Captive (The Druid Chronicles Book 2)

by Christina Phillips

  Openmouthed, she claimed his kiss, and closed her mind to the whispers that reminded her how ephemeral such pleasures could be.

  ***

  After breaking their fast the Gaul hauled her into a bone-tingling hug before setting off to do . . . whatever it was he intended to do for the day. Unable to wipe the satisfied smile from her face, Morwyn watched him stride down the dirt path. Unlike Camulodunon, this settlement didn’t groan beneath the weight of numerous Roman-constructed roads.

  With a sigh of contentment she turned in the other direction. It was too early to go to Deheune’s and meet with the hidden Elder. Perhaps, to distract her mind, she’d mend the gown her Gaul had torn from her the other night.

  The contentment segued into nervous excitement at the thought of meeting with another of her kind. But another part quavered. Suppose he saw into her innermost core, saw how she scorned the Morrigan and all their gods? Suppose he cursed her for her blasphemy?

  A furtive movement in the dingy alley next to the lodgings caught her eye. She frowned, and discerned a tiny shape crouching in the shadows.

  “Come here.” She accompanied her words with a quick flick of her hand. With evident caution the tiny beggar from last night edged into the light. Morwyn half stepped forward, then paused. She could almost feel the lice crawling over the child’s hair and skin and had no desire to pick up any bloodsucking creatures if she could avoid it.

  Pity slashed through her breast, sharp and acidic. Pity that a child had to live such a life, and pity that so little could be done about it. “Do you want something to eat?”

  The child chewed its lip, clearly unsure whether to take the question at face value.

  Of course it did. She raised her finger to indicate the child should remain where it was and went back inside and haggled with the innkeeper for some leftover stew from the previous eve. Then she watched the child devour the entire bowlful, scarcely taking time to draw breath.

  She returned the bowl, and the child still waited for Morwyn, eyes wide and dark and unblinking as if it were a puppy.

  Suddenly at a loss as to what she should do next, Morwyn stared at the child. She didn’t know why she had fed it, except she hadn’t been able to ignore the pitiful creature. But what would happen on the morrow? Or the day after that? What would happen when Morwyn was no longer here to feed the child?

  But she was here now. And she was still too early for the Elder. She might as well spend her time usefully. “Can you lead me to the river?” There had to be a river locally, and while she had no doubt she’d be able to find it, she might as well allow this child to show her the way.

  And without a word, it did.

  ***

  By the time they found a secluded spot at the river, Morwyn had decided the child was female. She pointed to the ground by the riverbank and waited until the child sat.

  “What’s your name?” Morwyn pulled her medicine bag from her shoulder and began to hunt through it for the ingredients she required. Frowning, she ran her fingers over her dwindling supply of willow bark. She’d have to replenish, and soon. It was a vital component of the contraceptive tea she drank throughout the day. She quickly checked another pouch, shaking the berries onto her palm. Not many, but they would have to do. They could be collected only when the berries turned black and the leaves fell from the trees, and that wouldn’t happen for another three moons.

  She retied the pouch, found what she was looking for and glanced up, to see the child watching her avidly. “Name?” Morwyn prompted.

  “Gwyn.”

  “I’m Morwyn. Where’s your mother?”

  Gwyn pushed greasy hair back from her face. “Dead.” A tremor belied her apparent calm. “Babe got stuck. I couldn’t . . . pull it out.”

  Morwyn’s fingers stilled on her preparations as a troubling scenario whispered through her mind. “Were you alone?”

  The girl gave one brief nod.

  It was inconceivable that a woman could go into childbirth with only a small child in attendance, and yet so much had changed since the invasion. Kin were splintered across the land and the familial support system she had grown up with and taken for granted could no longer be counted upon.

  “Don’t you have any living kin here?”

  The scrawny shoulders shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “What of your father?” And if Morwyn got hold of him, she would soon knock some sense of responsibility into him. Allowing his daughter to roam the streets where anything could happen.

  “Don’t know.” Gwyn wiggled her bare toes in the grass. “Never seen him.”

  “What about the babe’s father?” Even if the man wasn’t Gwyn’s blood father, how could he allow her to degenerate into such an appalling state?

  Gwyn began to dig a hole in the earth with the heel of her foot. “Ma never knew who the father was.” She shot Morwyn a furtive glance. “She said they were all the same to her.”

  “I see.” The child was alone, in occupied and hostile territory. She smothered her inclination to gather the girl to her breast for comfort because what comfort would she derive from a stranger?

  Besides, the child was riddled with lice.

  “You,” she said, deciding the best way to help was with action and not sympathy, “need to clean up.”

  Gwyn didn’t move. “Why?”

  Morwyn watched a louse crawl languidly across the child’s forehead and resisted the urge to scratch her own head. “Because you’re filthy.”

  Gwyn shrugged as if such an insult didn’t worry her. “Stops men wanting to fuck me.”

  Again acidic pain slashed through Morwyn’s heart. The child looked scarcely eight summers old. “No man will dare touch you while you’re under my protection.”

  Gods! What had she just said? How had she given her protection to this pitiful creature when she didn’t plan on staying for more than a few days—a moon at most?

  But how could she not protect her, when it was obvious no one else would?

  Gwyn blinked and began to scratch her neck, where red weals marked the passage of countless fleas. “All right, then.” She didn’t appear overwhelmed by Morwyn’s declaration. But she proved adept at obeying her instructions, and as the sun climbed in the heavens Morwyn pulled out the small blanket she carried in her bag. It wasn’t entirely clean but would do for her purposes. As Gwyn knelt by the river, her naked body scrubbed red raw and grease-smeared hair hanging over her face as she combed out the lice, Morwyn deftly turned the blanket into a serviceable gown.

  It wasn’t much, but better than the rags she’d told Gwyn to throw into the bushes.

  “Let me look at you.” She studied Gwyn’s appearance. The child’s hair, now rinsed, fell to her shoulders and was no longer crawling alive. Morwyn would ensure the child treated her hair again in the morn, explain how the cycle could not afford to be broken. It was, after all, a basic hygiene necessity.

  She handed Gwyn the gown and repacked her bag. If she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for the Elder.

  ***

  Deheune greeted her with the same deference she’d extended the previous day, and was happy for Gwyn to stay.

  “She can help tend the babe,” Deheune said, smiling at Gwyn, who now wore Morwyn’s scarlet ribbon in her tightly braided black hair. Then she turned back to Morwyn. “If you’re ready, mistress?”

  Morwyn hesitated at the door and glanced back at Gwyn. She was sitting on the hard-packed earthen floor tickling the babe’s tummy and wiggling his toes and, save for her evident undernourishment, looked nothing like the pathetic creature hiding in the alley that morn.

  Unsure why she had the oddest reluctance at leaving the child behind, Morwyn sucked in a deep breath, checked her favorite green ribbon was perfectly tied at the end of her braid, and followed Deheune out of the dwelling.

  The older woman led her through a confusing warren of back alleys, and finally came to a halt outside another small shack. She gave a strange combination of knocks on the doo
r, and instantly the door jerked open.

  Another woman, who looked vaguely familiar, bobbed her head at Morwyn.

  “Mistress. It’s good to see you again.”

  “And you.” Morwyn couldn’t recall her name, doubted if they had even spoken in the past. But even so, this woman knew her because of her status. Her calling.

  “The Elder awaits you.” The woman led Morwyn through the tiny room. The back half had been partitioned, to give privacy, and without another word the woman turned and left the shack with Deheune, leaving Morwyn alone.

  Hands suddenly sweaty, she wiped them on her gown and approached the gap that served as a door between the end of the partition and the outside wall. Now that she was here she didn’t know what she was supposed to say to him. Would he interrogate her about that night? It seemed likely. All the Druids who’d turned up on Mon had been morbidly fascinated by the events of that night, apparently uncaring that for those who had lived through the horror, the last thing they wanted to do was relive those blood-soaked moments.

  “Hurry up, child.” The voice was strong, autocratic. “Stop dithering.”

  She gripped her wavering courage and stepped into the Druid’s presence.

  He sat on a bed in the corner, amber eyes blazing at her from a wizened face, his wasted body twisted by the ravages of aged disease. The breath lodged in her throat, power hummed through her mind, and she fell to her knees, head bent.

  He was not merely an Elder. He possessed royal blood. She could feel it, smell it. His aura of power and otherworldliness clung in the air as tangible as the scent from newly turned earth.

  He was as worthy of her reverence as Druantia, her queen and beloved matriarch; the Chosen One and blood descendant of the Morrigan herself.

  “Rise, child.” There was the faintest hint of approval in that voice, a voice that was so shockingly at odds with his appearance. His intense gaze never left her face as she rose from the ground. “Not yet fully trained but the great goddess has already marked you as her own. What’s your name?”

  Blood scalded her cheeks. Before the invasion she’d had a special affinity with the Morrigan, their great goddess. But the Morrigan had never specifically marked Morwyn as her own. And after the way she’d debased the goddess’ gifts, the Morrigan never would.

  She hoped the Elder hadn’t read her discomfort in her expression. She would never wish to dishonor such a wise one with her personal doubts. Even if his wisdom wasn’t as faultless as he believed.

  “Morwyn, my king.” He wasn’t, of course, really her king. But his rank was unmistakable, and since she didn’t know his formal name it was only courteous to address him as such.

  He appeared satisfied by her response. “Why did the Morrigan lead you to me?”

  She hesitated, unwilling to admit the Morrigan had led her nowhere and she wouldn’t follow her even if the goddess demanded it. There were ways around the truth without having to outright lie. “I traveled from the sacred Isle of Mon,” she began. “To gather . . . information.”

  His eyes bored into her, fierce and proud, containing all the power of his rank that his body could no longer employ. She had the overwhelming urge to squirm, to break eye contact, but instead she remained frozen in place, accepting his scrutiny.

  “And what”—his voice was low but power still thrummed through every word—“information have you discovered, Morwyn?”

  Prickles skittered over her arms and her jagged pulses hammered, igniting her blood with streaks of alarm. Somehow he knew of her liaison. Knew of her betrayal.

  I haven’t betrayed my people.

  Mouth dry, she pressed her hands against her thighs so he wouldn’t see how they shook. “I discovered my princess is content and happy.”

  Confusion flashed across his face. “Another Druid of royal blood resides in this cursed place?” He reached out and clasped bony fingers around the sacred hazel rod propped against the bed. “She conceals herself from me.” He didn’t sound impressed by the feat, as if such action were a mortal insult.

  “My king, she resides in Camulodunon.”

  Silence crackled in the air. He stared at her and again she forcibly prevented herself from squirming. He made her feel like a small child, caught out in some misdemeanor.

  “You left the sacred Isle in order to travel to Camulodunon?” He leaned forward, using his hazel rod to support his weight, and Morwyn shifted, unease snaking through her. Had she said something untoward?

  “That wasn’t my intention. I—I wanted to discover the whereabouts of the Briton king, Caratacus.”

  His eyes continued to blaze into her and her brain heated with sharp stabs of pain, as he probed, unasked, to discover hidden secrets in her mind. Instinctively she smothered the image of her Gaul, swirling layer upon layer of disconnected shreds of memory across her consciousness. The Elder’s eyes narrowed as if he knew precisely what she was doing.

  “Why would the Morrigan allow you safe passage to Camulodunon?” It was a question, but not intended for her. She remained silent, heart thudding with trepidation. It would be better if he assumed she’d gone there by the Morrigan’s decree. He’d never understand why she’d accompanied an auxiliary of the Roman Legion without cutting his throat at the first opportunity.

  Finally his grip relaxed around his hazel rod and he sank back against the wall. “You’ll understand her reasons when the time comes.” He spoke with authority as if in answer to her question. Except she didn’t have a question because the Morrigan had nothing to do with it. But, to alleviate any suspicion he might harbor, she inclined her head as a mark of respect.

  He regarded her in silence for a few moments. “You want to find Caratacus?”

  Relief spun through her at the realization that he hadn’t discovered her deepest secrets and branded her a traitor or blasphemer. “Yes. And then I can return to Mon and the other Druids will follow.”

  Was that a flicker of contempt in his eyes? She stiffened with affront, the memory torturing her of how she and her fellow Druids had been manipulated by Aeron into hiding from the invaders instead of confronting them from the outset.

  Her jaw angled with pride. “My fellow Druids will leave Mon and join with the rebels. Caratacus will be grateful for the vast amount of knowledge and expertise we bring with us.”

  The Elder’s lips twitched as if her words amused him. Had she mistaken that contempt in his eyes? Or had he misunderstood her original statement?

  “Caratacus,” he said, his tone dry, “has Druids enough to advise him already.”

  “Druids from Britain.” The words were out before she could prevent them, before it occurred to her that this Elder himself might be a Briton. Silently she cursed her wayward tongue. “I mean no disrespect. But if Caratacus hides in our forests and mountains, the Druids of Cymru will be invaluable to him.”

  “Our Druids,” the Elder said, “are invaluable to him.”

  Only then did the significance of the Elder’s words penetrate. He was speaking as though he had intimate knowledge of Caratacus’ inner circle. How else would he know the Briton surrounded himself with Druids? And Druids of Cymru at that?

  “My king.” Her whisper was barely audible. “Do you know where I may find him?”

  The Elder’s fingers caressed his hazel rod, as if considering her question. “On the night of devastation, when your High Priest spewed his wrath across the land, not all the power was contained within Cerridwen’s Cauldron.”

  Morwyn remained silent. She hadn’t borne witness to that phenomenon, but had pieced together the remaining events of that night from the fragmented stories other Druids had brought to the Isle of Mon. Somehow, with her wise goddess Cerridwen’s blessing, Carys had defeated Aeron’s intended plans.

  “Splinters of the sacred bluestones used in his”—the Elder paused for a moment, as if searching for the right word—“extraordinary spiral of deflection he conjured to conceal you all from the enemy came into my possession.”

&nb
sp; Comprehension flooded, banishing the air from her lungs, and she swayed as vertigo cascaded through her mind.

  “You’ve harnessed the source of Annwyn?” Panic spiked through her heart as she recalled Aeron’s insane face that night, as he’d told them of his twisted designs. Of how he had used their gods for his own ends, while secretly tapping the Universal Life Force in a bid to destroy their deities and rule supreme.

  For a fleeting moment she saw envy, greed and covetousness gleam in the Elder’s strange amber eyes, and terror slithered through Morwyn’s soul. Was this the reason he had deigned to see her this day? Because he thought she possessed the knowledge their High Priest had abused so utterly?

  The Elder smiled. It wasn’t particularly friendly, as if he could read her mind as easily as her facial expressions and found her fears pitiable.

  “Alas, the knowledge to harness the Source died with your High Priest. While I could, doubtless, replicate his spiral under normal circumstances, these conditions are scarcely . . . conducive.”

  Thank the gods for that. She might not think much of her gods anymore but even they were immeasurably preferable to a mortal grasping such power within his hands.

  “But.” His fingers once again gripped his hazel rod. “The splinters of bluestone hummed with otherworldly energy. Enough for me to create a small enclave hidden deep in the forests, its location indiscernible unless one knows precisely where to look.” He leaned forward, the wild glitter in his eyes verging on madness. “And that, child, is where Caratacus and his followers hide, protected by ancient Druid magic.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  As Morwyn made her way back to Deheune’s shack, her brain thudded with the information the Elder had imparted. She now had detailed instructions on how to find Caratacus, and the Elder assumed she intended to leave immediately.