House of Dark Delights (27 page)

Thomas took her in his arms and sat her up, then cupped one of her breasts and drew the nipple into the heat of his mouth, making her gasp in startled delight. He pleasured her this way, using his clever lips and tongue—and even, from time to time, the edges of his teeth—until she was moaning in ecstasy. They embraced so tightly as they writhed in unison, her legs banded around his hips, that it was as if they were a single being gripped in a delirium of pleasure.

She clawed at his hair, her breath coming faster and faster as her climax approached. Pressing on the small of her back, he ground against her in a way that caused it to detonate like a thunderclap. He held her through the last, shuddery tremor, whispering endearments into her ear, and then he pulled himself out of her and crushed her to him, groaning hoarsely as warm fluid pulsed between them.

“I'm sorry,” he panted, stroking her hair and back with a quivering hand. “I just…I don't want you to get in trouble, and I don't have any…”

“I understand. Thank you.”

He dampened the rolled-up towel and used it to clean them off, and then they sank deeper into the water and held each other, kissing and whispering and laughing, and kissing some more.

“Wait here.” She climbed out of the pool and crossed to his little mound of clothing on the iron chair.

“Where are you going?”

“I need to put something on,” she said, rummaging around.

“A bit late in the day for modesty, I'd say, but if you want my shirt, it's yours.”

“I don't want your shirt,” she said as she rejoined him in the pool. Showing him the ring finger of her left hand, on which she wore the diamond and emerald engagement ring he'd told her he would keep in his pocket for a year, she said, “I want this. If…if you still want me to—”

Thomas silenced her with a kiss that went on for a very, very long time.

Early the next morning

I
NIGO WATCHED
from behind an oak at the edge of the woods surrounding the nemeton as Elijah Wheeler, whom he'd followed from the chateau, entered the clearing from the path, carrying a leather satchel.

Laying the satchel on the altar, he unbuckled it and withdrew the Sacred Scroll in its leather wrapping. He studied it for a moment, smoothing his hand wistfully along the leather, and then he pulled out the Lugus disc, returned the scroll to its rightful place, and shoved the disc back in.

He looked at the satchel for several long minutes, and then he took out two notebooks, the ones in which he and Thomas had copied the contents of the scroll last night. He took out something else, too: a match safe.

Crouching over the long-disused fire pit, he tore all the pages out of the notebooks, crumpled them and their covers into a pile, and touched a match to it. He tended the fire—relighting it a couple of times, stirring it with a stick—until all that remained was a heap of gray ashes.

For quite some time, he stood over the remnants of his precious transcription in grave contemplation. And then, as solemnly as if he were reciting a prayer, he said, “And so did Brantigern Anextlomarus record the lore of his people, not for Roman eyes, nor for the eyes of any man, but
dibu e debu
—for the gods and goddesses alone. Always have the secrets of the Vernae been safeguarded from those who would destroy their gods and make mockery of their truths. Always shall it remain so.”

Looking up, Wheeler noticed Darius, in his feline incarnation, watching him from a patch of sun across the clearing.

“Good morning, Darius, and good-bye,” said Wheeler with a respectful bow. “May you live in peace and solitude.”

Darius nodded to acknowledge the bow, and gave Wheeler a mew of thanks.

Wheeler picked up his satchel and walked back down the path, smiling.

One

October 52 B.C.

B
RAN AWOKE
with a moan of terror on his lips, shaking and sweating, the images from his dream seared into his mind's eye: an eagle crushed to death beneath the wheels of a Roman chariot, his two fledglings hobbling about with their wings ripped off, pouring blood. Nearby, a majestic old oak tree surrounded by a double row of wooden ramparts burst into flame.

Throwing off the bearskin beneath which he'd slept, he rose from bed, grabbed his tunic and trousers off their hooks, and dressed quickly—or as quickly as he could, having been born with but a single hand. The house felt quiet and empty this morning, or rather the houses, for Bran's family home had grown over time into a cluster of round stone huts with conical thatched roofs connected by passageways. It was the grandest domicile in the village, Bran's father, Tintigern Dovatigerni, being high chieftain of the Vernae, and his maternal grandfather, Artaros Biraci, their revered druid.

When Bran was growing up, the house and outbuildings—some nearby and others, like the stable, storehouse, grain pit, and beehive, at the outskirts of the village—were filled day and night with the comings and goings of Bran's family and the various
vassi
who saw to their needs. But his sisters were married now, with homes of their own, and his father and two older brothers had left some weeks ago to fight alongside the great Vercingetorix at the besieged city of Alisiia to the north, the last real hope of the Celtæ to resist the invading Romans. Bran had begged to join them, but his druidic vocation—he'd been apprenticed since birth to Grandfather Artaros—and that missing hand had conspired to keep him home.

It didn't help that, in a race of red- and yellow-haired giants, he'd been born not just deformed, but strangely dark, and of comparatively modest stature. There'd been whispers, after his birth, that he'd been sired not by Tintigern, but by some foreigner during a trading excursion by his parents to Narbonensis, the Roman colony on the southern border of Celtica. Bran's mother, Vlatucia, had silenced that rumor by slicing out the tongue of the woman who'd had the poor judgment to start it. There'd been not a peep since.

It was just Bran, Artaros, and Vlatucia in the house now, so it was fairly tranquil all the time, but not usually so deathly quiet first thing in the morning. After checking the main hut and those of his mother and grandfather, and finding no one about, he stepped outside and ducked into the cooking hut.

“Bran.” The
vassa
Adiega looked up from the butter she was churning to give him one of those big, sweet smiles that were like rays of sunshine warming his soul. Her eyes were the clean, bright blue of a cloudless sky, her hair alight with streaks of gold. Even with her braids tied back with a strip of rag, and wearing the patched old dress in which she cooked and cleaned, she was the most radiant creature Bran had ever seen.

“Morning, Bran,” greeted Adiega's widowed sister, Paullia, as she stirred a pot of porridge over the central hearth. “Hungry?” Leaning over the pot so as to display her ample bosom above the neckline of her red dress, for she was as voluptuous as Adiega was slender, she tossed him a saucy grin. “See anything you like?”

“Yes.” Taking Adiega by the hand, he pulled her away from the open door—and the view of passing villagers—and drew her into his arms. Without being asked, Paullia moved to the opposite side of the hearth so that she could see through the doorway, the better to watch out for prying eyes. If Vlatucia were to find out about Bran and Adiega, who knew what retribution she would exact.

“You're trembling, my love,” whispered Adiega as they embraced.

He told her about his dream.

“What could it mean?” she asked.

“Only bad things,” he said gravely. “The oak tree is Vernem, or possibly even Celtica as a whole, and the ramparts are the type the Romans have built around Alisiia to keep Celticum relief forces at bay.”

“And the eagle?” she asked. “The two fledglings?”

“I'm not sure,” he lied, loath to even think about the implications, much less voice them.

“Did you have the other dream, as well?” she asked. “The one about the demon from the north?”

“I have it every night. He's getting closer.”

“You think he's really out there somewhere, in the woods?”

“I know he is,” Bran said, although right now, a wandering demon who seemed content to keep his distance from their village was the least of his concerns. “Adiega, have you seen my mother and grandfather this morning?”

Nodding, she said, “A messenger came, and they went running out to a cart coming into the valley along the road from the north.”

“Running?”
Vlatucia never ran; it lacked dignity. And Artaros was aged and nearly blind. Bran went to the doorway to peer at the road, some distance away. He saw the cart sitting still, the driver hunched over in his seat. Two tall figures stood nearby, with a smaller form, that of Artaros's gray wolf, Frontu, pacing back and forth. A pair of horses was harnessed to the cart, with three others tied to it in back.

Bran concentrated his hearing, sorting through the morning cacophony of the village—goats bleating, geese honking, children shrieking with laughter, Vectito Donati's fat little dog yipping and barking, the
clack-clack-clack
of a loom, the ringing strikes of Brude Ironsmith's hammer…All of these sounds he filtered out of his ears as he focused in on the conversation taking place next to the cart.

“I know he's only nineteen,” Artaros was saying, “but he was always a clever boy, and he's wise for his age, with a quiet strength.”

“What are they saying?” asked Adiega as she peeked out from the edge of the doorway.

“I think they're talking about me.”

“Let me hear,” she said.

Bran waved a hand in the direction of the cart, murmuring,
“Uediju rowero gutu,”
and suddenly Vlatucia's voice was as audible as if she were standing right in front of them.

“Strong? He's the runt of the litter, and a cripple, at that. I should have drowned him at birth.”

“Shit,” muttered Paullia, sounding both awed and appalled by Vlatucia's cold-bloodedness.

Bran suddenly regretted having made the sisters privy to this particular conversation, especially his beloved Adiega.

“Bran is your son,” Artaros said sternly.

“He's an embarrassment.”

Adiega reached over to squeeze Bran's hand.

“He has powerful gifts,” said Artaros, “the like of which I've never seen.”

“But not the kind of gifts that make for an effective leader. Branogenas is weak, Father, and well you know it, weak not just in body, but in spirit. He's not equipped to lead the Vernae, especially in a time of war. It was his brothers who were trained for that role, not he. His role is to serve the gods, counsel the elders, and prophesy the future. He was to be our druid someday, not our chieftain.”

“But the fates have changed all that,” the old man pointed out. “Your husband and your two elder sons are gone, Vlatucia, and now it is Bran who must wear the golden
torka.
”

Bran leaned against the doorsill and closed his eyes. He'd known, from the moment he'd awakened, what that dream had meant; he just hadn't wanted to acknowledge it.

“Bran, I'm sorry,” said Adiega as she embraced him from behind. “I'm so sorry.”

“I must go speak to them.”

                  

Bran's mother glanced at him as he approached the cart, then carried on with her litany of his shortcomings. Vlatucia matir Saveras was tall even for a Celticum female, with sharp, alert bird eyes. By all accounts, she'd once been the most beautiful woman in their clan, but in recent years her face had begun to collapse from within, like a bad apple shriveling around a puckered little wormhole of a mouth. She was clad, as usual, in a dress hemmed short to reveal a pair of men's plaid trousers, a dagger and a ring of big iron keys hanging from her belt. Her long mane of wiry hair—iron gray with some strands of copper still remaining—hung loose but for two side braids strung with golden beads.

Bearded old Artaros, leaning on his gnarled oak staff, his eyes as eerily pale as Frontu's from the film that clouded them, patted Bran's shoulder.

There were three corpses on the back of the cart, each hidden beneath a blood-soaked blanket save for their mudcrusted boots. On the chest of each body sat an iron helmet. Bran recognized the one in the middle as Tintigern's because of the boar tusks.

“I want to see my father,” Bran said.

“You haven't the stomach for it,” Vlatucia replied.

Artaros pulled the blanket away.

The air left Bran's lungs. Tintigern's face was blackened and swollen, with a yawning wound where his right eye had been; his mouth was agape, his other eye half-open. Blood caked his trailing moustache and his magnificent head of silvery, limewater-stiffened hair, scraped back from his head to reveal the small gold hoops piercing his ears. Around his neck, half-hidden beneath his cloak of shaggy, crimson-dyed fleece, he wore the golden
torka
that identified him as chieftain of their clan.

“Look, he's gone white as milk,” Vlatucia told Artaros with a little sneer.

Gathering all his strength of will, Bran whipped the blankets off the other two bodies only to find that they weren't his brothers at all, but two other men of the village who had accompanied Tintigern and his sons to Alisiia.

“What of my brothers?” he asked.

“You have no brothers,” his mother replied.

Artaros said, “Dovatucas and Narlos surrendered and were taken as personal slaves of Roman soldiers.”

“My own sons,” said Vlatucia, her face twisted in disgust. “They should have cut their own throats rather than allow themselves to be taken captive. Their subjugation only makes our defeat more shameful.”

Our defeat.
So—the Romans had vanquished the forces of Vercingetorix and taken Alisiia. Bran pictured the burning oak tree from his dream, wondering how much time they had—weeks? months?—before there were Roman soldiers marching into their little valley.

Vlatucia leaned over the side of the cart to wrest the bloodstained
torka
from her dead husband's neck and close it around her own.

“That
torka
belongs on Bran,” Artaros said.

“He hasn't the right to wear it,” she said, as if he weren't standing right there. “Not yet, anyway—probably not ever.”

“That's for the elders to decide,” Artaros said.

“The elders will follow my lead,” she said. Of that, Bran had little doubt; they were all utterly cowed by her. “When Branogenas grows a set of balls—and a sense of duty—he can wear this
torka.
”

“He's not Branogenas any longer,” said Artaros. “He's Brantigern, chieftain of the Vernae.”

Vlatucia chuckled disdainfully.

“Have I not proven myself a dutiful son?” asked Bran, in a rare display of boldness. He'd learned long ago that it didn't pay to go head-to-head with his mother.

“If you truly knew your duty,
Branogenas,
” she said, “and were willing to accept it, you'd have married Briaga long before this.”

The cart's driver, Adiega's brother, Sedna, glanced from Vlatucia to Bran, then looked away.

“If you were a
man,
” Vlatucia continued, “and not a selfish little boy, she would already be big with child, and I wouldn't have to fret so over the fate of our druidic line. It's dying out, or haven't you noticed?”

There remained but thirteen other members of the clan who shared Bran's increasingly rare gift of spellcasting and second sight, though their powers were, like those of Bran's parents, far weaker than his, and undeveloped through druidic training. In order to produce children with druidic gifts, it was necessary for both parents, not just one, to be gifted, but an appalling number of gifted men had died these past few years fighting the Romans. Two of the precious thirteen, a boy and a girl, were small children with widowed mothers. The rest, Bran's two pregnant sisters and eight others, were adult females wedded to ungifted men. That left Briaga matir Primius, who was not only gifted, but a highborn
uxella,
as the natural choice of a wife for Bran—the
only
choice if, as his mother was forever reminding him, he was to be ensured of druidic offspring.

Much as Bran hated to admit it, she had a good point. For the sake of their clan's druidic lineage, he really should marry Briaga. Were he not so passionately in love with the lowborn, ungifted Adiega, he might have already succumbed to his mother's unceasing pressure and asked Briaga to be his wife, though she left him entirely cold. But Adiega, who'd grown from a childhood playmate into the woman he loved with his entire heart, was the other half of his soul. The notion of forsaking her for the vain, shallow Briaga was unthinkable.

“If your children aren't druids and druidesses,” Vlatucia said, “if they aren't born with your gifts, then you will be the last in a line of Vernan druids stretching back centuries. Is that really what you want?”

“What I really want,” Bran said wearily, “is to mourn my father in peace, without having to argue with you about whom I'm going to marry.”

“You go ahead and wallow in your grief,” Vlatucia said. “I've no time for it. The Romans are advancing on us even as we speak. I must make plans for the future of our clan. Your father would have been the first to understand that.”

“
We
must make plans,” Artaros said. “Tintigern never acted without my advice and that of the elders, nor shall you. Tomorrow, we shall bury our chieftain and his fallen comrades. Afterward, you and I and the elders will gather for a council in the nemeton and sort out what needs to be done to protect us against the Romans.”