tween his army and the water. She had heard an old warrior say it was a
mistake to leave an enemy nowhere to run to. Once disembarked, the
Romans had no choice but to fi ght their way through their foe.
She was just turning to ask Ardanos if perhaps they ought to move
the healers’ wagon when suddenly a knot of struggling men surged
toward them. A javelin hurtled past and stuck quivering in the side of
the wagon. Ardanos snatched up a handful of dust and cast it outward
with a muttered spell. Suddenly the air was dark around them, the roar
of the battle like the growling of a distant storm.
One man only crashed through the barrier. As the Roman rolled to
his feet, sword waving, Lhiannon grabbed the javelin and batted wildly,
knocking him off balance. One of the wounded whom she had thought
on the point of death grabbed his ankle, and plunged a knife into his
throat as he fell. The Roman gurgled horribly as blood spurted from the
jugular, his eyes bulging with the same disbelief she had seen in the faces
of their own as they died. The stink as his sphincter released mingled
with the iron tang of blood. The Celt who had killed him was dead as
well, but his lips were drawn back in a snarling smile.
“Leave them!” snapped Belina. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
Mute, she nodded, sweeping the supplies into her veil. They would
be out of ban dages soon. As Cunitor and Ardanos guarded the rear, Be-
lina took the pony’s head and they creaked toward what they hoped was
the new edge of the killing field. Men with horses and chariots cantered
past them, ready in victory or defeat to carry their masters away.
Before them the ground fell away in a long slope to the east, where
pastureland was broken by thickets, around which the battle swirled as
floodwaters divide around snags in a stream. The healers set up their
new station in the shade, and soon they were hard at work once more.
They ran out of water, and when the local people who had come out to
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help came back with more, they said that the Roman boats lined the
shore for a mile. A swath of piled and scattered bodies showed where the
battle had rolled on. There were more Celts than Romans, they said.
Lhiannon hugged her arms, feeling suddenly very cold.
The setting sun was beginning to cast long shadows across the fi eld,
and the Druids had lit a torch so that the wounded could find them, when
the mass of struggling fi gures surged toward them once more. In another
moment they realized that all the warriors coming toward them were
Britons.
“They’re not fighting . . .” whispered Cunitor unbelievingly. “This
is a rout. We’ve lost . . .” His face was smudged with dust and blood, his
fair hair standing on end.
It can’t be true, she thought numbly. We tried so hard. We cannot lose
now! She started as Ardanos gripped her arm. Were the Romans com-
ing? A chariot lurched toward them across the field with as much speed
as its driver could coax from the tired horses. In another moment she
recognized the gilded harness and the black ponies, though without
them she would not have known the half- dozen weary men who stum-
bled along beside it for the splendid warriors who had followed their
king into battle only a few hours ago.
Lhiannon recognized the driver—she had seen Caratac in this state
two weeks before. Only now the emotion that contorted his features
was not fury but despair.
“Caratac,” said Ardanos, “are you—?” The question died on his lips
as Caratac pulled himself upright and they saw the body of Togodum-
nos sprawled beside him. Ardanos felt for a pulse at the king’s neck, then
passed his hands over the body, seeking to sense the energy there. Slowly
he straightened, hands dropping in defeat. “My lord,” he said more for-
mally, “the High King is dead.”
One of the warriors fell to his knees. Belina tried to hush him as he
began to wail.
“Let him be,” said Caratac tiredly. “No enemy will hear him. We
gave them a good savaging, but the Romans hold the field. Why should
they risk more men chasing us around in unfamiliar country in the
dark?”
More men were gathering around them. One by one they began to
72 D i ana L . Pax s on
kneel. “You are the oldest of Cunobelin’s sons now living,” said one of
them. “We are your men now.”
“Where shall we bury him?”
“Will you make a stand at Camulodunon?” came another question
from the dark.
“Take him home . . .” Caratac answered at last. “Build a mound for
him where our father lies.”
“Do not mourn. Togodumnos feasts now with his fathers in the
Blessed Isles,” said Ardanos, but his voice was thin with strain.
For a moment Caratac simply looked at him. “Did you think I was
weeping for my brother?” he said grimly. “Today, the dead are the lucky
ones. I weep for the living, for all of us who must still fi ght this war!”
He bent and kissed his brother’s brow, then gripped the heavy golden
torque, twisted it, and eased it off the dead man’s neck. The torchlight
flickered on the king’s face, and cutting through the blood and the dust
Lhiannon saw the glistening track of tears.
“Camulodunon cannot be defended,” he said harshly. “Not from
such as these.”
“You must go west,” Lhiannon heard herself saying, fatigue and sor-
row leaving her suddenly vulnerable to vision. “In the land of the Du-
rotriges there are fortified hills where you can take refuge. So long as the
tribes fight the Romans one by one they will fall. Build an alliance. If we
unite against them, the Romans cannot hold what they have won.”
Caratac nodded. He bent his head as if the heavy gold already
weighed him down and settled the torque he had taken from the neck of
Togodumnos around his own.
S I X
Boudica, thank the gods you are back!” cried Brenna. “Coventa’s
had another of her spells and we can’t wake her!”
Boudica dropped the bag of herbs she had gathered and ducked
through the door of the House of Maidens. Coventa was writhing on
her bed as Kea tried to hold her down.
“Coventa!” Boudica knelt by the bed and gripped the thin shoul-
ders, feeling the fine bones flex like those of a captive bird beneath her
hands. “Coventa, come back, my dear. It’s me, Boudica! I need you,
Coventa, talk to me!” Lhiannon could have fared into the spirit world to
find her; Boudica could only try to persuade her back to the world of
humankind.
Coventa drew a shuddering breath. “Blood . . .” she whispered.
“There’s so much blood . . .”
“Never mind that—it’s not yours.” Boudica tried to remember the
words Lhiannon used to bring someone out of a trance. She took Cov-
enta’s hand and rubbed it against the blanket. “Feel the bed beneath you,
feel the rough wool. That’s reality!” She felt a spurt of hope as
the girl’s
fingers moved. What else might serve? Lhiannon said that smell was the
oldest and deepest of the senses. She took a deep breath, seeking to iden-
tify the scents in the air.
“Now breathe, Coventa. Smell the woodsmoke from our fire. In the
fields the hay is almost ready to cut. Breathe in . . . and out . . .” She
pitched her voice low. “Smell the ripe grass, still warm from the sun.
You’re here on Mona, you’re safe here with me!” she added as the girl’s
breathing steadied. She could feel the tense muscles beginning to relax
beneath her hands.
“And with me . . .” another voice cut in smoothly. Boudica looked
up, eyes narrowing as she saw Helve’s tall figure in the doorway, silhou-
etted against the fading sky. One of her braids was still unpinned. The
74 D i ana L . Pax s on
strands wreathed down her neck in serpentine coils, like the lady with
snakes for hair in the tales told by Cunobelin’s Greek slave.
“You may go,” the priestess said in a lower voice. “I’ll take care of
her now . . .”
“I’ve almost got her calmed down—” Boudica began, but the au-
thority in Helve’s gesture had her on her feet before she could think of
resisting it. She moved back as Helve knelt by the bed and laid a white
hand on the girl’s brow.
“Coventa, daughter of Vindomor, I call you!”
Boudica took a step even though the priestess had not been speaking
to her.
The girl on the bed took a shuddering breath. “Lady, I hear . . .”
“You hear my voice, you hear my words, you will go as I bid you
and see as I say.”
“I hear and I obey,” came the faint answer.
Boudica stiff ened. Was this how Helve had been training her acolyte?
“Seek to the west, where the Romans march. What do you see?”
What was she doing? Was she going to force Coventa to endure
the horror all over again? Boudica bit her lip, gaining focus from the
pain.
“Blood and fire!” Coventa’s breath caught. “Bodies—”
“Let her go!” Boudica broke in. “Can’t you see how she suff ers?
She—”
“Be still!” It was the same blast of power Lugovalos had used to si-
lence Cloto, and like him, when she tried to protest Boudica found her
powers of speech locked tight.
“I have noticed, Boudica, that you have a strong instinct to protect
your friends. That is no bad thing, but you need to choose your fi ghts
wisely. There are some powers you cannot oppose, and you will only
end up hurting yourself if you try. I am one of them.”
Helve glanced back at Coventa, rather, thought Boudica, as a farmer
might consider a prize ewe.
“You must not meddle with what you cannot understand. When
the vision is allowed to run its course it passes and leaves the seer in
peace. But if you try to suppress it, the horror will remain in her soul
and return to haunt her. The child will take no harm.” Helve lifted one
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exquisitely arched brow. “Indeed, has she ever complained to you about
her work with me?”
Boudica shook her head. Now that she thought about it, she realized
that when they were together, Coventa scarcely spoke of her teacher at
all, but whether that was from respect, aversion, or because Helve had
suppressed her memories, she could not tell.
Helve’s lips twitched in scorn. Then, so sure of her power that she
did not even call to have Boudica removed, she turned to Coventa once
more.
“Coventa, child, rise above the battlefield. You are a bird, soaring
above a scene that has nothing to do with you. Fly higher, my dear one,
and tell me what the bird sees . . .”
The girl on the bed gave a long, shuddering sigh. “Night falls.
Women wander the field, looking for those they love. Men drag logs
to build pyres and the ravens feast on the slain.”
To Boudica, it was as if those black birds were caged somewhere
deep within. Dark wings beat at her awareness.
“Then the kings have lost the battle,” Helve said grimly. “Now you
must seek for Ardanos and his companions.”
“I see the Druids. They are moving northward from the great river.
In the wagon they follow lies the body of a man with a beard and brown
hair.”
“Togodumnos . . .” Helve sighed.
Held by the spell, Boudica shook where she stood. Denied physical
release, her rage exploded inward. In a moment it would break the bar-
rier that protected her identity. But it was no longer simply an emotion—
she could feel it taking a shape, coalescing into a being that could laugh
at the priestess’s spell. I am fury . . . it whispered. I am power. Let me fly
free!
“And what of the Romans?” asked Helve.
“They are building a bridge . . .” whispered Coventa. “They have
built a camp with a square palisade and there they stay. I see no more.”
Coventa shifted position with a sigh, the relaxation of sleep replacing
the intensity of trance.
The priestess sat back, frowning. In the small part of her mind that
remained her own, Boudica saw her arm lifting, and knew that in a
76 D i ana L . Pax s on
moment she would strike the woman down. Now her own terror
warred with that Other who had been born of her rage—or had She al-
ways been there, waiting only for the moment of stress that would break
the barriers that kept Her locked within? Her lips opened on a strangled
gasp, and Helve turned.
For a moment her eyes widened. Then she straightened, eyeing
Boudica as if she were a warrior confronting a foe. But then no one had
ever doubted the woman’s courage.
“Speak!” It was the same note that had bound Boudica’s tongue.
“Who are you? I did not call you here!”
The response was laughter. A woman’s laughter, laced with mock-
ery, that to Boudica’s relief began to transmute the rage.
“Did you not? Have you forgotten already the rite by which you
called Me at the Turning of Spring?”
The look of appalled recognition on Helve’s face went far to recon-
cile Boudica to this invasion of her spirit.
“Great Queen,” she murmured, with a dip of the head that might
have been intended as a bow.
“This is a strong mare you have bridled for Me,” said the Other—
Cathubodva, thought Boudica, as appalled as Helve as she realized Who
ruled her body now. The Goddess rose a little on Boudica’s toes and
stretched out Her arms as if trying to expand the girl’s body enough to
fi t comfortably inside.
“But I can see that was not your intent. Indeed, very little you Druids
have done this past year has had the results you expected. Is that not so?”
Boudica had seen Mearan speak with the Voice of the Goddess at
festivals, but carrying the gods was only done by the most se nior Druids,
and then only within the strict boundaries of ritual. And even for them it
was not clear whether this should be considered a
burden or a privilege.
“You speak true,” said Helve.
“Always,” replied the Goddess, “when I am asked. But you did not
ask, did you? You did not seek My wisdom. You invoked My wrath,
which explodes like a wildfire and burns all in its way.”
“But it worked! You terrifi ed the Romans into mutiny!”
“Until they found their courage once more,” Cathubodva agreed.
“All the stronger because it lay on the other side of their fear.”
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Boudica felt her body relaxing as the Goddess settled into it and
moved to a bench that stood against the wall to sit, one leg bent and the
other outstretched.
“But what else could we have done? What else can we do now?”
Helve wailed.
“What you cannot do is to keep things as they have been. All things
alter, one transforming into another until the world itself is changed.
Bend or break—it’s up to you.” Once more, Cathubodva laughed.
From the corner where awareness lurked, Boudica listened in fasci-
nation. Was this truly the Goddess speaking, or her own suppressed
desires? It was true that some of these thoughts had crossed her mind,
but she did not think she could have expressed them, or at least not with
such assurance and power.
“Very well,” said Helve sullenly. “I am listening.”
“Such obedience! Such awe!” the Goddess laughed. “You do not
bend your neck easily, priestess, and these days there are few to make
you. This child whose body I have taken is more like you than either of
you would care to admit. Even the years allotted you are the same.”
“Then I will spend them fighting to preserve our learning and our
lore,” Helve replied.
“And not your own position and power?”
The priestess grew very still. “The prestige of the High Priestess
serves our cause. Is it so wrong to enjoy it?”
“If you remember that it is the High Priestess, not Helve, to whom
the honor belongs,” Cathubodva replied, more gently than she had spo-
ken before.
“It will not matter whether I do or not if the Romans destroy us all.”
“Do you think you are the first to pray to the gods for help when an
invader set foot on these shores?” She was not laughing now. “Once it
was your people who were the enemy. One day the Romans will face an
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