Once Every Never (25 page)

“When is all this supposed to happen?” she asked Comorra.

“At the rise of the full moon tonight.”

“It won’t do any good, you know. Boudicca will still lose this war.”

Comorra looked at her, a slight frown on her face. “How do you know that?”

Clare thought of the macabre, petrified skin suit that was all that was left of Claxton Man in the museum. “I just know is all. So, in light of that colossal futility, I’d like to try and keep this whole sacrifice thing from happening. Would you like to help me?”

“You would do this so that you can have him for yourself? Or are you at odds with Andrasta?”

“No.” Clare didn’t want to explain how she didn’t exactly hang out with goddesses on a regular basis. And yet she didn’t want Comorra thinking that Andrasta was going to take care of this whole mess if the Iceni just crossed their fingers and sacrificed a baker’s dozen of their people. “Look, Comorra, I don’t want Connal. I mean, he’s really something. But he’s not
mine
. And you were totally right back when you tried to kill me. I mean, not about the killing part. I’d rather you didn’t do that again. I mean you were right that I shouldn’t have been snogging your guy. Especially because I knew you liked him. But that kiss … it didn’t mean anything. It just sort of happened. And I’m sorry.”

Comorra ducked her head and nodded once, sharply. “Thank you. But I don’t see how it matters now. He’s not mine either.” Her voice broke on a choking sob. “He never will be. He’ll belong to the goddess after tonight.”

“Is there any way we can stop it?”

“The only thing I can see preventing the sacrifices is if the goddess Andrasta herself were to appear before my mother and forbid it.”

Clare felt a wolfish grin spread across her face. “That’s kind of what I was hoping you would say.”

Comorra’s expression conveyed just how likely she thought the odds of that happening were.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Clare said, giddy with fear and excitement at the thought of what she was about to try to do. She glanced at the sky, turning now from vibrant shades of orange and red to dusky purple as the sun sank behind the horizon. “When is moonrise?” she asked.

“About three hours from now.”

“Then come on. We don’t have much time.”

“To do what?”

“To turn you into a goddess.”

SHEER AUDACITY
. That’s what Al would call it. No … Al would call it sheer stupidity. And she’d be right. Except that Clare had Al’s help—and
that
was going to make all the difference. Because in the pocket of Al’s jacket were two magnesium mini-flares, a box of strike-anywhere wooden matches, and a handful of chemical glowsticks from the emergency road kit of Stuart Morholt’s Bentley.

The jacket Clare now wore.

Score
.

THE CLOAK WAS
long and voluminous and dyed a dark indigo that was almost black. It sported a deep hood and dragged on the ground behind Comorra when she tried it on.

“It was my father’s,” she said.

“I don’t think he’d mind you putting it to good use,” Clare replied.

With the hood up, in the darkness of the forest, it would completely obscure the princess’s features. It would do nicely.

Comorra wore a pair of fine, soft kid-leather riding gloves. Clare silently marvelled at the workmanship and clever stitching that rivalled any pair she’d ever tried on in a department store back home. She’d been so ignorant. How had she ever considered these people to be barbarians? Well—except for what they were about to do to Connal.
That
was pretty barbaric …

Comorra still wasn’t entirely convinced that what they were about to attempt wasn’t some kind of dire affront to her deities. “This sounds like a dangerous path. What if Andrasta becomes truly angry?”

“As opposed to just plain neglectful?” Clare muttered as she threaded a remarkably finely spun length of thread through the eye of a large bone needle. “Seriously, Comorra—what exactly has she done for you, lately?”

The princess looked a bit shocked at that. “She is a goddess,” she protested, although it sounded a bit half-hearted. “Her will is inscrutable.”

“Yours isn’t.” Clare motioned for her to hold the edges of the cloak out like wings and got to work with the needle and thread. And with the glowsticks pilfered by Al. “Maybe the goddess is waiting for you to take matters into your own hands and deal with the situation. Maybe she wants you to stand up for yourself and do what you think is right. Either way, Connal’s most likely going to die horribly if you do nothing. Call that the will of the goddess, or the disappointment of the goddess, or the ‘Oops, I just wasn’t paying attention’ of the goddess. But believe me, whatever Andrasta’s opinions on the matter, unless we stop it it’ll happen.”

“You keep saying that, but how can you be so sure?”

“I’ve
seen
it, Comorra. You have to trust me on this.”

“But what if the sacrifice
will
help us win this war?”

“It won’t.” Clare recalled Al’s bleak statistics on the Boudiccan rebellion. “Like I said, I’ve seen that, too. And I’m sorry. The Roman army will conquer the Iceni.”

Comorra squeezed her eyes shut against a wave of emotion that swept over her.

“Hey,” Clare said as gently as she could. “Look. Maybe it isn’t the greatest situation to be in, but maybe this way you can at least do something to help some of the Iceni survive. You and Connal.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean run. Hide. Go into the west—go back to Connal’s tribe and help
them
fight.” Clare struggled to remember something Al had told her about the Roman conquest of Britain. About the fact that, in the western and northern reaches of the island, some of the Celtic tribes had remained free. “In the mountains, Comorra, the tribes of Britain might stand half a chance of avoiding total annihilation. But not here. Not anymore. I think your mom knows that. Standing and fighting is suicide. I think she’s just planning to take as many of them down with her as she can when she goes.”

Comorra was silent for a long time. Finally, she looked Clare square in the eyes. “Tell me again what I must do.”

19

C
onnal stood on a rise of land, motionless as a statue. The bodies of twelve other men lay face down at the water’s edge.

Clare felt her heart sink. Given the way Comorra had raced her little chariot she’d been sure they would arrive in time to save them all. But Boudicca had begun the ritual ahead of schedule—sacrificing the other men just before moonrise. All except Connal, who was to be their leader in death. That the baleful, unblinking moon-eye would bear witness seemed an honour to be reserved for him alone. The others had died in darkness.

Comorra had pulled her chariot to a stop well away from the open space that stretched between the woods and the margins of the peat bog where Boudicca was performing her ritual murders. Ranks of blue-painted warriors, some of them with hair and moustaches stiffened to fearsome points, stood on either side of a wooden platform that had been built out over the brackish swamp for just such a purpose. Clare wondered fleetingly just how often they threw people into the oil-black, evil-looking bog. Were there more bodies down there, lying buried beneath the thirteen “Spectral Warriors” the archaeologists had already found? Maybe not. Maybe the sacrifices were made only when things got out-of-control desperate. Or maybe Boudicca had been the first one to do something that drastic.

Clare surveyed the gathered Iceni. There were probably a hundred men and a handful of battle-hardened women at Boudicca’s side, all armed to the teeth. A field of swords and spears waved in the air like wheat.

Clare suddenly had second thoughts about the wisdom of her plan. But it was too late to back out now. She couldn’t—not after everything she’d done to convince Comorra. The two girls were hidden on the far side of the gathering, near to the edge of the slough but far enough away to remain unseen, and Clare was trying to figure out a way for them to get close enough. But then Comorra tugged on her sleeve and drew her farther away still. Clare was about to ask her where she was going when the princess stopped and pointed to the bog’s edge. A fishing skiff—a small, flat-bottomed boat—bobbed gently on the scummy surface of the water. A long pole lay in it that it would suit their purposes nicely.

Comorra motioned Clare to climb aboard and then cast off the single line, pointing in the direction they should go. Clare pushed the pole against the mushy bottom of the bog and the skiff glided silently into the marsh.

In the darkness, with Comorra swathed head-to-toe in the black cloak and Clare invisible to the Iceni, they were able to get to within about twenty feet of the ritual stage without being seen. Boudicca’s back was to them and she was giving some kind of speech. Twelve pale bodies were slowly sinking into the murky bog. One of them was Boudicca’s chief, Macon—Clare could tell by the tattoo on his arm—and she felt her heart clench. In two thousand years that mark would still be visible on his skin.

Comorra stiffened in front of her and Clare peeked around to see what she was looking at. Connal still stood on the shore beside the queen—and now two Iceni warriors stood behind him, holding the ends of a thin rope that circled his neck. One held a knife and the other a short, wicked-looking war club. And yet the young Druid prince stood serenely, facing directly toward where the girls silently guided their skiff. His hair was unbound and flowed over his shoulders in a rich red-brown wave. He was shirtless and barefoot, with a sword belt strapped to his waist and a fox-fur armband tied around one bicep. On his wrists he now wore a pair of ornate, matched silver cuffs—the same ones Clare had first seen on the withered, leathern arms of Claxton Man’s remains. Both the bracelets and the gold hoop in Connal’s ear gleamed in the torchlight that emphasized the sculpted contours of his chest and arms. Inappropriate as it may have been in that moment, Clare was hard-pressed to tear her eyes off him.

When she did manage it, she saw that Llassar stood between Connal and Boudicca holding a wide, shallow bowl full of …
Oh, man
, Clare thought, feeling her stomach turn over,
is that blood?

She wrenched her gaze back to Connal. Swirling, bright blue designs had been painted on his naked torso and face. She looked closer and saw that his eyes were open and slightly glassy. Clare remembered vaguely what Al had said about the traces of ergot—the hallucinogenic compound—found in the digestive tracts of the spirit warriors. Boudicca must have had them drugged as part of the ritual. Or maybe to keep them from trying to run away. She probably hadn’t had to use much with Connal, though.

Stupid macho “it’s my destiny” crap
.

Tough. He was going to have to find another destiny. And she was going to help him—whether he wanted her to or not.

The princess motioned for Clare to stop poling. Standing straight and tall in the prow of the skiff, she reached back with her gloved hands. Clare crossed her fingers and pulled out the necessary items from her pockets for their insane stunt. She’d told Comorra that her “magic” would be frightening, and that she should prepare herself and not flinch or cry out.

Comorra did her proud. When Clare lit the two magnesium emergency mini road flares and handed them off to her, she barely batted an eye as the swamp lit up suddenly like a fairground. Comorra flung her arms wide and held the blinding, spitting, hissing flares up for all the Iceni warriors to see. As she did she revealed the neon chemical glowsticks that Clare had hastily sewn into the inside of the cloak, casting Comorra’s shadowy hooded figure in a spooky red light. It was the cheapest of cheap theatrics, but the Iceni believed so thoroughly in the supernatural that the fiery spectacle worked an absolute charm.

“Boudicca!” Comorra called out in a harsh, commanding voice.

The queen’s eyes went wide.

“Mighty Queen of the Iceni!” Comorra cried, “I am the Voice of the Raven. I am the Goddess of Battles. Mine is the fire and smoke, spear, and sword.”

“Andrasta!” Boudicca whispered fiercely, triumphantly.

On either side of her, battle-hardened warriors gasped and went pale beneath the swirling blue designs of their Celtic war paint. One or two of them looked as though they might actually drop to their knees in fear and reverence. At Boudicca’s elbow, Llassar almost dropped his bowl full of crimson liquid as he threw one hand in front of his eyes to shield them from the blinding light of the flares. The theatrics were working better than Clare had dared hope. Just as long as the Iceni queen continued to buy the ruse …

“Hear me, Boudicca, beloved of the Goddess.” Comorra pitched her voice lower and much louder than her normal speaking tones. It echoed in the darkness, ringing out over the heads of those gathered there. She gave a virtuoso performance. “Hear my commands and obey! It is my dearest wish that you spill no more blood this night. I have received your spirit warriors into the ranks of my own and I myself shall lead them. Leave this last alive so that
he
may redden his sword with the lives of the Roman interlopers.”