The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  “But you’re coming with me.” It was an imperious command and she slung her bow over her shoulder so that she could grab his hand. “There will be no need for me to find you because we’ll be together.”

  He jerked back from her touch. “How can we be together? We come from different worlds. In my world, you’re a slave. This is the only way I can set you free.”

  Denial prickled along her flesh. This wasn’t how it was meant to be.

  “You can’t go back.” The words condemned her but she didn’t care if he found them suspicious. He couldn’t return. “Your place is by my side. You know this.”

  A strange, tortured smile twisted his lips. “Even if you’d agreed to become my concubine, in your eyes you and our child would never be free. Yet that’s the best I can offer you.” He pulled from her grasp and stepped back. “Stay safe, Nimue. Tell our child that I wish I could have known him.”

  “But—” Horrified at how her plans were turning to ash before her eyes, she watched Tacitus turn his back. “You can’t leave.” She sounded desperate. She didn’t care. How could she stop him? By throwing her dagger and felling him to his knees? What good would that be? She darted after him and grasped his cloak. “My Goddess has tied our destinies together.”

  He paused and looked at her. Her heart ached. How could he walk away from her? Was this the last time she’d ever look at his face? Into his eyes?

  “Your goddess of the moon.” It wasn’t a question. “It’s not me she wants. It’s you. All the time I’ve enslaved you, the skies have been dark. But I’m not doing this for a faceless goddess I know nothing about. I do this for you. If I took you back to Rome, your status would destroy you from the inside out.” For a brief, heartbreaking moment he cradled her face between his hands. “I won’t be responsible for crushing your spirit, Nimue, the way my father so carelessly crushed the spirits of my two beloved mothers.”

  He released her but she could still feel the imprint of his fingers on her face as he once again turned away. Fragmented denials screamed through her mind. You’re nothing like your father. But the words remained locked inside, pounding against her skull, thundering through her veins.

  She had asked him to stay. And he had refused. For a terrifying instant, she saw herself on her knees, begging him not to go, imploring him to choose her and their child.

  Pride stiffened her spine. She was a Druid and it didn’t matter if her heart was breaking or her soul weeping. She wouldn’t have Tacitus’ last memory of her as a weak woman clinging to his boots. Then he glanced over his shoulder and their gazes meshed.

  Her resolve wavered. What did her pride matter if it meant Tacitus would stay? But the words lodged in her throat, her knees refused to buckle and the pride of her foremothers forbade the tears to fall.

  He would leave her as he had found her. A warrior of Cymru.

  Chapter 33

  It was late afternoon before Tacitus returned to the garrison. Despite having left a message for his commander, he knew his exemplary military record would now be blighted for having taken the day off without leave. The knowledge made no impact on him at all.

  He strode toward the commander’s quarters, refusing to think of anything but the absolute present. Because if he let his guard down, the last image he had of Nimue, her beautiful green eyes glittering with unshed tears, haunted every shadowy corner of his mind.

  “Enter.” The commander’s curt tone matched his expression when Tacitus pushed open the door.

  Tacitus saluted but the older man continued to glare at him. There was no point in delaying tactics. The commander would discover what he’d done sooner or later.

  “I request the manumission of Nimue.”

  Only as the words left his mouth did he realize that on the last occasion his commander had spoken to him of Nimue, manumission was the word that had been used. He had no idea why his commander desired Nimue’s manumission and it didn’t matter. She was beyond his reach now.

  Shock flashed across the older man’s face, but within a heartbeat he had regained his previous dark glare. “Granted. Bring her to me.”

  “I require her formal manumission first.” He had no intention of angering his commander by telling him Nimue was no longer in the garrison. Not before she’d been formally freed.

  For a moment he thought he had gone too far. The commander’s eyes narrowed as though he considered Tacitus’ words a direct threat to his authority. But then, just as swiftly, his expression lost its hostility.

  “That can be arranged. No one need know that she wasn’t present at the official signing of the documents.” He pulled sheets of papyrus across his desk. “What’s your price for this, Tacitus?”

  His gut knotted. It was degrading enough that he had bought Nimue. He wouldn’t further soil his soul by selling her. “She is beyond price.”

  The commander shot him a look that he couldn’t decipher. As if he had read too much into that statement. Fuck, why had he said anything at all? He just wanted this over so that he could get on with his life.

  A life without Nimue.

  “You care for her.” The commander’s voice was oddly gruff. “I will remember that, Tribune.”

  Tacitus glared at the older man as he returned to his documents. He had no wish for the commander to assume he knew anything about Tacitus’ feelings for Nimue. And what in Hades did he mean by he would remember it?

  The only thing the commander was likely to remember about this encounter was that Tacitus had illegally freed a slave. But once the documents were signed, there was little that could be done about it.

  Finally, the commander handed him the documents and Tacitus scrutinized them before making them official. He straightened, and looked his commander in the eye. He had no intention of lying, but neither did he particularly want to raise his commander’s ire unnecessarily.

  “I’ll arrange for Nimue to be returned to her people.”

  The commander stood. “I’ll accompany you. I look forward to seeing her reaction to such news.”

  Two thoughts hammered through Tacitus’ head. First, he would have to tell the commander that Nimue was already with her people. And second—there was something very odd about the commander’s entire attitude when it came to Nimue.

  He straightened his already rigid spine. “She is no longer under Roman control.”

  Tension crackled in the air as the commander stared at him. Finally he exhaled a measured breath, clearly battling for some degree of control.

  “Where is she, Tribune?”

  “Back where she belongs.”

  The commander’s jaw clenched. “You let her go?”

  “Yes, sir.” If the commander chose to make an example of Tacitus, he would require the influence of his powerful family to prevent dire consequences. How ironic that his father should be the one to assist in Tacitus’ only time of need, considering the actions that had led him here.

  To Hades with it. He’d rather be disgraced than call on his father for nepotistic intervention.

  “You let her go.” The commander slammed his hands onto his desk and leaned forward. He looked furious yet there was a strange undertone of awe in his voice. “Despite how you feel about her?”

  Curse all the gods in existence. Why was his commander fixated on the thought that Nimue meant something to Tacitus? Was it truly so obvious?

  “Rome would destroy her.”

  His commander looked at him as though he’d never seen him before. As if he had just experienced a terrible revelation from the gods themselves. Slowly he sat down and once again, it appeared that he aged before Tacitus’ very eyes.

  “Yes.” His voice was hollow and there was a glazed look in his eyes. “Rome destroyed her. As she always claimed it would.”

  Who was the commander speaking of? Unease mounted and when finally the older man jerked his head in dismissal, relief washed through Tacitus and he made good his escape.

  * * *

  Nimue stood in the center of
the small glade in the forest. A circle of massive bluestones surrounded the edge of the glade and an earth-covered dolmen had been constructed countless generations ago. It had been used for sacred rituals during the time Caratacus and his rebels had hidden from the Romans, and an elusive sense of otherworldly power swirled in the air.

  She stared up into the night sky, but only blackness loomed. Not even a glimmer of silver pierced the canopy of cloud. Yet there hadn’t been a single cloud during the day and there was no scent of rain.

  The women and children who had been captured by the Romans had arrived safely in the enclave. Several others, from various tribes, had also found their way back from the battleground and they’d all greeted her as their savior.

  Tomorrow was the full moon. It was the night she was to perform the sacred rituals to restore the magical protection to the enclave. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t the first idea what she was supposed to do. She knew that, when the time came, the knowledge would be hers.

  Would the skies finally clear? Would Arianrhod, in all her shining magnificence, once again grace the night?

  Her Goddess hadn’t come to her since Nimue had returned to the enclave, despite how fervently she’d prayed. Was it because Arianrhod knew that Nimue’s heart was no longer committed to ridding Cymru of the enemy? Because she knew her acolyte had already given her heart to the enemy?

  * * *

  The following morn, as Nimue purified her body in preparation for the coming night, the dark sense of malignancy that had haunted her for the last two days magnified. Her stomach churned, her palms were sweaty and it wasn’t her imagination—the forest was unnaturally silent. It didn’t feel as if freedom beckoned on the horizon. It felt like a terrifying abyss threatened to destroy everything she had ever known.

  Or was that simply her crippling guilt attempting to rationalize how close she was to betraying her Goddess, her heritage and her people?

  With shaky fingers, she undid one of her small leather pouches and took out the brooch Tacitus had given her. Even looking at it caused her heart to ache and she curled her fingers around it, unheeding of how the jewelry dug into her flesh.

  Tacitus, my love. She pressed her clenched fist against her naked breasts and saw, in her mind’s eye, her Roman’s face in the moment before he’d turned from her forever.

  How could she have let him go? Would agreeing to be his concubine have been so very dreadful? Yet how could she desert her people, the land of her birth, when they needed her most?

  Even if the terrible conviction that gripped her—that the promised devastation was wrong—didn’t feel as if it sprung solely from her own conflicted loyalties?

  But if that conviction was not entirely hers, then whose was it?

  Chapter 34

  “Glad to return to Rome.” Blandus scowled at the legionaries who were training on the field beyond the garrison. Tacitus grunted in response. Rome no longer held the appeal it had before the battle with Caratacus.

  Before he’d met Nimue.

  “The Senate,” Blandus continued, “is a far more civilized battlefield than those we encounter in these far-flung provinces. The facilities here are appalling. I’ve never endured such primitive conditions.”

  The facilities were barbaric when compared to what they were used to in Rome. In less than three months, Tacitus’ tour of duty would be over and his political career admirably advanced. With the fall of Caratacus, his military record glowed. He could pursue law, his long-held ambition.

  Or he could remain in the Legions.

  The thought pierced through his mind, as clear and sharp as if he had spoken the words aloud. For a moment he froze, disoriented by the power of the thought and the solid certainty that it wasn’t only a viable alternative…

  But his only alternative.

  In Rome, as his concubine, Nimue would wilt. But if he remained in the military and took posts throughout Britannia and Gallia, Nimue could remain in a more familiar environment.

  Still under the yoke of Rome. But at least she wouldn’t be stigmatized the way she would if he took her home.

  He’d already asked her to be his concubine. She had refused. Why did he think her answer would be any different now, simply because his plans for his future had changed?

  But he knew the answer already. It was because this time Nimue truly did have a choice. Because this time he’d ask her not when she was enslaved; he would ask her now that she was a free woman.

  * * *

  Dusk settled, drifting through the forest, malicious fingers of darkness unrelieved by a shimmer of silver from the skies. Even now, on this night, Arianrhod denied light to her people.

  A polished stone altar stood some distance from the dolmen. A fire burned in the center of the glade and from the light of the flames, Nimue watched the women, children and the handful of men who’d returned to the sanctuary daub ancient symbols onto their skin.

  Torches blazed at the four corners of the altar and Nimue pulled one from the ground. She knew exactly where the shard of bluestone she’d stolen needed to be placed, and yet an overwhelming compunction compelled her to ensure she knew the way.

  As she left the glade, she couldn’t fathom what she was doing. Did she intend to go through with the ritual tonight? Her Goddess refused to hear her pleas and Arianrhod would never forgive her for such betrayal. She would be struck down without mercy. Could she willingly sacrifice the life of her unborn child for the lives of Tacitus and her father?

  She pushed through the encroaching forest as despair seeped from her heart and corroded her soul. The life of her babe for the life of her lover. How could she live, knowing she was the one who had killed Tacitus? Yet how could she sentence his child to eternal torment for having defied a direct imperative from her Goddess?

  Something small and dark hurtled by her head and she gasped, fell to a crouch, her eyes straining to see beyond the flickering pool of light from her torch. Disbelief shuddered through her as the fleeting shadow imprinted into her brain.

  A young owl.

  Even as the thought formed, she heard a sickening thud and without thinking she rushed forward toward the sound. An ash tree loomed from the shadows and she stopped dead, momentarily paralyzed by the appearance of Gwydion in one of his majestic manifestations.

  The god had heard her treacherous thoughts. He had come in his sister-goddess’ stead to exact vengeance.

  Above the terrified pounding of her heart, she heard a rustle in the undergrowth. Her torch dipped and there, at the base of the ash tree, lay the injured owl.

  And slithering toward it, the dark spear shape on its head clearly visible, was an adder.

  “No.” She thrust the torch at the snake and instead of instantly vanishing back into the undergrowth it turned to her, fangs gleaming in the flickering light. Rage pumped through Nimue and, unheeding of the connection between god and tree and creature, she thrust the torch again until it abandoned its prey and disappeared.

  Nimue fell to her knees, plunged the tapered end of the torch into the ground and carefully scooped the owl into her hands. Its fragile heartbeat and unnatural stillness sent a new wave of terror thundering through her blood.

  How could an owl, the manifestation of Arianrhod, die at the hands of her own brother?

  Save them all. The feminine whisper that weaved through Nimue’s mind was not powerful, as it had been during the last vision she’d experienced. But ethereal fingers trailed along her arms as, this time, understanding of the cryptic words unfurled.

  Arianrhod did not speak only of the women and children who’d been captured by the Romans. She spoke of all the people of Cymru, both native and invader.

  The owlet’s eyes opened and in the flickering torchlight she saw the crescent moon gleam in the bird’s glassy stare. Mesmerized she watched as the crescent dimmed, became less defined; disappeared. And as the light died, so too did the owl’s heart.

  “Blessed Arianrhod.” Her whisper echoed through the trees
and the undergrowth stirred although there was no breeze. The elusive presence of her Goddess surrounded her, a fragile brush against her flesh, a mystical caress deep within her soul. Love flooded through her and warmth seeped into her veins, filled her heart and cocooned her womb. Arianrhod had come to her at last.

  Just as swiftly, darkness descended and ice speared through her breast. The terror returned but it was savage, unformed, and she glanced wildly around the shadowed forest in search of answers to unknown questions.

  It couldn’t be true. But despite her panicked denials, the last few moments hammered through her head in a constant refrain.

  She had watched Gwydion destroy Arianrhod. Her goddess hadn’t sent her brother god in her stead to visit Nimue during the last few days because she was angry with her acolyte. She had not sent Gwydion at all. And the only reason she’d failed to answer Nimue’s prayers was because, somehow, Gwydion had prevented it.

  It had been Gwydion who’d wanted her to take the opium. Only when she was under its influence could he penetrate her mind and manipulate her to his will. By taking the drug, she’d made it harder for Arianrhod to reach her. But still her Goddess had protected her. On the night before she and Tacitus had reached the fortification, she’d been consumed by the imperative to take the opium. Only the sight and haunting sound of an owl had prevented her from searching for the drug. Arianrhod had fought, in the only way she could, to keep her acolyte’s mind clear of Gwydion’s influence.

  Nimue had wanted to discover how the High Druid Aeron had manipulated the Source of Annwyn to his will. She’d been so certain that Aeron was a martyr, a hero to all the people of Cymru. That he had been following the will of the gods when he’d created the first magical enclave and attempted to cleanse Cymru of the invaders.