You look wretched. Is insomnia the reason you’ve been haunting the hall every night?”
“Nightmares.” She cradled the mug between her callused palms. “Or maybe they’re bad memories. I don’t know anymore.”
“You can tell me,” Emeline suggested.
“As long as you don’t douse me with your touchy-feely powers,” Rowan warned her, and then sighed. “Sorry. I’m trying to be nicer, but my mouth doesn’t always get the memo.”
“I’ll slap you again if you’d like,” the nurse offered, “but I think a talk might prove more therapeutic. What sort of nightmares are you having?”
“Creepy ones,” Rowan said and hesitated before she went on. “I never got along with my adoptive mother, Marion, and she wasn’t too fond of me. But before this week I always thought she treated me okay. Cinderella okay, but okay. Now I’m dreaming of things that happened to me, terrible things, but I don’t remember them at all. Emmie, they’re so bad I can’t sleep anymore.”
At Emeline’s urging she described how Marion had broken her arm while beating her, and then recounted the other strange visions.
“I tried to run away from her in another one, and she dragged me back into the house by my hair. A big chunk of it tore out. I bled all over the place before she sewed up the gash.” She grimaced. “She kept me tied to my bed in another, with the ropes so tight they cut into my skin for three days. Another time I threatened to tell someone what she was doing to me, and she slammed my face into a wall. It knocked me out, and when I came to I had a broken nose and a chipped tooth. Marion told Perrin something…” She stopped and swiped at the sweat beading over her upper lip. “I can’t remember what.”
“You didn’t recall her doing those things to you before now?” the nurse asked. When Rowan shook her head, her lips thinned. “Rowan, Marion likely had druid blood, like you and Perrin. From what your sister has told me I think she had some powers as well. She may have bespelled you to forget the abuse, in the same way she compelled you to protect Perrin.”
It made about as much sense as her former, obsessive need to watch over Perrin had. “What I don’t understand is why she did it only to me. Why would she beat the crap out of one niece and not the other?”
“Maybe you still hate Mom so much you’re just making it up, to get Emmie to feel sorry for you.” Perrin came to stand in front of the hearth, her hands knotted into fists. “She never did any of that stuff. I would remember.”
“Do you remember how I broke my arm?” Rowan demanded. “I didn’t until I had that dream or vision or whatever it was. In it I was exactly the same as I was as a little kid. I felt everything: her beating my legs with that cane, the pain when the bone in my arm snapped. The whole time it was me and her. You weren’t in the room.”
“Come on. Our house wasn’t that big. If she’d done that to you, I’d have heard you screaming,” Perrin insisted. “What you’ve forgotten is how gentle and kind our mother was. She never raised her voice, even when you got mouthy with her. Which was basically all the time.”
All these years she’d tried to protect Perrin, and now her sister was siding with dead Marion. Rowan had finally had enough.
“I haven
’t forgotten anything about that evil old bitch,” she told her sister flatly. “When you weren’t around she treated me like a piece of garbage. While you went to dance lessons and glee club and all that other crap she signed you up for? She had me scrubbing the floors, folding laundry and washing dishes. You were the princess, but I was the unpaid help.”
Perrin looked uncertain now. “You never said anything to me about it.”
“Why would I? You always had new clothes and shoes. I never got anything but your hand-me-downs. When they stopped fitting she got my clothes from the thrift store. I knew exactly where I stood with Marion.” Rowan uttered a short, bitter laugh. “Especially when she bought you a brand-new car for graduation. Remember what she gave me for mine? Nothing. You even went to Juilliard on her dime, while I waited tables and scrounged for scholarships to pay for trade school.”
“No, that’s not right,” her sister countered. “Mom told me you refused to let her buy you a car, or help you pay for school.”
“Sure, because I wanted to ride my bike everywhere, and work myself to death covering tuition. Your mother the saint was so cheap she wouldn’t even cosign a student loan for me.” Rowan watched her scowl. “Yeah, go ahead, give me the evil eye. You look just like the old hag when you do.”
Perrin flinched. “Don’t call her that.”
“I think that’s enough,” Emeline said, sounding stern now. “Perr, why don’t you go and find your husband?”
Rowan watched her sister stalk off. “She really has no clue about what went on in that house.”