The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  The rest of his senses were focused on the auxiliary before him, who remained frozen against the post as if realizing one false move would be enough for Bren to end his misbegotten existence.

  “Where is she?” His voice was raw and when Trogus continued to stare at him with wary incomprehension, Bren twisted the sword and drew savage satisfaction from the strangled gurgle Trogus emitted.

  “Dunmacos.” The praefectus of his unit was by his side. But not too close, as if not convinced of his own safety. “This is hardly the time or place for an inquisition. If you have evidence against this man, then—”

  “What have you done with her?” The words were low but vibrated with an unnamed terror. A terror he couldn’t face; wouldn’t face because Morwyn had to still be alive.

  Sly understanding gleamed in Trogus’ eyes, but he still retained the wit not to move a muscle. “I haven’t seen her since that day in the forest.”

  Bren bared his teeth in a feral snarl. “Tell me where she is, you fucking piece of shit. Or I’ll carve it out of you.”

  Trogus shot a glance at the praefectus. “I’ve been here since last we spoke, Dunmacos. I’ve six dozen men as witnesses.”

  Lies. Bloodlust pounded through his veins, demanding satisfaction. But what a hollow, meaningless satisfaction to watch Trogus’ putrid blood seep into the earth. It wouldn’t bring Morwyn back.

  “Dunmacos.” The praefectus’ voice was sharp. “He speaks the truth. Is this connected to the matter we discussed two days ago?”

  The thud of his heart vibrated through his chest. The rush of his blood deafened his ears. Trogus’ face blurred. The campus shrank. All he could see was a vile blackness gaping before him. Remorseless and grasping into infinity.

  Morwyn hadn’t been abducted. She had left him. Voluntarily.

  With a rough jerk he withdrew his sword and the world crashed back into focus. Every auxiliary, legionary and centurion stared at him in open speculation. He could read their minds as easily as if they shouted the words from the watchtowers. Dunmacos, the man with ice in his veins, the one who never raised his voice but never had to, had finally cracked.

  Over a woman.

  “Fucked off, did she?” Trogus wiped the blood from his throat and flicked it with contempt to the ground between them. A sneer crawled across his features. “Woman was a bitch but at least she had some sense.”

  “Dunmacos.” The praefectus grasped Bren’s sword arm and dragged him around. Perhaps he, unlike Trogus, had seen how close Bren was to thrusting the length of his sword through Trogus’ filthy mouth. “Get off the campus and cool your head. I don’t want to have to throw you in gaol. Do you understand?”

  Bren wrenched his arm free and marched with deliberation across the silent campus. No one dared utter a word or cross his path. Never before had a field stretched so interminably into the distance.

  For a few deluded moments he’d imagined a future with Morwyn. Growing old with a woman who, although she didn’t know all of his sordid secrets, knew enough of his wretched existence and was still not repelled.

  A bitter laugh escaped, scraping his throat like acid. He should have known better. At the first opportunity she had run. Afraid he would turn on her the way he had turned on Gervas.

  He left the garrison and blindly walked the dirt-packed streets of the settlement. It was better she’d gone. Now he didn’t have to concern himself with her safety. He could concentrate on his duty instead of constantly being distracted by the image of Morwyn’s face, the feel of her silken hair, the captivating sound of her laugh.

  Somehow he arrived back at their lodgings. He went to their room and sat on the bed, forearms across thighs. Staring blankly at the rush-covered floor.

  For three years duty had sustained him. Given him a purpose, a reason for having survived when Eryn had perished. But deep in his gut the familiar knot of rigidly contained resentment tightened, and for once he allowed the treacherous thoughts free reign.

  This life crucified him. Even in the beginning when he’d still been riding high on the bloodlust of having slaughtered Dunmacos, the reality of the existence he’d assumed sickened him.

  But he’d given his word to his king. And the knowledge of what he owed the Briton outweighed his own considerations.

  It was no longer enough. For the first time since Eryn’s death the constant nightmare of his failure to save her had receded. The immovable rock in his chest had crumbled. He’d recalled how it was to speak without thinking, to laugh without guilt. To dare dream of a future without killing.

  Because of Morwyn.

  And she had left him.

  He pulled a pouch from his belt. Tugged it open and withdrew its precious contents. The elegantly engraved gold bracelet with its tasteful jewels glinted up at him. Mocking him. He hadn’t sold it when she’d pressed it on him. He’d had some vague notion of returning it to her someday. But now, he never could.

  His hand closed around it. It was all he had left to remind him of the woman who held his heart captive.

  Chapter 28

  Dusk was gathering as Morwyn approached a familiar stretch of forest. Familiar, because she was close to where she and her fellow Druids had been ambushed. How long ago that seemed.

  She pulled the stolen horse to a stop and took their bearings. Their escape had been frighteningly easy. But she wasn’t surprised. Because now she was obeying the Morrigan’s will.

  No one had seen them when they’d left the lodgings. No one had stopped them when she’d untethered the food-laden horse on the outskirts of the settlement.

  And no one had followed them. A lone woman and child. Easy pickings. But the forest was empty of Roman, Briton and Gaul. As if the Morrigan, rejoicing in her victory, cleared the path for her errant Druid.

  As she had before, the conviction gripped her that she was close to Caratacus. But this time she knew better than to search. His hidden enclave could never be found by conventional methods. The Elder had explained how the entrance could be discovered, and so she allowed her mind to relax. A difficult endeavor when every nerve screamed in protest of the desertion of her Gaul.

  Briefly she closed her eyes. She wouldn’t think of him. Couldn’t think of him, or she’d tumble into insanity. Her priority now was ensuring Gwyn’s safety. And safety lay in the Briton’s camp.

  She urged the horse forward, followed unseen paths, unerring in the knowledge she was going the right way. Deeper into the forest where undergrowth tangled and twisted branches tore at her gown.

  The horse balked, ears flattening against its skull. Morwyn dismounted, lifted Gwyn to the ground and gripped the leather reins in one hand and Gwyn’s hand in her other.

  They had arrived. She pulled the reluctant horse forward, to an unremarkable gap between two great oak trees. As they passed through, a faint sensation of vertigo assailed her, and she was catapulted back in time to the Sacred Spiral Aeron had created.

  This feeling was similar. But so very much diluted.

  She glanced over her shoulder. The forest looked exactly as it had before. But she knew that, if anyone stood beyond those two sacred oaks, they wouldn’t see her or Gwyn or the horse. All they would see was dense, uninhabited forest.

  “Are we there now?” Gwyn’s voice was plaintive as she rubbed her eyes with her knuckles.

  Morwyn straightened her spine and looked ahead to the bleakness of her future. “Yes.”

  Within moments of passing through the oak tree entrance a small contingent of warriors appeared, one brandishing a blazing branch that momentarily dazzled her in the gathering gloom. Gwyn huddled against her waist, trembling in silent terror, and Morwyn had the sudden, horrifying conviction that the Elder had directed her into a trap for her sins.

  “Explain your presence.” The voice was young, feminine and edged with power. Morwyn squinted, trying to see the owner of the voice, the one who held the flaming torch, but it was impossible.

  She angled her jaw proudly. If she was to be slau
ghtered, she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of showing her fear. Perhaps they would spare Gwyn. Or at least kill her swiftly.

  “My name is Morwyn, acolyte of the great goddess, the Morrigan.” Thank the goddess for at least not allowing her voice to crack with nerves. “I’ve been searching for the Briton king, Caratacus, to fight by his side for freedom for my people. I was told the way here by the Elder.”

  There was a fraught silence. Nobody moved. Then the shadowy figure clasping the torch broke free of the semicircle of warriors and approached.

  Morwyn caught sight of the long honey-colored braid that snaked over the young woman’s shoulder. Her gown was richly embroidered, her gleaming silver jewelry exquisite. But she didn’t need to see those things to know this woman was a noble. It was evident in her manner. And more than that, it was obvious by the deference of the warriors that she was also a Druid. Or, at least, an acolyte of some standing.

  They maintained eye contact. Finally the other woman held out her free hand, palm facing up. “Welcome, Morwyn, acolyte of the great goddess the Morrigan. I am Nimue, acolyte of the moon goddess Arianrhod.”

  Morwyn smothered the rush of relief. She could allow no show of weakness.

  “I thank you.” She relinquished the reins and placed her own palm upon Nimue’s.

  Formalities over, Nimue smiled down at Gwyn, who still clung to Morwyn’s waist. “You and your”—she hesitated, as if she had been about to say daughter but was now unsure—“child must be weary after your journey. Come, I’ll show you where you may rest.”

  The four warriors parted to let them through, and two followed as if they were personal guards for Nimue. Perhaps they were. Morwyn detected no subtle nuance in the air to indicate they possessed Druidic blood, and they didn’t give the impression of nobility.

  Or perhaps, despite Nimue’s words of welcome, they didn’t trust Morwyn and followed merely to ensure she had no ulterior motive in entering their magical enclave.

  They weaved through the trees, the forest becoming thicker until even the dull glow of dusk vanished beyond the canopy above. Nimue held her torch aloft and for a moment Morwyn feared the dry forest would catch alight. But instantly the trees thinned and they emerged into a small glade where an earth-covered dolmen hunched amid eerie shadows.

  Morwyn’s heart jerked against her ribs. Although this cromlech had only one circle of massive bluestones surrounding the edge of the glade and the earth barely reached the capstone of the dolmen itself, it reminded her forcefully of the much larger sacred glade that Aeron had embraced as his own.

  Nimue glanced at her. “You’ll be safe here,” she said, clearly misinterpreting Morwyn’s reticence. “This is the resting place for Druids only. The masses camp wherever they so desire in the surrounding forest.”

  Morwyn swallowed her fear. It was foolish to let memories rule her. “Are there many Druids here?” Any she knew?

  “The Elder has directed many here over the last few moons. They hail from all over Cymru and several from Britain.” Nimue hesitated, clearly debating whether to continue. “But only a few remain. They’re supervising the great mission for Caratacus.”

  Morwyn glanced around the glade. A single lantern hung from the capstone of the dolmen and others were placed on the stone altar, casting flickering light and bottomless shadows. A small fire, set within a ring of stones, burned to one side of the dolmen’s entrance. At the far side of the glade she saw horses tethered.

  Nimue followed her glance. “We can accommodate your horse if you wish, while you refresh yourselves.”

  Morwyn decided not to mention the horse was stolen. Instead she gently disengaged Gwyn’s clinging arms and stripped the packs from the horse before allowing one of the warriors to take the reins. Nimue gestured for them to sit by the fire, and within moments she had water warming in a pot over the flames.

  As Morwyn sorted through the food packs and handed Gwyn strips of dried meat to chew on, she reflected on Nimue’s careless comment.

  The masses camp wherever they so desire.

  She’d always known Caratacus’ rebels comprised, for the most part, of the general populace. But on Mon she hadn’t known his camp was protected. How, then, could those without Druidic blood enter?

  “Nimue, the Elder explained I could find my way here by following the call to my blood. And that was true.” She paused, searching for the right words. Nimue regarded her in silence. “But even if the masses do manage to find their way here by themselves, how do they enter without the blood of the gods in their veins?”

  “It’s not easy to find without a guide,” Nimue said. “Usually new recruits are brought by those who already know of the sacred gateway. And, of course, that helps ensure no spy may enter.”

  Morwyn frowned. That wasn’t quite what she had meant.

  “But the spiral itself.” Perhaps Nimue didn’t refer to it as the spiral, but even so diluted in power, what else could it be? “How do those who possess not a drop of Druidic heritage pass through the barrier?”

  For the first time Nimue looked confused, as if she truly didn’t understand Morwyn’s concern. “No one may pass through the barrier. Only through the sacred gateway between the great oaks.”

  Morwyn stared at her, as the other woman’s words filtered through her brain. “So anyone at all can enter this enclave, providing they find their way to the sacred oaks?”

  “Of course.” Nimue glanced at Gwyn, who was both chewing her food and listening to the conversation with equal interest. “How else could Gwyn enter? She’s not of Druid stock.”

  Morwyn looked at the child and a chill stole through her heart. That consideration hadn’t even crossed her mind. But why hadn’t it? It would have been impossible for Gwyn to have entered the spiral of Aeron’s construction. He had ensured only his Druids could survive such feat.

  “I see.” And she did. Hadn’t the Elder told her his power derived from splinters of the original bluestones Aeron had used? The Elder had not harnessed the Source of Annwyn. Of course the magic protecting this enclave wasn’t as powerful as the one she was used to.

  Nimue leaned toward her, a strangely intense expression on her face. “What do you see, Morwyn?” Her voice was low, but it was no idle question. “Why do you ask such things about our sacred enclave? Who are you?”

  Goddess, would she never be able to leave that night in the past? She drew in a deep breath. She wasn’t responsible for the devastation Aeron had caused that night. But it didn’t ease the guilt she always felt for having been taken in by his ice-cold charm.

  “It was my High Druid who created the original Sacred Spiral.” She tensed her muscles, waiting for the inevitable derision. She could only hope Nimue possessed the sense of justice to accept Aeron had confided in no one about his plans. That despite appearances, the rest of Druantia’s clan of Druids had been innocent of attempted genocide.

  Nimue’s eyes widened and lips parted. But she didn’t draw her dagger, didn’t go for Morwyn’s throat. Instead she leaned even farther toward her, until Morwyn could feel her erratic breath whisper across her face.

  “He was your High Druid?”

  Morwyn stiffened. Something was very wrong. Nimue didn’t sound angry or disgusted. She sounded reverential.

  She had to be mistaken. Perhaps it was merely condolence Nimue expressed.

  “He was, I fear, completely insane.” She realized her fingers were twisting the wool of her gown and only with great effort did she manage to stop.

  “Insane?” Nimue raised her eyebrows and once again straightened. “Oh. Perhaps he was insane, Morwyn. But that doesn’t negate the truly glorious vision he had for the people of Cymru.”

  Nimue’s words thundered through Morwyn’s mind. Individually, they made perfect sense. Collectively, they were as insane as Aeron had been when he’d murdered their ancient Queen.

  “Aeron.” The name thickened her tongue and caused nausea to roil in her stomach. “Was evil. Vindictive. He cared fo
r no one but himself. It wasn’t victory for the people of Cymru he wanted. Only personal glory.”

  With a sense of detached disbelief she watched a flicker of irritation mar Nimue’s proud face. How had this happened? When had Aeron’s egomaniacal actions mutated from attempted mass murderer to thwarted savior?

  Was this to be his legacy after all? Continued reverence, life everlasting—the very thing he had always desired?

  “I confess I’m sorely puzzled by the attitude of all of your clan,” Nimue said, sounding more annoyed than puzzled. Morwyn clenched her fists and tried to regulate her breathing. I can’t allow Aeron to be worshipped as a martyr. “Why you insist his genius was corrupted I fail to understand. He devised the perfect weapon to rid our land of Romans for good!”

  Morwyn’s breath escaped in a noisy hiss. “He—” she began, and then the full meaning of Nimue’s comment pierced through her broiling anger like a strike of lightning.

  “All my clan?” Excitement churned, obliterating the sour taste of Aeron from her senses. “Nimue, who else from—”

  The words lodged in her throat as three elderly figures approached the fire, and she leaped to her feet, pulling Gwyn with her. Nimue, also standing, proceeded with the formal introductions, and after the Elders seated themselves and began to speak of loyalty and obligations and the imminent evacuation of the enclave, the moment to question Nimue vanished.

  But a burning need to know remained within Morwyn’s breast.

  * * *

  The morn dawned. Bren lay on the bed he’d so recently shared with Morwyn and stared up at the discolored ceiling, a dull sense of inevitability heavy as a rock in his chest.

  There was no escape from his fate. He was pledged to Caratacus until death. The interlude he’d enjoyed with Morwyn was just that. An interlude. It could never have led anywhere. Even if she hadn’t deserted him.

  He expelled a measured breath. He had information to convey to his king. Information he should have conveyed the previous day, except he’d been distracted by a woman.