The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  “Tacitus.” Her voice was husky, as if she found it hard to speak. “I didn’t mean for you to find me like this. But I find… I cannot move.”

  He glared at her to cover the flash of fear that whipped through him. Oracles and soothsayers were accustomed to taking the poppy to commune with the gods and to impart words of wisdom to their worshippers. But they had years of training, years of studying the ways of the gods and they understood how to protect themselves against evil shades that might try to enter their bodies while they were incapacitated.

  Suppose Nimue had unknowingly entered that dangerous realm between the living and the dead? Suppose a malignant spirit had taken advantage of her innocence?

  “What in the name of Zeus were you doing?” Without thinking, the name of the great god of his beloved mother’s people fell from his lips as he scooped Nimue into his arms. Her head lolled against his shoulder and the fact she didn’t protest at his action caused the worry to worm further into his chest.

  He glowered around the room looking for the cloak he’d provided for her. Unlike the Roman gowns she wore it was a Cambrian garment, necessary for the chill weather, but he couldn’t see it anywhere.

  Nimue stirred in his arms. She unclenched her fist and he saw a glimpse of the bluestone lying across her palm. “Arianrhod called me.”

  He forgot about looking for her cloak and stared at her in disbelief. “What?”

  Her eyelashes fluttered in an attempt to keep her eyes open. “I tried to find my Goddess. But she was…distant.”

  A shudder crawled along his spine at her whispered confession. To his knowledge only those most intimate with the gods were allowed passage into the higher realms through sacred rituals and spiritual enhancing preparations. That was how it worked in Rome and he saw no reason why it should be different for the Celts.

  Except the spiritual leaders of the Celts were Druids. And Druids were the sworn enemy of Rome, the scourge of the Emperor and were to be eliminated from every last dark corner of the Empire.

  The few that had remained here after the Eagle had conquered their people had been driven from Cambria a year ago when a great devastation had ravaged the land.

  His gaze fixed on the silver torque around Nimue’s throat. The other day he’d been taken by the elegant engravings on her bracelets and had found them oddly familiar. He recognized the same engravings, of the passage of the moon and detailed images of an owl, decorating the torque but that wasn’t why he had found them familiar.

  It was because the engravings on her silver jewelry were the same as the exquisite embroidery of the medicine bag that had been discovered with the Briton queen.

  He could try to deny the truth, the way he’d denied it from the moment the suspicion had first arisen. But there was no longer any doubt in his mind.

  Nimue was the healer who’d been traveling with Caratacus’ queen. But it wasn’t that knowledge that caused his gut to knot. It was the horrifying possibility that Nimue might be more than simply a Celtic noblewoman with an admirable skill for healing.

  He wouldn’t believe it. Nimue was not connected in any way with the hated Druids who, during the initial invasion of this western peninsula, had incited fear and uprising among the natives of Cambria.

  “Tacitus, put me down.”

  “I’m taking you to Marcellus.” He stamped through the doorway but no servants were to hand. Just because Nimue used the poppy in the same way the Oracles did, didn’t mean anything. Perhaps she’d merely mimicked a ritual she’d witnessed an ancient Druid perform. “Where in Hades is your cloak?”

  “If you put me down, I’ll get my cloak.” Nimue no longer slurred her words or slumped against him, but neither did she struggle to escape. Of course she isn’t a Druid. Those heathen creatures were wizened with age and the burden of their barbaric rituals and brutal sacrifices.

  He stopped glowering around the room and looked at her, secretly shocked. He’d expected her to protest about going to see Marcellus. To assure him that there was no need. Unease spiked and all thoughts of Druids faded into the depths of his mind. Did she also fear for her health? Somehow that possibility magnified his own concern a thousandfold.

  Carefully he lowered her to the floor, holding onto her arms until he was reassured she wasn’t in danger of collapsing. She shot him a glance he couldn’t quite fathom—an odd combination of exasperation and amusement. He wasn’t sure whether to be charmed or insulted.

  “Do you often put your life in danger in order to commune with your goddess?” Perhaps, after all, the Celts did such things differently from his own people. It made more sense than the other possibility. He watched her go back into the bedchamber, push the bluestone into one of her leather pouches and retrieve her cloak, which had slid onto the floor behind his casket. He followed her and swung the heavy material around her shoulders. The cold fear that had gripped him just moments before faded. Nimue’s eyes were focused; her balance restored and as far as he could tell no malignant spirit fought a battle for her body.

  She was still going to see Marcellus, though. And he hadn’t yet discarded the idea of taking her to the temple located within the garrison and offer sacrifice for her safety, just to be on the safe side.

  “My life wasn’t in danger.” There was a haughty note in her voice and his relief increased. With every word she uttered she sounded more like her usual self. How long would it take her to recall the way he’d ordered her back to his quarters earlier? He was sure she had no intention of letting that pass uncontested. “You weren’t supposed to discover me meditating. I wasn’t expecting you back for the midday meal.”

  His relief vanished. He’d last seen Nimue shortly before the midday meal, but that had been hours ago. Was she truly unaware that it was early evening? “How long did you commune with your goddess, Nimue?”

  She gave an impatient sigh as if his questions wearied her. “Not long. And the experience has left me famished.”

  He pulled open the door and led her outside. She paused, a frown on her face, and glanced up at the sky as if the position of the sun puzzled her. He knew Oracles could spend countless hours in trance and then behave as if mere moments had elapsed. The look on Nimue’s face suggested that she had no idea how long she’d been insensible and couldn’t fathom why the sun had moved so far to the western horizon.

  If she had inhaled the poppy before, she would know of its time-altering perceptions. If she was a Druid she wouldn’t look bemused by the fact many hours had passed since they had last spoken.

  As they made their way toward the Valetudinarium he almost convinced himself. But one fact hammered in the back of his mind, an insistent refrain. Abruptly he stopped and pulled Nimue toward him, uncaring of who might see or later comment. “What possessed you to smoke the opium as if you were a priestess?”

  Her eyes widened and for one eternal, tortured moment he saw guilt flare in her beautiful green depths. His chest constricted and heart slammed against his ribs in denial, and only years of rigorous training prevented him from reeling back in shock.

  I’m mistaken. There was no guilt in her eyes, only confusion. And she was right to be confused because how could he think to accuse her of being a priestess? To even suspect she was in any way connected to the Druid cult that had once polluted this corner of the Empire could result in her death.

  “I don’t know.” She sounded unsure, as if for the first time she was actually considering the matter. “My Goddess commanded it.” Still she did not sound entirely convinced and he gritted his teeth before he could ask any other probing question.

  Since when did the gods—or heathen goddesses in this case—demand such things from their ordinary followers? It was the kind of command they issued to the devoted, to those who dedicated their lives to serving the gods’ obscure wishes.

  To those who would know how to conduct themselves in the presence of immortals; those who were trained in the ways to channel demands from the deities to the common man.

&n
bsp; Nimue was no Druid. But others might see her differently. He couldn’t take the chance that her ill-advised use of the poppy could be misconstrued. The less people who knew of it the safer she would be. And while he trusted Marcellus with his life, he would trust no one but himself with Nimue’s.

  “Say nothing of this to Marcellus.” He kept his voice low, his gaze locked with Nimue’s and hoped that, for once, she would obey him without question. “Not everyone is willing to overlook the worship of foreign gods.”

  He wasn’t including Marcellus, but let her believe so if it would ensure she held her tongue. Then he saw her frown, recognized the question in her eyes, and belatedly recalled what he’d told her the other day.

  Rome embraced the gods of other cultures, so long as their own deities remained supreme. Would she remind him?

  “I understand.” There was a hushed tone in her voice that convinced him she truly did understand. That did not ease his mind. “I don’t know what possessed me, Tacitus. Arianrhod has never commanded me to do anything like that before.”

  Heedless of protocol he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and resumed walking. She spoke of her goddess not as if she were an unreachable deity to be worshipped from afar, but as though they were on intimate terms.

  He tried to shove the word from his mind but it lingered all the same.

  Priestess.

  Was it possible to be a Celtic priestess yet not be a cursed Druid as well? The question hovered on the tip of his tongue but he swallowed the words.

  He didn’t want to know.

  Chapter 24

  As Tacitus led her into the healer’s dwelling, a surprisingly large structure, Nimue’s heart hammered against her breast and her stomach churned with nerves at what a foolish, irresponsible risk she’ taken.

  But when she’d returned to her body, she’d thought only moments had passed while she had trembled before Gwydion and seen the mystical message in the cloudy sky. She had never intended for Tacitus to find the evidence of what she’d done, much less discover her in such a disoriented state.

  She’d seen the question in his eyes. Yet he hadn’t accused her outright. Did that mean she’d deflected his suspicion? Or was it merely her own guilt at her reckless behavior she had seen reflected back at her?

  Perhaps the thought that she was an acolyte, a Druid in training, had truly not crossed his mind. If it had surely he wouldn’t have wound his arm around her shoulders. His loyalty to Rome would demand he take her to his commander where she would be interrogated and tortured until they decided to crucify her.

  The pit of her stomach knotted, causing familiar waves of dread to burn through her veins. She wanted to believe that Tacitus didn’t suspect her but she couldn’t fully believe it. Because if so, why had he warned her against telling Marcellus the truth of what she’d been doing?

  As they entered the building a faint scent of astringent lingered in the air. Distracted from her troubling thoughts she gazed at the scrubbed floor and then looked up along the passageway. It appeared that many rooms inhabited this dwelling. How different it was from the sacred glades or simple huts where her people tended the sick.

  They were shown into a small room that looked to be Marcellus’ private office. How dearly these Romans loved their offices, but unlike Tacitus’ one back at his quarters there were no detailed maps of the area on the wall. Instead there were astonishingly accurate portrayals of the human body.

  Fascinated, Nimue stared, once again forgetting her current precarious predicament. She knew Romans had a better grasp of healing than her people gave them credit for, but it appeared their knowledge in matters of the internal body was also more advanced than she’d imagined.

  If only she and Marcellus could talk as one healer to another. Less than a moon ago, she would have scorned the thought that a Roman might teach her anything when it came to the healing arts but now she was not so close-minded.

  The thought might be sacrilege to her people but the thirst for knowledge was ingrained into the fabric of her being. Yet even as she harbored the fragile hope, she knew it was futile.

  She wouldn’t be here long enough to learn anything of significance, even if she was permitted to barter her knowledge in exchange.

  “Medicine intrigues you.” Tacitus’ hand slid along the length of her arm before resting possessively over her hip. She turned to him and didn’t even try to hide how fascinating she found the contents of this room.

  “I love learning new ways to heal.” The knowledge of the Druids was vast and went back countless generations. How ancient was the knowledge of the Romans? “My grandmother was a revered healer. I knew I wanted to follow her path when I was but three summers old.”

  His lip quirked, clearly amused that she had been so strong-minded at such a tender age. “How fortunate you were permitted to follow your heart’s desire.”

  Although he smiled, there was something in his tone that intrigued her.

  She threaded her fingers through his as they cradled her hip. “Did you not always wish to be a great Roman warrior, Tacitus?” She’d taken it for granted that he was following his choice of career. But then, what did she truly know of a Roman’s choice of career?

  “My career was preordained before I was even conceived.” He gave a short laugh but he didn’t sound especially amused anymore. “My mother wishes me to secure an excellent military record and then progress to the highest echelons of the Senate.”

  It was the second time he’d referred to his mother in such a manner that clearly showed how deeply he respected her. While she admired him for it, she couldn’t help wondering about his father. “And what does your father wish for you?”

  He gave her an oddly haunted look, although she couldn’t imagine why her question appeared to wound him. “That is my father’s wish.” There was a hollow note to his voice that pierced her heart. “My mother’s dearest desire is that I please him.”

  Nimue couldn’t tear her gaze from him. It was wrong that his evident familial conflict touched her so, but it did. And the fleeting glimpse of vulnerability that had flickered in his eyes at the mention of his mother’s dearest desire tormented her. Why was he so torn between his parents’ ambitions for his future when both his mother and father appeared to be in accord?

  “But what do you want to do with your life, Tacitus?”

  He stared at her and she had the strangest certainty that no one had ever asked him that question before. She held her breath, prayed to her Goddess that Marcellus wouldn’t appear yet, and willed Tacitus to tell her his deepest, darkest secret.

  “I intend to go into law,” he said at last and she frowned, bemused. That didn’t sound so terribly rebellious or shocking to her. “And for that, naturally, I need an excellent military record and influential support from members of the Senate.” There was no mistaking the edge of contempt in his words. It was obvious the fact he was required to follow his father’s designated career path, in order to secure his own, rankled.

  She tried to see it from his view, but couldn’t. As a matter of course, Druids learned all aspects of their culture that had evolved since the time of Creation, including the intricacies of their laws. An acolyte specialized according to their special gifts and the will of their heart, but it didn’t stop them from becoming an esteemed scholar in more than one discipline.

  And then something occurred to her. “Your father doesn’t wish you to practice your laws? Is it not an honorable career in Rome?”

  “No, it’s an honorable career path. But whereas my father wishes me to use my time in the courts as a stepping stone in my political advancement, I intend it to be far more than that.”

  “More?” Enthralled, Nimue leaned toward him, delighting in the evocative scent of leather and forests and horse that emanated from him. “What do—”

  Her question lodged in her throat as the door swung open and Marcellus entered. She swallowed her disappointment, along with the haunting certainty that the moment had been
lost forever.

  Tacitus would never confide in her like that again. Because she could no longer delay making plans for the queen’s escape.

  “And how is my favorite patient?” Marcellus shot Tacitus a grin, clearly daring him to respond, but Tacitus remained silent, although his fingers tightened against her hip.

  “I’m recovering well.” Should she mention that she had taken the opium? It was, after all, the reason Tacitus had insisted they come to see the healer.

  “Nimue had a bad reaction to the opium.” Tacitus glanced at her and she understood what he was saying. Marcellus could know she had taken the opium, but not her method.

  Marcellus’ grin faded into a frown. “Were you nauseous? Disoriented?”

  “Yes,” Tacitus said before she could respond. “I merely want you to ensure that she is suffering from no lingering aftereffects.”

  Any other time she would have taken offense at the way he answered for her. But since she was not entirely certain how much to confide in Marcellus, she decided to hold her tongue. The look Tacitus shot her conveyed that he was both surprised and relieved at her forbearance.

  Marcellus continued to ask questions as he examined her shoulder and the back of her head where she’d hit it on the rock. Surely he would question why she’d taken the opium now when there was no need? But he didn’t.

  Finally he pronounced her well enough and she gave a silent sigh of relief. There was something she wanted to ask of him. It was the reason she hadn’t argued when Tacitus had suggested they visit Marcellus. And although there was no need—after all, she would be leaving soon and what did another night or two truly matter—she wanted to make the most of the time she had left with Tacitus.

  “There’s something else.”

  The two men turned and looked at her and she gave Tacitus a reassuring smile, since the alarm that flashed in his eyes was oddly endearing.

  “It’s unconnected to my injuries. But it’s a matter that I’ve wanted to speak with you about for some time.” Since she’d met Tacitus, and although it was only six days it somehow seemed she had known her Roman for so much longer than that.