by Jules Watson
‘My love.’ Caitlin placed a tiny hand on his huge shoulder. ‘Of course we will all come. We don’t know what has happened to him. It is safer this way.’
‘No!’ Conaire whirled on her. ‘I’m not losing you, too. I let him down and it is for me to find him!’
Rhiann took a step closer. ‘Conaire, I understand. But if he is in trouble, you will need warriors. And if he is hurt,’ she swallowed, ‘then you’ll need me, too.’
‘And I’m not letting you go anywhere without me!’ Caitlin put in, suddenly fierce. As Conaire tried to argue, she stamped her foot. ‘No, and no! If you try to leave me here, son of Lugaid, then by the Goddess, I’ll follow you and … and if I get lost then it will be your fault!’
There was an exasperated sob from Conaire, and Caitlin ran into his arms. Over her sister’s head, Rhiann saw that his eyes were wet.
Of course, not a single one of Eremon’s men would stay behind in the dun. After the initial shock had worn off, Conaire took charge, adding ten Epidii warriors to the already substantial band. He also sought out two of the best trackers.
Rhiann gathered every salve or brew to help wounds and fevers, plus rolls of linen bandages. Of course, perhaps he had just fallen from his horse. But her healer’s instinct told her what to take, even while her conscious mind tried to shut out the possibilities. It would not be a mere sprained ankle; she sensed it.
Within a day they were ready to go. Cù seemed to know what they were doing, and paced back and forth from the gate to the yard as they saddled up, whining. But despite his desperation to get back to Eremon, Rhiann left him with Aedan, since with the recent gap in the snows they could easily follow Eremon’s tracks.
Luckily, Eremon had wandered up the slopes to the east without going near another dun, where his prints would have become lost. For two days they followed him, up and down ridges and hollows where no one else rode during the moons of the long dark. Although more snow had fallen, Dòrn’s hoof-prints were still clear.
Rhiann looked down at them from Liath’s back as they passed, sick in her belly. He had come this way not so long before. Tired, perhaps, alone, angry.
But alive. Breathing.
At last they stood on a mountain spur that marked the edge of the settled Epidii lands. The actual borders were further to the south, but the Romans had been roving those lands from their new forts, and many southern people had abandoned their farmsteads to seek the protection of the northern chieftains. Yet Eremon’s tracks went down the ridge and led up a wide glen, a fine, wavering thread against the snow.
Conaire straightened from peering at the ground, holding his bridle. ‘Why, by the gods, did he go south? There are no more duns, no steadings, even. Why?’
Rhiann thought about the look she had seen lurking in Eremon’s eyes that last day, and suddenly recognized what it was: despair. But what could she say to Conaire? She had been the last person to see Eremon. Was it something she said or did that had propelled him to seek this danger? She cleared her throat. ‘We all know that he has been … restless. Perhaps he felt he had more to prove.’
Conaire kicked at a drift of snow. ‘Well, when I find him, the first thing I’ll do is throttle him.’
In another two days they were at the border, where the Highlands ended and the Lowlands began that led to the Clutha. Still Eremon’s tracks continued. They found his camps, saw his pacings. They even saw faint, older signs of Roman patrols. But Eremon did not stop and turn back.
‘It is likely that since the snows the Romans have bedded down,’ Conaire said one night, as they huddled in their leather lean-to, swathed in sheepskins. He looked over at Rhiann and Caitlin. ‘I do not want you to come any further, but short of tying you up, there is little I can do.’ He smiled wearily. ‘In the absence of Eremon, I act for him. I don’t suppose you’ll do as your lords and husbands command, will you?’
As one, Rhiann and Caitlin shook their heads.
Conaire sighed. ‘I did not think so.’
Their goal, when they reached it, was a shock. As they moved south, Conaire sent the trackers ahead, since they were best at staying hidden. And so it was that one of them came scrambling back down a narrow glen, to where the others had made a fireless camp. The day was dark with cloud, and flakes of snow were being driven against the rocks above by icy blasts of wind.
‘I’ve found something,’ the tracker reported breathlessly.
Rhiann ducked out from the lean-to. ‘What?’
‘Just below the ridgeline he stopped. He dismounted … he was not taking care.’ The man began to draw in the air. ‘Roman feet sweep up from the trees, here. There was a scuffle, the ground is marked with foot and hoof prints.’ He paused, glancing at Rhiann. ‘There are traces of blood.’
A chill swept over Rhiann.
‘And what else?’ Conaire’s voice was hoarse.
‘The Roman tracks and the horse continue south-east. I followed the trail as far as I dared without coming out into the open. There is more blood, but not a lot, along the way.’
Conaire sighed. ‘Then they have him alive, though wounded.’
The trackers were sent to seek the destination of the patrol, but no amount of pleading on anyone’s part broke Conaire’s determination to stay where they were. ‘We’re not moving until I know for sure that every last Roman is tucked up in bed.’
That afternoon one of the trackers returned. ‘There is a new fort, in the middle of a pass. The patrol has gone there. No one is out on foot now. No one has left there since they arrived with the prince.’
Rhiann stood among the bare trees, snowflakes catching in the wisps of hair that escaped her sheepskin hood. The pass below was a blanket of white, broken only by the dark tussocks of frost-blasted sedge. In the middle, the Roman fort reared up defiantly, yet was dwarfed by the immensity of the encircling hills.
From where she stood, Rhiann could just make out the snow-filled ditch that surrounded it, echoing the dark line of timber palisade and gate tower. Behind the gate, two long, thatched buildings crouched.
‘It is no more than thirty paces along each side.’ Conaire was beside her, and behind, Caitlin struggled through the snow-drifts towards them, barely visible in a white wolfskin cape. ‘Surely it only holds four score soldiers! We must storm it now – who knows what they are doing to him!’
His voice cracked again, and Rhiann looked up, noting the dark circles under his eyes. She put a hand on his arm. ‘Perhaps brute force is not the way, Conaire. Do not endanger Eremon’s life through rash acts.’
Anger flooded Conaire’s face; the first time he had ever looked at her that way. He was indeed suffering. ‘If you mean trying more trickery, well, that has its place. Eremon himself takes that path – don’t I know it! But Eremon is not here!’
His face twisted, and Caitlin cut in smoothly, her hand on Conaire’s other arm. ‘I cannot use the fire arrows, for he is within. But the odds are with us, if we have the surprise.’
Rhiann nodded, pointing at the sky. ‘And it may be that the land itself will help us.’
To the south the clouds were so low and dark that the peaks had disappeared, and flurries of snow rippled down their flanks, like racing horses. It was a storm wall, advancing towards them – and towards the fort.
Conaire turned to Rhiann. ‘I know we can do it, although we are at a disadvantage, with that ditch and rampart. But in the storm, we can get close without being seen, and if Manannán blesses us, the Romans are all by their fires, assuming no one else will be out in such weather. We can do it!’
‘But you’ll need a distraction,’ Rhiann said. ‘I can provide it.’
At this Conaire frowned. ‘What do you mean? Eremon would skin me alive if he knew I had put you in danger.’
‘You are not putting me in danger – I am! Surely I can use my trickery, as you call it, for some good thing.’ She stared at the fort, lost in thought.
‘Rhiann has the right to fight in her own way,’ Caitlin put in.
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br /> Conaire sighed. ‘Hawen’s balls! What chance do I have between the two of you?’
Then Rhiann was struck by an idea so daring that fear rose cold in her throat. She whirled to face them both. ‘What if I could get the gate open?’
On the gate tower, a young soldier shrugged deeper into his cloak, shivering. Blasted, forsaken, barbarian land!
It was always raining, and as soon as the rain stopped, it snowed. Snowed! He was from the Hispanic lowlands, and snow was alien to him.
A burst of laughter sounded faintly from one of the two barracks below. They were all in the warmth, gaming and eating and drinking. But as he was the youngest, the centurion always gave him the worst watches. Mars save him if the commander ever found out that one man had been left to watch alone.
He peered out into the bank of whirling snow. What was the point of standing guard on a day like this anyway? He couldn’t see further than a few paces away from the gate. And anyway, they’d been patrolling northwards for the last few moons, and seen nothing of the natives.
It was as Agricola said. The barbarians had fled, terrified by the might of the Roman army.
He jiggled from foot to foot. The only exception was the itinerant they caught a few days before. He was in rough clothes, and although he wore none of those barbaric gold rings, there was a fine one in his pack. And his horse was fine, too. The centurion decided he must be a thief on the run, and the man confirmed this with the few bits of information they’d beaten out of him. A thief might be an outcast, and an outcast would turn traitor easily.
The centurion thought that such an unusual catch might furnish those higher up with some good information, and so tomorrow he was being sent south in the wake of the army, back towards the nice, snug winter quarters that everyone else had been given. If the commander was pleased with them after that, perhaps they’d get an extra ration of beer. Or some warmer socks.
Suddenly the soldier blinked and tensed, instantly alert. Below him in the snow, a figure stumbled. He brought his spear to bear with both hands. ‘Who goes there!’ he barked in his own language.
A faint cry came back; a high, clear voice.
A woman’s voice.
Chapter 58
The wind drove stinging snow in under Rhiann’s hood, and the ground was like iron, the cold seeping up through her boots. Ahead loomed the dark gate tower, and faintly she made out the shape of a soldier standing on it. When she recognized the outline of his spear, she suddenly felt desperately alone, and vulnerable. Would he attack?
At every step she tensed, waiting to hear that high whine, feel the impact in her chest. Her palms inside the sheepskin mittens were slick with sweat, and her heart nearly drowned out the storm itself. But perhaps he could not aim true in this snow … yes, surely. And somewhere, not far behind, the men crept with their swords. Somewhere, Caitlin crouched with an arrow on her bow-string.
The only thing that kept Rhiann’s feet moving was the knowledge that Eremon was in there, hurt and despairing. She had to do this for him.
That thought gave her courage, and she warded away the fear and drew her scattered thoughts deeper in, calming them with sheer will, centring her power in the middle of her breast. Beyond the cold, and the screaming wind, she tried to feel the heartbeat of the land.
Somewhere, deep underneath her, it was there. She’d not told Conaire that she didn’t know if she could do this, if she could reach the Source. If not, she was the only one in immediate danger. But she just had to pray that, if not for her, the Mother would help Eremon.
Breathe … breathe … there … feel it, wait for it … there! The throb came once, twice, three times.
Now she drew it slowly up her legs, desperately hoping that she would not lose the thread, letting it pulse in waves of warmth.
You are the tree, came Linnet’s voice in her mind. Your roots reach down to the Source. The Source is light. Draw it up through your roots, your legs, and hold it … here … in your heart. First, let it fill your chest as if it is a pool of light, and the Source the spring. When the pool is full, draw it higher. Then, let it fill the centre of your throat, and finally let it rise to the spirit-eye on your brow. Now you can feel using the Source, you can speak using the Source, you can see using the Source.
Within the grainy ice and white wind, Rhiann burned.
The man shouted another challenge, and she walked forward. The Source enveloped her with its heat.
I am cold, weary, stumbling, she projected towards him. I am alone. He would not hear the words, for they would fall straight into his heart. He would only feel them.
The man did not raise his spear to throw.
Despite the snow, Rhiann nudged her hood back, so her unbound hair fell free. I am young. I am beautiful. By far the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. I am a goddess, come to bring you warmth in the endless cold.
The man was still, but did not cry out for his comrades.
She closed her eyes to see with her spirit-eye, and realized that he was young, very young. And transfixed. A glowing ball of light surrounded him, as it did all people. In it, his emotions swirled in bands of red and blue and violet. She was not strong enough to penetrate that. But she could sense it.
With her own spirit, she grazed the edge of his light-body. And something reached out for her, urgently.
Desire.
‘Help me!’ she cried, raising her hand. She spoke halting Latin; perhaps he would think her from their allied tribes. But into his heart she radiated something else. You are weary, too. You are lonely, and frustrated. It is long since you felt a woman’s skin. Here, this is the taste, the touch, the smell … remember …
He had come forward, was gripping the edge of the palisade. ‘Why are you out here, alone?’
She was close enough now to look up at him, and she knew that what fading light there was would fall on her upturned face. She barely felt the snowflakes on her skin. His dark eyes gazed down at her from beneath his helmet. Her other senses felt his breathing catch, and grow faster.
Now that she was closer, she could loop her own web of light around him, snare him in it, bombard his heart from all directions with a cascade of senses: honey lips, white breast, skin-scent, fingers of fire, breath-murmur …
It was like the magic she felt at Samana’s dun. But in that moment, Rhiann’s was stronger, for it was fuelled by all the love of those men about her, for Eremon. Though they would never know it, right now, the love of Eremon’s men for their prince fed the Source as it flowed through her.
‘Please help me,’ she pleaded. ‘My family was attacked by the northerners and I fled. I’m lost, and cold.’
I am harmless. I am alone. I am a woman.
His body-light flared with a last burst of defiance. ‘You should seek your own people, girl. This is no place for you.’
‘I’ll die in the storm if I go. Please.’
If I stand close, you will smell the perfume of my skin. I am a barbarian woman. My appetites are strong.
She saw him glance nervously over his shoulder.
They will never know. They left you here, cold and alone. You will show them. You are a man. I need a man to save me. I will be grateful.
Luckily, he was young and inexperienced, and hadn’t lain with a woman for many moons. Magic could not sway someone’s mind, it could only whisper to the urges already there, stirring up coals to fire. It plucked at weaknesses.
She held her breath, saw the energy in him wavering. As it did, she put all her effort into drawing the Source up in one last fountain of white-hot light, and whirled it at him. The weak resistance shattered, and she nearly cried aloud with the rush of power that flooded her.
He swore, softly, and disappeared. And then there was the creaking of the bars on the gate.
A black gap opened, and wood scraped over icy stones. ‘Come on then, girl,’ the youth murmured. ‘And be quick about it.’
Rhiann had to put her shoulder into the gap, for he would not ope
n it wide. And as she did, she locked her eyes with his and held them, spellbound, smiling with all the promise she could muster …
… just long enough to throw her whole weight against the gate, so it was wrenched from his hands. And before he could wake himself enough to leap on her, a line of wraiths rose up from the snow-filled ditch, where before there had been no men at all, and flew at him on padded feet.
She felt the nightmares of Alban giants and monsters rise up and paralyse the boy’s voice. And a moment later, as Rhiann ducked, something whizzed past her ear. The boy’s body fell like a stone, a white-fletched arrow protruding from his throat. Without breaking stride, Conaire stepped over the body and was inside, the other men following silently but swiftly.
Rhiann slumped against the gate, and watched the boy’s blood pool on the icy ground, the snowflakes falling on his upturned cheeks.
Mother. The power had receded in a rush, leaving her trembling. Mother, forgive me. She had brought death. She, a Goddess-daughter, who revered life. And yet, as she had joined this fight, so she must partake of its bitterness, as well as its triumphs. Eremon would tell her that she had no choice. But the least she could do for this boy was to accept that she did have a choice, and had taken it, and blame no one but herself for what it brought.
She reached down and closed the boy’s sightless eyes, and left a finger’s caress on his lips as she heard Caitlin’s slight steps in the snow behind her.
‘The kin bids you farewell,’ she whispered, her tears falling into his mouth, ‘the tribe bids you farewell, the world bids you farewell. Go in safety.’
Eremon lay in the darkness, wrapped in pain. The pain centred around his chest, where the beating had been worst. Every breath, every expansion of his ribs, was agony. At least he’d stopped feeling his broken fingers. Here, in this end of the barracks, it was freezing, and his hands were bound behind him, cutting off the circulation.