When she dozed, her dreams were chaotic; she saw Caillean surrounded by evil men. Then the priestess raised her arms to Heaven, lightning flared, and when Eilan could see again, her attackers were stretched lifeless on the ground. But Caillean was lying still as well, and Eilan could not tell if she lived.
She came to herself, shaking, her cheeks wet with tears. Had that been a true seeing? Caillean ought to be safe on the holy Tor with her priestesses. But if she was not, then what hope was there in the world?
Toward morning, Eilan crept into the room where Lia had put Gawen to bed. Huw, barefoot, padded softly at her heels. For almost the first time since she had taken up her duties as High Priestess, she found herself resenting the big man, as if Huw was taking up air which she needed for her own breath.
She remembered a horror story she had heard in the House of Maidens; how a Priestess of the past had been attacked by her own guard, and given him over to the priests to be put to death. For the first time, she could understand how that woman, desperate for a little human warmth, could have reached out to the only thing human within her reach, and how her appeal might have been misunderstood. Shuddering, she turned to Huw and told him to wait at the door.
Ah, gods, she thought, if only Caillean were here—or Lhiannon—or even my mother—or anyone so that I were not so desperately alone. But there was no one. In her mind even Senara, for all her weeping and denial, was a foe. And her father? He was the greatest of her enemies.
She looked long on Gawen’s sleeping face. It seemed impossible that the pounding of her heart should not be loud enough to awaken him. Had this big boy actually been so small that he could lie in his father’s two hands? He had grown from something smaller than the seed of a flower, engendered in that moment in the forest when her last defenses had gone down before Gaius’s need. And yet at the time she had been triumphant, certain that this was a sacred thing.
And Gawen was beautiful. How, out of such sorrow, could such beauty be born? She scanned again the childish features, and the long body with hands and feet just a bit too big, discerning within them the promise of the man he could become. She could not see that he resembled Gaius all that much. Once, that had disappointed her, but at least now she would not have to suppress a flicker of hatred whenever she glimpsed his father in his eyes.
But he was Gaius’s son; and because of him, she had been willing to let Gaius marry the daughter of a Roman official. Only now, it seemed, he was going to divorce Julia and renounce all his promises for the sake of Senara, who might as well have been her own little sister. Senara, who was younger, and apparently to Gaius, more beautiful.
At Eilan’s waist hung the curved dagger she had been given when she became a priestess. She fingered it for a moment. So often, at the rites, she had used it to draw the ritual drop of blood for the cauldron of prophecy. There, at the wrist where she could see the pounding of the blood, one stroke, hard and deep, would end all her troubles, at least for this lifetime. Why should she wait for the fate that the Goddess had promised her? But if she took her life, what would become of Gawen?
Deliberately Eilan took the sickle and returned it to the small sheath at her waist. In the faltering light of the lamp her face must have shown something she had not intended, for Huw rushed forward…
“Lady?”
“We will go back to my rooms now, and then you must bring Senara to me.”
It was not long before he returned with the girl in tow. Senara’s dress was wrinkled; her eyes were hot and her cheeks smeared as if she had been crying. She saw Eilan and cried out, “Lady, forgive me; not for the world—”
“Be quiet,” Eilan said. “I haven’t the strength for any more of this. I have had a warning of death; it is a gift of the Goddess that the High Priestess shall know her time.” She drew breath, and Senara, seeing the little dagger loose in its sheath at her waist, went white beneath her tears.
“That cannot be true,” she said desperately. “It is written in the holy books that no man knows what a day may bring forth—”
“Silence,” Eilan said tiredly. “There is something very important that I must say to you. If I am wrong, it will not matter whether you believe me, but if I am right, there is something I must ask.”
“Of me? Anything,” Senara said submissively.
Eilan drew a long breath. “You heard me say that Gaius and I had a son. Gawen is that child. I want you to marry Gaius and take his son away with you. Promise me”—her voice, which had been perfectly steady when she spoke of her own death, broke—“promise me only that you will be good to him.”
“Oh no,” Senara cried out. “I would not now marry Gaius Severus if he were the only man on the face of the earth.”
“You promised to do as I asked,” Eilan said quietly. “Is this how you keep your word?”
Senara looked up, and again her eyes spilled over. She said, “I want only to do what is right. If you think—” She stopped, breathing hard. “If God has chosen to take you, I suppose it is His business, but you must not lay hands on your own life, Eilan!”
Eilan drew all her dignity about her like a cloak as she said, “It does not really matter to me whether you believe it or not. But if you will not help me, Senara, then you may go.”
Senara trembled. “I will not leave you alone in this state.”
“Then for Gaius’s sake, take care of his boy.”
“It is for the boy’s sake I tell you that you must live,” Senara entreated. “You have a child, however that came about, and your life is not your own. Gawen is a beautiful boy. You must live to see him grown. And Gaius—”
“Ah, don’t speak of him, I beg you—”
“My Lady,” said Senara, shaking, “I tell you, Gaius still cares for you and for his son.”
“He has forgotten me.”
“I am sure he has not,” Senara insisted. “Let me remind him of what is due to the mother of his son. Let me speak to him of his duty as a father, and as a Roman. I am sure that would reach his better nature even if nothing else could do so.”
Was it possible? Could Senara actually do that? And would she?
“I believe the warning that the Goddess sent me,” she said finally, “but if I live through Samaine, you may try. But before you do so, you must get Gawen to safety. I am afraid of what may happen at the festival. Tomorrow—no, tonight,” she corrected herself, for it was nearly dawn, “leave the Forest House. Take Gawen to your Father Petros in the forest. No one will think to look for you there!”
THIRTY
When Caillean recovered her senses, she knew that she must have been unconscious for some time, for her gown was soaked through. What had wakened her was the sound of a farm cart jolting over the ruts and pits of the road. In the cart were four or five men well armed with cudgels, and a couple of hefty guards walked a few paces ahead with torches. Had they frightened her attackers away? Something must have, for she had not been violated after her assailant struck her down.
Caillean managed to pull herself upright, though the effort made her feel as if the top of her head would fall off. Sprawled around her she could see bodies, and a stink of burnt flesh reached her even through the rain.
One of the men with the torches saw her and quavered, “Be you a ghost, lady? Don’t hurt us…”
“I give you my word I am no ghost,” Caillean said as steadily as she could, “but a priestess from the temple in the Summer Country, left here after an attack by bandits.”
Now she could see her litter, turned on its side, the two young priests lying beside it, their throats cut, their golden torques plundered, staring up emptily at the sky. Caillean regarded them with dismay.
And then she looked at the blackened corpses around her and realized that where she had been powerless the gods at least had not. She would rather have saved the young men, but at least they had been avenged.
“Where were you a-going, lady?” asked the farmer from his perch in the driver’s seat of the cart.
> She controlled her voice with an effort, turning away from the dead men. “To the Forest House near Deva.”
“Ah, that explains it, then; I understand there’s still one of the Legions left there, and the roads are patrolled. These days, no one puts his nose outside his own door around here without a couple of bodyguards. It will be a good thing when we have a new Emperor, and can get some protection again.”
Caillean blinked, for the man spoke the British tongue like a native. It was a measure of the degree to which Britain had become Roman that the native folk should regret the lack of an Emperor.
“I see they killed your bodyguard, lady,” said the man driving the cart. “Did you have slaves to carry your litter? You don’t any more—no doubt they’ve taken to their heels.” He drew up in the road beside her and stopped, staring at the bodies of the Bacaudae. He looked at her again and made an ancient sign of reverence.
“My Lady—I see that the gods watch over you. We’re bound the other way, but we’ll take you to the next village, where you can get litter bearers and guards.”
He helped her up into the cart and wrapped her in a dry blanket. Some of his men lifted the bodies of the young priests into the wagon. Caillean, huddled in her cloak and the farmer’s rough blanket, reflected miserably that from now on she would be getting the best of whatever these folk could offer her, but no power on earth could bring her to the Forest House before Samaine.
Gaius was surprised to find the road south from Deva crowded with other travelers. It took him a moment to remember that they must be going down to the festival. But the glances he got as he rode by were not friendly, and after a time he felt it wiser to turn off the road and take a path through the hills so that he could come at the Forest House from the direction of Father Petros’s hermitage.
A cold wind was rattling the bare branches like bones, though for the moment it had ceased to rain. Samaine was the feast of the dead; the Romans considered it a day of ill omen. Well, he thought, it was certainly that for him. But he did not consider turning back. He had fallen into a fatalistic mood he remembered from his days with the Legions: the grim acceptance men find sometimes before battle, when survival is less important than honor. He was not sure he had any left, after the last few days, but he would redeem what he could, no matter what it cost.
As he rode, the beauty in the autumn woods moved him despite, or perhaps because of, his grim mood. Gaius realized then that in the past year or so he had learned to love this land. Whoever triumphed in the current conflict, he would not go back to Rome. Hard as he tried to fulfill Macellius’s ambitions, he had never completely belonged in his father’s world, yet he was far too Roman to feel anything but an impostor among the tribes. But the trees did not despise him as a barbarian or the stones hate him as a conqueror. In the peace of the forest, Gaius was at home.
He saw smoke rising from Father Petros’s hut, and thought for a moment of going in. But the place made him remember Senara. Gaius did not think he could bear that memory, and he was certain he would not be able to keep his temper if the priest came out with any of his holy platitudes.
He supposed that his errant legionaries would be hiding somewhere until nightfall. He tethered his mount loosely enough so that it could pull free if he did not return soon and began to make his way carefully around the building, keeping to the woods that edged the cleared land.
Dusk was falling before he saw movement in the bushes ahead of him. Cautious as a cat, he moved forward. Two soldiers were crouched in the lee of some hazels. They had been dicing to pass the time, and now they were arguing about whether or not to light a fire.
“Flavius Macro!” Gaius snapped in his best tone of command. Automatically, the man came to attention, then looked wildly around him.
“Who is it—” the second soldier had his hand on his sword. Gaius trod loudly on a branch to warn him and moved into the last of the light.
“It’s, why it’s Gaius Macellius,” said Macro. “Sir, what are you doing here?”
“I should think it is rather my place to ask that of you,” said Gaius, releasing his breath. “They know in Deva that you are gone. What do you think will happen if they find out you came here?”
The man’s face turned gray-white. “You wouldn’t tell them, would you, sir?”
Gaius pretended to hesitate long enough for the men to shudder, then shrugged. “Well, I’m not your officer. If you head back now you shouldn’t get into too much trouble, not with all that’s going on in the town.”
“Sir, we can’t do that,” said the other man. “Longus is still in there.”
Gaius felt his heart sink. “You can’t help him by staying here,” he said evenly. “Go on, that’s an order. I’ll do what I can for your friend.”
His tension eased a little as he heard them crashing off through the trees, but even one legionary was too many if found where he had no business to be.
Moving as if he were leading a patrol back on the border, Gaius slipped across the open space to the wall. There should be a back gate somewhere—the wall was intended more as a symbol of separation than an actual defense. His hand touched the latch, and then he was easing into the open space where he had seen his son playing ball. Senara had chattered a great deal about her life here. The big building in front of him must be the House of Maidens. There was a dark patch behind the kitchen that looked like a good place to watch from. He crept towards it.
Someone else had thought so too. As he knelt, he touched bare skin. Someone yelped and there was a brief struggle before Gaius got the fellow pinned with a hand over his mouth.
“Longus?” he whispered. His captive nodded vigorously. “Your wager is off. Your companions have gone home, and if you know what’s good for you you’ll follow them.” Longus sighed, then nodded again, and Gaius let him go. But as the man crossed the yard, a door opened and lamplight spilled across the ground. Longus froze like a trapped hare. “Run, you fool!” Gaius hissed from the shadows.
Longus scrambled over the gate, but suddenly the place was alive with men in white robes. Druid priests! thought Gaius. What were they doing here? His hiding place would be revealed in a moment, for they were bringing torches. He began to edge around the building. Somebody swore in British behind him and he whirled, instinctively drawing his sword.
The man screamed as the blade went in and the others came pelting towards him. Gaius fought as well as he could, and he supposed he must have done some damage, from the brutality with which they clubbed and kicked him after superior numbers had finally brought him down.
“Well, Daughter, are you ready for the festival?” Bendeigid, arrayed in the ceremonial bull-hide cloak and the golden ornaments of the Arch-Druid over his white woolen gown, looked magnificent, but Eilan’s heart sank as she returned his salutation.
“I am ready,” she said quietly. The maidens had come as they did before every festival to prepare her. For the last time, her heart cried as they bathed her and set the sacred wreath of vervain on her brow. At least she would go to the Goddess cleansed and sanctified.
For a moment he leaned on his staff, looking at her. Then he gestured to the priests and her women to leave them.
“Listen, child, there is no longer any need to dissemble. They have told me how Ardanos used to come to you, and the tricks he used to bind your will. I am sorry I accused you of betraying us before.”
Eilan kept her gaze lowered, afraid he would see the anger in her eyes. For thirteen years she had been High Priestess, mistress of the Forest House, the most respected woman in the land. Why was he talking as if she were still a child? But this was the loving father who had once said he would rather see her drowned than a Roman’s bride. She could not afford to antagonize him; in the confusion, it had been afternoon before Senara and Lia had been able to leave the Forest House with Gawen. She had to buy time for them to get well away.
In the same neutral tone, she asked, “What do you want of me?”
“The Romans ar
e tearing each other to pieces.” He grinned wolfishly. “There will never be a better time for us to rise against them. This is the season of slaughter, when the doors open between the worlds. Let us call on Cathubodva, let us raise the spirits of our dead against them. Raise the tribes against Rome, Daughter, summon them to war!”
Eilan repressed a shiver. Much as she had resented Ardanos, her grandfather had been a subtle man, never so blinded by his own dreams that he could not be talked round if he saw something else that would serve. Her father was far more dangerous, because he would sacrifice all else to his inflexible ideals. Yet all she had to do to stay safe was to agree with him. Then she felt the familiar throbbing in her temple, and remembered that whatever she did would not be for long.
“Father,” she began, “Ardanos interpreted my answers as it pleased him, and I suppose that you will do the same, but you do not understand about the sacred trance and how the Goddess comes.”
She heard a tumult outside and realized that he was no longer listening. The door crashed open, and priests with tangled hair and blood on their robes pushed through the crowd, dragging something that had been a man.
“What is this?” Eilan put all the hauteur a dozen years had taught her into her tone, and the babble stilled.
“An intruder, Lady,” said one of the priests. “We found him outside the House of Maidens. There was another man, but he got away.”
“He killed Dinan!”
“He must have been after one of the priestesses!”
“But which one?”
This time it was the Arch-Druid who brought silence by striking the floor with his staff. “Who are you, fellow, and what were you doing here?”
Eilan shut her eyes, hoping no one would notice that the man’s ripped tunic was made from good Roman cloth. Even grimed with blood and dust she knew Gaius, but perhaps no one else would, if she made no sign. Did he come here for Senara, she wondered, or for his son?