Celtic Fire (27 page)

She left the cloth draped on his forehead. Lucius sank onto the stool and without thinking caught Marcus’s hand in his own. He stared at the boy’s long fingers, so unlike his own blunt digits. He’d longed for a son who would be a warrior and a scholar. He’d gotten one who was an artist and a dreamer.

Lucius wondered why he hadn’t been wise enough to cherish Marcus as he was.

If he could, he would take back all the sharp reprimands and replace them with words of love. But now, even if such a thing were possible, Marcus was not lucid enough to understand.

He spoke anyway. “Marcus, get well and I promise you may draw all day if you like. You can burn Aristotle for all I care.”

Rhiannon’s soft voice sounded behind him. “Lucius, I …”

Creaking hinges interrupted her speech, which was just as well. Lucius’s emotions were stretched to the breaking point. Any words Rhiannon spoke to him would surely cause him to snap.

Demetrius’s weary footsteps advanced. The physician came to a halt at Lucius’s side and laid one gnarled hand on his shoulder.

“Can you do nothing more?” Lucius asked him.

“I am at the end of my wits, Luc. I’ve tried all the usual remedies, and some unusual ones as well, yet still the fever climbs.”

Lucius’s brain felt numb. “He will die.”

“Perhaps not. He is young and strong.”

He eased Marcus’s hand onto the bed and rose, scraping the legs of his chair across the tiles. “Don’t lie to me, old man. Is there nothing else?”

Rhiannon stepped into Lucius’s line of vision and placed one hand on his arm. “Lucius.”

He looked at her and his gut twisted. Even haggard from lack of sleep and covered with the stains of a sickroom, she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes upon. He forced himself to remember that her loveliness hid deceit.

“Lucius, I know of an herb not found in the hospital plot. It is the remedy I used when the same illness struck my village last summer. All but the weakest lived.”

He looked away from her, not wanting to trust, not daring to nurture the spark of hope she kindled.

“Why should I believe you?”

“You must!”

“She has no reason to lie,” Demetrius put in. “Go on, girl. What manner of herb is it?”

“My people call it mistletoe. I know of a place—an oak grove fed by sacred waters—where plants of great power thrive. I can bring the remedy to you.”

“Lucius, it is worth a try at the least,” Demetrius said.

He hesitated, but in the end his shoulders slumped. “Very well. I’ll order an escort to take you there.”

“Nay. I must go alone.”

His fragile ember of hope faded. “Do you think me a fool? There is no herb. You would use Marcus’s illness as an excuse to escape.”

Demetrius made a sound of protest. “I cannot believe Rhiannon would do such a thing. She cares for the boy.”

Lucius snorted. “Unfortunately I know all too well how deceptive she can be. No. She’s not to be trusted.”

“Please, Lucius,” Rhiannon said. “I beg you. Let me go before—”

Marcus let out a sharp cry, his spine arching from the bed. His limbs flailed, once again entangling with the blankets. Lucius sank onto the bed and gathered his son in his arms. The boy clung to his neck, whimpering, but his struggles eased with every soothing word Lucius whispered, until at last he lay still.

An eerie peace swept over Lucius. He’d never before cradled his son in his arms, not even when Marcus had been a babe. How was it, then, that the sensation of the young body pressed against his seemed as natural as breathing?

Demetrius retrieved the blanket from the floor and covered them both. “Rhiannon’s remedy is Marcus’s last hope,” he said. “Perhaps she will allow me, if not a guard, to accompany her.”

Rhiannon hesitated, then nodded once.

Lucius dragged a hand across his eyes. It came away wet. “Go,” he said.

Rhiannon tipped her head back and took in the rain-washed scent of the forest in huge, lusty gulps. How she had missed it! She could hardly believe little more than a sennight had passed since Lucius had taken her from the battlefield. It seemed she had spent the better part of her lifetime enclosed by Vindolanda’s walls.

The rain had passed, leaving the promise of summer warm and heavy in the air. Mist clung to the narrow forest trail. The large mare she rode was spirited, but well trained and responsive to her hand on the reins.

Beside her, Demetrius grumbled atop his own mount. “I can’t abide horses. Never could. How far must we journey?”

“Not far,” Rhiannon replied vaguely. “We’ll return before nightfall.” She cast him a sidelong glance. She should leave him now, while they were still close to the fort. If she waited until they neared the Druid circle, the healer might never find his way out of the forest.

She eased toward a dense growth of underbrush, then said, “I’m in need of a few moments’ rest.”

“Rest? You’re but a girl and we’ve ridden only an hour.”

She lowered her gaze, feigning embarrassment. “I didn’t mean that I was tired. The wine I drank before we left the fort …”

“Ah,” he said, understanding. His birdlike eyes took on a wicked gleam. “Luc told me not to let you out of my sight.”

She forced a small smile. “He cannot stand to look at me himself. Why burden you with the task?”

His features softened. “It’s not a hardship, my dear.”

Rhiannon turned away, blinking back her tears.

“I’ve known Lucius more than twenty-two years,” Demetrius said. “I came to his household as a slave, bought on the occasion of Lucius’s eighth birthday to be his tutor.”

“A slave? But Lucius respects you so.”

“It’s not the label that defines the man, but his attitude and actions. In my mind I was always a free man. Within nine years of coming to Lucius’s father’s household, I had earned enough by my skill as a physician to purchase my freedom.” He smiled. “I beat out Lucius by a year. He had vowed to purchase me from his father and free me himself when he reached manhood.”

“Why did you stay with him once you were free?”

“Why indeed? You would think I might have returned to Greece. But I had no family there. By then Lucius and Aulus had become like sons to me.” He sighed. “Aulus was still young and in sore need of guidance. He was much like Marcus is now: generous, scheming, and forever falling into trouble.”

“And Lucius? What was he like?”

The healer sent her a knowing glance. “The dutiful son, always. Athletic, good with a sword, and a scholar as well. Intensely private. He guarded his emotions closely even then. Aulus was the only one who could truly reach him, but only in rare moments.”

“I see.”

“Now I sense you are the one who holds that power. Lucius knows not how to deal with that, I think.”

“You’re wrong. He despises me.”
With good reason.

He snorted. “I’ve seen how he looks at you, girl. You’ve well and truly seduced him. In bed and out.”

“I … didn’t seek to bed him! He pursued me.”

“And was caught in his own snare.” Demetrius held her gaze. “I don’t believe you regret it.”

Rhiannon searched for words of denial but found none.

“Why did you try to leave him?” Demetrius asked. “Did you not know he would grant anything you asked?”

“Barring my freedom.”

“Freedom? No woman is truly free. Few men are, either. You can live a fine life with him.”

A wistful smile touched her lips. “In Rome?”

“Yes. Would you not like to see the heart of the empire? It’s a grand and amazing city.”

Rhiannon closed her eyes. Part of her did long to travel to the ends of the earth and look upon all the Wonders she could find. Another part, just as strong, knew that to leave the northlands would cause an ache that would never fade. “I … I cannot say.”

“Think on it, my dear.” He blinked rapidly and Rhiannon realized he was crying. “If Marcus should … die … Lucius will need you.”

Her chest tightened unbearably. She could think of no adequate response, so she swung her leg over her mare’s flank and dismounted. “If you will give me but a moment, Magister …” She sent a meaningful glance toward the bushes.

“Do not be long.”

“I won’t.” She ducked into the thicket, making sure to rustle the branches as she went. When she had gained a sufficient distance from the trail, she went still for several long heartbeats. When she moved again, it was with the silence of a ghost.

She did not look back.

For most, mist meant blindness. For Owein, the white shroud that crept over the landscape brought vision. The pictures behind his eyes no longer needed night shadows for a backdrop. He Saw as clearly during the days now.

He sat rigid in the small clearing outside Madog’s hut, holding the Druid sword his mentor had given him. It was the sword that had killed the Roman at Samhain. The same blade that would kill Rhiannon’s defiler at the rise of the summer moon.

The hand of Kernunnos lay heavy upon him. The pain in his temple was as familiar to him as breath and he’d begun to believe it would never retreat. He cared little, if his torment brought him the power to free his sister from the vile dog who had enslaved her.

“What do ye See, lad?” Madog’s voice was Owein’s only connection to the outside world when the visions took over. He felt the old Druid lean closer.

“A man. Dead.”

“Roman or Celt?”

Owein waited for the scene’s fragments to coalesce. “I canna … Nay, wait, I See him more clearly now. Roman, I am thinking.” Rhiannon’s captor? Owein couldn’t be sure. The picture faded.

“Good.” Madog rose and paced a circle about him. He chanted the ancient prayers, his form a shadow on the landscape of Owein’s vision. “Look beyond, lad. Ye have Seen what will be. Now See what
can
be, and the path to it.”

Cautiously Owein extended his mind and touched the mist. In the past he had never sought to birth the images that rose in his mind. But Madog had told Owein that his Sight revealed only a small portion of things to come. The larger part of the future could be shaped by those who had the favor of Kernunnos.

As Owein did.

Madog’s steps tightened, forming a spiral of which Owein was the center.
“See,
Owein.” He halted before him and lifted a frantic mountain hare overhead. “See the defeat of our enemy.” The Druid’s shadow arm slashed. The hare shrieked.

Hot blood spilled over Owein’s bare shoulders and ran down his back. He inhaled deeply, drinking in the sweet scent of the hare’s life, drawing strength from his animal brother’s sacrifice. It was the way of things. Blood was spilled, power gained. It could not be otherwise.

The mist swirled. Images rose and vanished like puffs of winter breath. A man, wounded. A woman’s face—Rhiannon? Her mouth opened in a soundless scream.

And blood. Always blood.

Owein’s breathing slowed as he plunged deeper. The flash of Madog’s Druid sword. His own hand on the hilt. The tip poised at the throat of a dark-skinned man. This time the man’s features were unmistakable. It was the Roman commander. The foreign dog who had defiled the queen of the Brigantes.

He would die by Owein’s hand.

“Rhiannon is gone, Luc. Left me in the forest with both our mounts. Took me half the day to find my way out.”

Despite the fact that Lucius had anticipated Rhiannon’s flight, Demetrius’s words sliced like a finely honed battle sword. “I told you she would run,” he replied wearily.

Demetrius lowered himself onto a stool on the opposite side of Marcus’s bed, but Lucius didn’t dare meet his friend’s gaze. He stared instead at his son’s limp hand clasped in his own rough palm. The boy was quiet now, having finally thrashed himself into a fitful slumber. Aulus hunched at the foot of his nephew’s bed, silent and watchful. In the shrouded stillness of the sickroom, Lucius almost imagined he could hear the soft susurration of his brother’s breath.

“You were right,” Demetrius said finally. “As always. Yet I still find it hard to believe.” He shook his head. “I was sure she cared for the boy.”

“She cares only for her freedom. No doubt if she had given you an herb, it would have been a poisonous one.”

“You cannot believe that.”

“I don’t know what to believe.”

Demetrius’s eyes showed his worry. “You look terrible, Luc. Like a man bound in Tartarus.”

Lucius felt far worse. “A sojourn in Hades would be an improvement.”

“Go to your chamber and get some rest while I look after Marcus. I’ll call you if … if there’s any change.”

“No.” The word came out more sharply than Lucius intended. “No. I’ve been absent for most of my son’s life. I cannot turn from his death. It won’t be long now.”

Demetrius fell silent. He rose and adjusted the shutters, allowing a bit more light into the chamber, then resumed his seat. Lucius lifted Marcus’s hand and laid it gently across the boy’s chest. Then, since that position looked too corpselike, he repositioned it on the cushions.

He sat there, unmoving, watching his son—the future of his family’s line—fade before his eyes. “What was I thinking, bringing Marcus to this wretched scrap of wilderness?”

“The boy begged to come north,” Demetrius replied. “Don’t torture yourself with what might have been. He could just as easily have fallen ill in Rome.”

“No.” Lucius’s fist slammed onto the low table beside him, overturning a goblet of wine. “I am his father. It was my duty to ensure his safety.”

“No one can foresee what the Fates have woven,” Demetrius said. “We can guarantee nothing, not even our next breath.”

They lapsed into silence. After a time, footsteps sounded beyond the door, but Lucius didn’t bother to rise. No doubt it was Candidus, bearing yet another tray of food that Lucius wouldn’t even glance at, let alone eat.

Aulus looked up, surprise evident on his bruised features. He flickered like a lamp flame in a breeze. Lucius sprang to his feet as his brother vanished in a puff of mist.

Demetrius looked up, startled. “Lucius, what—”

Lucius strode to the chamber door and flung it wide. Rhiannon stood before him, one hand lifted and poised to knock. Her face was streaked with grime, her tunic torn and muddy. Her hair blazed about her shoulders like a fire gone wild. She clutched a tangled clump of leaves and roots to her heaving chest.