Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02] (32 page)

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.

“My fellow Druids,” she said, her jaw angled with pride, “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 if he had intimate knowledge of Caratacus’s inner circle. How else would he know the Briton surrounded himself by 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.”

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.”

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.

She hadn’t corrected him. But of course she couldn’t leave right away. She had babes to bless. Gwyn to settle safely somewhere.
And her Gaul
.

But whenever she tried to work out what, exactly, she hoped to accomplish by staying any longer in the settlement with regard to her Gaul, her mind shivered to a halt. As if she knew, deep inside, there was nothing she could do even if she refused to face that fact directly.

She let out an exasperated breath. She would stay another moon. Two at most. There was much she could do for her people here, who had been so cruelly neglected by their Druids for so long. After all, it wasn’t as if Caratacus would be moving from his magical retreat anytime soon. It would be madness to abandon the haven the Druids had woven around the rebels. And unlike Aeron, Caratacus used the advantage of concealment as a base from which to orchestrate attacks on the Legion.

Deheune was at the door of her home. “Mistress.” She bowed her head. “We await you.”

Morwyn smothered her unease over the ultimate fate of her Gaul. It was hard to reconcile that the victory of Caratacus, which of course she desired more than anything else, would result in the defeat of her lover.

There had to be another way. Something she hadn’t yet realized. A compromise.

The words hovered in her mind, buzzing like discordant wasps. How could such a compromise ever come to be, when success for one necessitated the sacrifice of the other?

The small dwelling was stifling, overstuffed with anxious parents and uncaring babes. She glanced around, searching for Gwyn. The child had vanished.

Fear knifed through her, sudden and illogical. “Where’s Gwyn?” she demanded of Deheune, who smiled vaguely as if she couldn’t understand Morwyn’s manner.

“She left, as soon as I returned. Was she meant to stay?”

Was she? Of course not. But for some reason Morwyn couldn’t fathom, the desertion gnawed into her guts. Because she’d expected—no, she’d
wanted
—Gwyn to wait for her.

It didn’t make sense. She tried to wipe it from her mind. But a whisper of a thought trickled through her brain. Perhaps the child would return later, when hunger clawed her stomach.

Mentally drained after projecting the illusion she was communing with the great goddess for eight separate blessings, Morwyn finally returned to the lodgings. She’d order a tub, luxuriate in a bath. Or perhaps she’d wait until her Gaul returned and give him another decadent show.

The smile hovered on her lips, not remotely concerned by her desire for a bath above washing in the local river. There was a lot to be said for the privacy of a tub in a room with her lover.

Then she noticed a familiar shadow crouched in the doorway of the lodgings. “Gwyn?” She didn’t even try to analyze the relief that streaked through her chest at the sight. It eased her mind to know the child was safe, and not in danger of being brutalized. “Where did you go?”

Gwyn stood up, clutching a grass-woven bag. “Got something for you.” She jiggled her bag. Intrigued, Morwyn ushered her inside, her hand between Gwyn’s skinny shoulder blades, and directed her to her room.

“What did you get?” She closed the door and sat on the end of the bed. Gwyn tipped her bag upside down and tree bark scattered over the rough covering.

Morwyn stared, baffled. “Willow bark?”

“Yes.” Gwyn scrambled on the other end of the bed and hugged her knees. She looked very pleased with herself.

Morwyn picked up a piece and examined it. “Why?”

“Because you were running out. I saw. You were frowning and poking at it. So I thought I’d get some for you.”

Speechless, Morwyn stared at the child. Gwyn stared back, a malnourished, uneducated beggar—who had, without any prompting or instruction, collected willow bark because Morwyn’s supplies were running low.

Gwyn’s bare feet, already black again with filth, drummed on the bedcover. “I tried finding the berries,” she said, as if Morwyn’s silence was beginning to agitate. “But they were the wrong color.”

Morwyn sucked in a deep breath. Perhaps Gwyn wasn’t as ignorant as she assumed. Perhaps, before she’d been forced onto the streets, Gwyn had been taught of such things.

“Do you know why I need the willow bark and berries?”

Gwyn shrugged. “No.”

Morwyn fingered the bark and an unexpected yearning to explain, to instruct, bloomed deep inside. As a Druid almost fully trained, part of her duties had been to impart knowledge to the children of noble blood, those who hadn’t yet undertaken the rituals to determine whether or not they possessed the gifts to become acolytes. She’d always loved doing so. Seeing the children’s avid faces as they learned of the ancient ways had always thrilled her.

Gwyn wasn’t of the privileged class. There was little chance she possessed the elusive glimmer of perception the gods required of an acolyte. But then, teaching a girl of how the moon influenced her body, of how she could control her fertility and other such feminine wisdom, wasn’t sacrosanct to Druids and nobles. Gwyn was old enough to learn of such things.

Morwyn opened her medicine bag and, as she showed various samples from her numerous pouches, explained the intricacies of the female cycle to an enthralled Gwyn.

As the sun dipped in the sky Morwyn took Gwyn to the market. If she was going to teach the child before she left to find Caratacus, then she would have her properly clothed. A fierce haggler, she procured a length of good-quality wool to be made into a tunic and leather for Gwyn’s feet. The child hugged her treasures in one arm, and stuffed various exotic foods Morwyn tossed her as if she were starving. Smiling at the girl’s delight, she bargained for a cheap necklace and bracelet of red and black beads and fastened them around Gwyn’s throat and wrist.

Gwyn twirled on the dusty ground, her free arm outstretched, admiring how the beads glittered, and her spinning became more erratic by the moment. Laughing, Morwyn watched her, indulging in the simple pleasure of a child at play, not realizing until now how much she’d missed the children she’d left behind on Mon.

A mangy dog, clasping a bloodied bone in its mouth, streaked through the marketplace. Morwyn stepped aside but the dog careered into Gwyn, sending her sprawling over its emaciated body, and crashing into the legs of a Roman auxiliary.

The dog escaped, still clutching its ill-gotten gains, and Morwyn rushed to retrieve her charge. The auxiliary beat her to it.

“No bones broken?” He flashed a smile at Gwyn, who appeared more distressed that her wool was now dusty than the possibility of broken bones. The auxiliary straightened and transferred his smile to Morwyn. “I think she’ll live.”

She brushed the grit from Gwyn’s knees and impulsively dropped a kiss onto her cheek. “I believe she will.” She looked up at the auxiliary and before she could stop herself she smiled back.

How odd. Before she’d met her Gaul, she would sooner spit in the eye of a Roman auxiliary than honor him with a smile. No matter how blue his eyes or appealing his demeanor. But what did a smile cost? He had been gentle with Gwyn when another would have kicked her from his path, cursed at her carelessness.

“My name is Gervas.” He inclined his head in greeting. “May I have the honor of knowing yours?”

Morwyn laughed and shook her head. His flirting skills were admirable, even for one of the enemy. Except he didn’t strike her as one of the enemy. As if Romans and all their cohorts should be humorless, brutal thugs.

The thought sobered, but only momentarily. The warm bubble of excitement, at the knowledge she would soon see her Gaul again, smothered any negative feeling that attempted to penetrate her brain.

“Morwyn.”