 
## Lady of the Moon

### Mary Gillgannon

EBook published by Mary Gillgannon at Smashwords, 2012

Copyright Mary Gillgannon, 2012

Cover art by Rae Monet

EBook design by A Thirsty Mind

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Preview: The Raven of Death

Titles

Mary Gillgannon

# Chapter 1

_Northwest Wales_

_57 C.E._

Sirona's heartbeat quickened as she and the two other young women followed the Drui into the darkened forest. The wind murmured in the high branches of the huge oak and beech trees, seeming to whisper of ominous secrets, and the faintly sweet scent rising up from the soft ground beneath her feet seemed to bear the odor of death. She told herself she shouldn't feel so apprehensive. This should be a night of celebration, marking her passage from childhood to womanhood. But she couldn't seem to banish the gnawing anxiety in her stomach.

In the bright moonlight, she began to recognize familiar landmarks: The copse where she'd gathered beechnuts the previous fall. An old gnarled oak, the top blackened by lightning three sunseasons ago. A thicket of blackthorn, the berries just barely beginning to form. All at once, she knew where they were going. They were headed straight for the Lake of the Dead.

It wasn't much of a lake anymore. Shallow and more marsh than open water. Yet she'd heard it was once deep and clear, teeming with fish. She'd also heard more than a few chilling tales about the fens and the malevolent spirits that dwelled there, the lingering essences of those poor unfortunates who'd died badly and hadn't been able to cross over to the Other Side.

She and her fellow students of the grove, Cruthin and Bryn, scoffing at the stories, had come here several times over the past few sunseasons. But it was always during the day, when the moist air was clouded with insects and bright copper butterflies fluttered among the bulrushes and water dock. It was different at night, when the mist floated along the ground and everything was reduced to shadows and shapes. Again, Sirona felt a chill of foreboding trace along her spine.

The Drui halted in an open area among the maze of weeds and bushes, close to a pool of water that reflected the glowing silver disc of the moon. Fiach, the head Drui, motioned for the three young women to come forward. With his long arms and tall upright form, he reminded Sirona of a bird of prey. He spoke in his sonorous voice: "We come here this night to welcome Enat, Cailin and Sirona to their new lives as women. We ask the gods to protect them, to make them fertile and to give them long lives. We ask this in the name of Rhiannon, Ceridwen and Arianhrod, protectors of women and givers of life."

He made a graceful motion with his hand, then gestured to Cailin. "Give me what you have brought to sacrifice."

Cailin handed him a silver brooch shaped like a deer. Fiach intoned, "She offers this gift that the gods might be pleased and know her as a devoted and faithful woman, one who gives proper reverence to the gods of three realms: the underworld of the deep, the realm of the sky and the realm of this earth." He motioned to indicate the three domains, then threw the brooch into the water where it landed with a splash.

Fiach repeated the ceremony with Enat, whose offering was an enamel necklace. When it was Sirona's turn, she took off the gold torc, which had come from the chest holding her mother's things at the back of the hut she shared with her grandmother. The torc was fashioned of intertwined snakes, their eyes set with glowing red garnets. It had an eerie, seductive beauty and a part of Sirona didn't want to give up. She quickly quelled the blasphemous thought and handed the piece to Fiach. He cast it into the water and repeated the ceremonial words.

Sirona thought they were finished, but then she looked at Fiach and saw he held a small, curved knife in his hand. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her close to the water. "Sirona, daughter of Banon," he said. "You will die this night."

Her breathing quickened, even though she told herself she was being ridiculous. Fiach wasn't going to kill her.

The head Drui continued, "As a _child_ , you will die this night... to be reborn as a woman." He took the knife and carefully nicked her wrist, making a few drops of blood well up. Then he shook her arm so the blood fell into the dark water. "Sirona the child is gone, consigned to the depths of this pool. In her place arises Sirona, the woman." He took a strip of cloth from Cuill and rapidly bound up her wrist.

Fiach repeated the blood-letting with Cailin and Enat, then said to the three of them, "I want each of you to go off by yourself and pray to the gods, asking them for the things you wish for in your life as a woman. Think carefully about these things, for this night you are in the shadowland between two worlds and the gods are close. They will listen and remember."

Sirona dutifully started walking in the direction Fiach had indicated. Her heart was pounding even faster now, but she told herself not to be such a coward. As a student of the grove, she knew the importance of this part of the ritual. She and the other women were being tested, just as the young men of the tribe were tested when they spent the night alone in the forest during their man-making.

She took a deep breath, aware of the throbbing pain in her wrist. Pain, like the pain she would endure during childbirth. Blood, like the blood that had seeped from her body during her first moontime, marking her as a fertile woman. And now she was alone, severed from the safety and protection she'd known as a child. With her training to be a Learned One, she could see the meaning in the ceremony, the pattern it evoked. But for all she told herself she should be pleased and honored to have reached this place, she couldn't shake the sense that something awful was going to happen.

She tried to focus on the gods and her future. What did other young women ask for? Fertility? A long life? That a certain man they favored might ask them to handfast? She wasn't concerned with any of those things. All she desired was to continue to train in the grove. To be one of the Learned Ones and take her place as a valued member of the tribe. But it didn't seem like something she should have to ask the gods for. She was already training in the grove. Although Fiach might not be pleased about it, and some of her fellow students questioned whether a woman should be a Drui, that part of her future seemed assured.

Perhaps she wasn't meant to ask the gods for anything, but to seek out their will for her. Ogimos always said that if a person could quiet their own thoughts and still the wild rush of words and images, the gods' spirit would enter them. _Take deep, even breaths_ , he said. _Relax your body, let your limbs grow heavy and your mind become empty and still. Imagine yourself as one of the great oaks, a tree that has stood for generations, alive, but quiet and waiting, enduring as the seasons pass in their endless cycle, the rhythm of life and death._

An oak. She would be an oak. She felt the sap rise through her solid, inert body, rise and fall as the seasons passed. New leaves, the budding catkins turning into acorns, falling to the ground and sprouting new life beneath her branches. The moon shone down upon her, waxing and waning. Around her, the forest changed, green and lush in summer, gold and copper and brown in the fall, bleak and gray in winter. The creatures of the wood shared her branches, the hollows of her trunk. Birds and squirrels and insects, their lives dependent upon hers. She was part of the forest, all the trees and vines and grasses and ferns and mosses that drew nourishment from the earth.

And in the earth beneath, she could feel the ancient power from which all life sprang. Earth, water, air and sunshine. These were the things that fed her. These were the gods of the oak. And of all creatures.

At last she felt peaceful and content. She opened her eyes, relieved she had been able to make herself reach a state of mind appropriate to this important event. She was a woman now, and must seek to be wise and calm and knowing, like her grandmother Nesta. Like the oak. Someday she would be full Drui and pass on her knowledge and the ancient, sacred cycle could continue.

She glanced around, wondering how long it would be before the three Drui returned and escorted her and the other girls back to the dun. They might not come back until morning. She considered sitting down on the grass to wait, but even as she had the thought, a light across the water caught her eye. There was another light... and another. Had the Drui lit torches to show them the way back to the settlement? But why, when they'd traveled here with no more illumination than the moon? Then she saw another glowing point, making four, and knew it couldn't be Fiach and others. But who else would come to the lake of the dead at night?

The lights moved closer. Drawing near to the water's edge, she strained to see. There was a group of people, a surprising number of people. Had the entire tribe come here to watch the woman-making ceremony? But if that were part of the ritual, she would know of it. Besides, the ceremony was over. Perhaps the dun had been attacked. But why not send a messenger? Certainly all these people wouldn't come to fetch them.

Yet there was undeniably a crowd gathered on the other side of the lake. And a lake it was now. There was much more open water here than she'd guessed. Why it had seemed like a small pool previously, she couldn't imagine. She decided to walk around the lake and see what was happening. If she watched where she was going, she would be in no danger of sinking into some hidden morass.

As she began walking, she realized she'd been mistaken. What she'd thought was the other side of the lake was really an island in the middle of it. That's where the people with torches were gathered. She was almost close enough to see the people, but she didn't recognize anyone. It must be the shifting shadows of the torchlight. Then she saw three figures dressed in white crys marked with the sacred colors of red and green. Ah, there were Fiach, Cuill and Flann after all.

Sirona pushed her way through the underbrush, trying to find a better vantage point from which to see. When she looked up again, she froze in place, her mouth open in a silent gasp. The three Drui encircled a young, naked woman, her small breasts clearly visible. The woman's scalp had been shorn, the hair cut so short that her scalp showed through the stubble, and her hands were bound behind her. As Sirona watched, one of the Drui—it must be Fiach—grabbed the woman's head and jerked it back, exposing her throat.

"No!" Sirona cried out. Fiach didn't move, didn't look across the water to see who had shouted. "No!" she screamed again, louder this time. None of the people gathered on the island seemed to hear her. Puzzled, Sirona tried once more. "Fiach!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. "Fiach! Stop!"

There was no response. "In the name of the gods, stop!" Sirona cried. She desperately wanted to prevent the Drui from killing this woman. But there was nothing she could do.

Fiach made a quick motion with the knife and dark blood welled from the young woman's neck. Sirona let out a moan, then stiffened as another Drui stepped forward. He didn't look like Cuill or Flann. There was something in his hand. A small rope or thong. Sirona watched in horror as he wrapped it around the woman's neck and pulled it tight. The woman's body jerked and flailed. The third Drui came forward to grab the woman's hands and hold her still. Sirona closed her eyes. She didn't want to watch. To see this woman die, choking to death.

When she opened her eyes, the first Drui—who she now realized wasn't Fiach—had released the woman, but the other man held her limp body so she didn't fall. Her head lolled to one side and blood flowed freely down her body. The two Drui took hold of the woman's arms and the three men threw her into the lake. She sank rapidly, so rapidly that Sirona realized they must have weighted her feet with something.

Sirona experienced a sense of panic. She felt as if she'd watched something forbidden. Her heart began to race as she thought about what might happen if she were discovered. She turned and began to run. But the ground was much wetter now and she sank into the mud up to her knees. She knew a moment of dread before she could free herself. After that, she watched where she was going, grimly keeping her gaze fixed on the ground and taking care with every step.

When she finally paused and looked around, she was shocked to realize the edge of the fens was still some distance away. Her distress grew more intense. She didn't want to remain in this place with the spirits of the dead, those who couldn't cross over. The girl who'd been sacrificed was one of them. She'd done something awful and been punished terribly. Now she was trapped here.

Nearly hysterical, Sirona began moving again. Her skin was slick with sweat. She stank of the swamp and her long gown was wet and muddy. The wound on her wrist throbbed and ached. But nothing was as awful as the thought that she might wander aimlessly in the marsh until she eventually collapsed and sank into the muck. Her body might lie there for days, until it was picked clean by birds and water creatures.

In her despair, she grew careless and lost her footing, pitching forward onto her hands and knees. As she caught her breath, she noticed the reflection of the moon in the small pool of water in front of her. Slowly, she raised her gaze to the heavens and stared at the silvery orb. "Arianrhod, Great Goddess, show me the way. Tell me what to do."

A sense of peace came over Sirona and she felt her body relax. She got to her feet and wiped her hands on her gown. Although she was covered with mud, she was unhurt.

She started forward and quickly reached solid ground. Pausing, she glanced back at the marsh. There was really nothing so frightening in this place. The sacrifice she'd seen hadn't been real. It was a dream of some kind. _Or a vision._

The thought filled her with excitement. During her years in the grove, she'd sought to distinguish herself in some way. But it was difficult. Clever Cruthin always had an answer ready for any question their teachers asked. And for all his whining and complaining, Dichu had an excellent memory and could recite an amazing number of tales. She could easily outshine Math and Miach, but they'd only been training in the grove for a year. And while Bryn was an indifferent student, he was the chieftain's son. Everyone knew he'd be head Drui someday. Now something had happened that suggested she did belong in the grove. Although she didn't know what the vision meant, there was no doubt the gods had spoken to her.

As she left the lake of the dead behind and started back through the forest, Sirona's fear fell away. When she saw Fiach approaching with two warriors, she walked forward with calm dignity.

"Sirona," he demanded, "Where have you been?"

"I've been at the lake of the dead. I stayed there as you told me to."

"You weren't there when I went back to fetch you."

Fiach sounded angry, and Sirona grew uneasy. "You must have missed me. I was there the whole time."

Fiach glared at her. Watching him, Sirona realized it wasn't moonlight illuminating his stern features, but the first glow of the dawn. "You shouldn't have gone wandering alone around the marsh, Sirona," he said. "That was very foolish. You might have lost your way and been sucked down in the fens."

"I... of course," Sirona responded. Although she'd intended to tell Fiach about her vision, now, realizing how angry he was, she decided not to mention it. Perhaps she should discuss it with Old Ogimos first. He was the only one of her Drui teachers she really felt comfortable with.

One of the warriors, Rhodderi, stepped forward. "Your grandmother was very distressed when Fiach returned to the dun without you. She insisted we come and look for you."

Sirona stomach twisted with dismay. "I'm sorry. I never meant to worry anyone. It's only that—"

"You must remember your duty," Fiach snapped. "As a Drui-in-training you have a responsibility to the tribe. Your life is no longer your own. It belongs to the gods!"

"I know, master Drui," Sirona responded, fighting back the sense of resentment she always felt around Fiach. Aye, her life did belong to the gods. And if that were true then the vision she had seen might well have implications for all the Tarisllwyth.

As they walked to the dun in the soft glowing light of dawn, Sirona felt a new sense of purpose. She was a woman now, and also a seeress.

# Chapter 2

"Our spirits never die, but go to the Otherworld, from there to be reborn in another body. There is no reason to fear death. We are, all of us, imperishable, our spirits indestructible..."

Although Sirona usually found meaning in whatever Old Ogimos had to say, today as she sat in the grove with the other students, she could hardly keep her eyes open. By the time she'd arrived back at the dun, there'd barely been time to wash and change her clothing before lessons began. Even if she'd wanted to tell Nesta about her vision, there'd been no opportunity. Her grandmother was far too busy scolding her to listen to anything she had to say.

She forced her attention back to Old Ogimos. "The gods are all around us, everywhere," he intoned. "In every tree and stone, in every spring, river and lake. If you seek the quiet center of yourself and listen, the gods will speak to you. But you must be very quiet; you must learn to ignore the distractions of our world..."

It was so hard to be patient, Sirona thought. To wait until their lessons were over so she would have a chance to speak to Old Ogimos in private. She wondered what he would make of her vision, what it could possibly mean. Recalling the grisly sacrifice, she felt a stir of excitement along with her horror. It had seemed so real, as if it were happening at that moment. But now, thinking about it, she felt certain it had taken place long ago in the past, when the lake of the dead was truly a lake.

The main thing was that the vision had come to her, rather than someone else. It meant the gods thought she was worthy of such a gift. _Her,_ rather than Cruthin. She shot a surreptitious glance at the lean, dark-haired youth. He looked bored, as if he'd heard everything Old Ogimos was saying many times before and had moved far beyond it. That might be true, but he shouldn't be so arrogant.

"A balance between our realm and the Otherworld must always be maintained," Old Ogimos continued. "Otherwise, the gods will grow angry and bring their wrath down upon us..."

Sirona wondered if the gods were watching even now. Did they know who was paying them proper respect, and who wasn't? She perused the other students. Dichu's narrow face wore a dutiful, serious expression, but that didn't mean he had any appreciation of what their teacher was saying, nor any real devotion to the gods. While Dichu might be gifted at memorizing, he never looked beneath the surface of things.

And Bryn—he was idly tracing the pattern of the great oak's leaves on the ground, his thoughts clearly far away. Sirona couldn't help wondering what the brawny, auburn-haired youth might have done in another life that the gods had cursed him like this. He was clearly meant to be a warrior, yet his father insisted he train in the grove.

She turned her attention back to Old Ogimos as he sighed and spoke in a wistful tone. "You're all so young. Too young to realize how fortunate you are to have been chosen for this destiny. It's a great honor to serve as a Learned One. If you are devoted and dutiful, you will eventually possess all the wisdom and knowledge of our tribe. You will learn the history of our people, the movements of the heavenly bodies in the sky, the stories and legends of our ancestors, the ancient rites by which we communicate with the gods. Knowledge is a powerful thing, more powerful than a warrior's sword arm. It's the only thing that lasts, that doesn't pass away when we die, because it can be carried on with the next generation. I plead with you to take your responsibilities seriously, to learn all you can in your time in the grove."

Sirona's chest squeezed with guilt. She hadn't listened, really listened, this day. She'd been too caught up in her own thoughts.

Old Ogimos used his walking stick to lever himself up. "I'm dismissing you from lessons, but that doesn't mean you're free of your responsibility to the gods. The rest of the day, I want you to think about your duty to Them and what it means for your life."

Sirona got up and waited for her chance. Bryn rushed out of the grove, like an arrow loosed from the bow. The red-haired twins, Math and Miach followed after him, laughing at some secret amusement they shared. Dichu moved off slowly, but Cruthin—curse him—didn't leave, but lingered near their teacher. Sirona couldn't understand why. Cruthin normally had little interest in Old Ogimos's lessons.

As her teacher used his walking stick to limp down the pathway, Sirona called, "Master Drui, wait! I would like to ask you something."

Old Ogimos turned his rheumy blue eyes on her and smiled kindly. Sirona hesitated. Although she wanted to talk to her teacher about her vision, she didn't want to Cruthin to overhear. Sirona shot the youth a resentful glance, but he still didn't move ahead of them.

Ogimos motioned to the pathway with his staff. "Come, Sirona. You can talk to me as we walk back to the dun."

Sirona fell in step beside the elderly Drui, measuring her pace to his plodding gait. "As you know, I had my woman-making last night," she said. "I found the ceremony very meaningful. I felt a real change in myself, as if I was leaving the foolishness of my childhood behind and becoming a woman."

Behind her, Cruthin sniggered. Sirona clenched her jaw and ignored him. "But after Fiach, Cuill and Flann left me, I had a strange experience. Everything in the marsh changed. It seemed there really was a lake, rather than pools of water here and there. In the middle of the lake was an island. I saw people assembling there, so I moved closer, to see what they were doing. In the center of the gathering were three Drui and a young woman. The woman's hair had been shorn and she was naked. The Drui led her to the edge of the water and there..." Sirona stopped walking and took a deep breath. All the feelings she'd experienced during the vision came rushing back. She felt afraid again, and horrified.

"And then what happened?" Cruthin asked from behind her. He sounded genuinely interested now, rather than mocking.

"First, they cut her throat. Then they strangled her. Finally, they pushed her into the lake."

"The triple death," Cruthin murmured. Sirona turned and stared at him. The idea that he had knowledge of this sacred rite irritated her.

"Aye," Old Ogimos said. "The triple death. It's a very powerful ritual."

Encouraged by her teacher's response, Sirona continued: "When I first realized they were going to kill her, I called out to the Drui, to try to get them to stop, but they didn't hear me. I realized then that what I was seeing wasn't real. That it was a vision. I decided it must be something that happened in the past, when there really was a lake in the marsh."

"I'm sure you're right," Old Ogimos agreed. "It's been many generations since a human life has been offered up to the gods."

"Although I feel honored to have experienced such a thing," said Sirona. "I can't help wondering what it means. Was it some sort of sign from the gods?"

Old Ogimos frowned in concentration, causing wrinkles to fan out around his eyes like ripples in a pond. "Visions are always difficult to interpret. It may not be a message from the gods at all."

Sirona tried to quell her sense of disappointment. "What, then? Why did I see what I saw?"

"The young woman you observed being sacrificed," her teacher asked, "Did she appear distraught, or did she go along with the ritual willingly?"

"I'm certain she was terrified," said Sirona. "I could sense her fear, and for awhile afterwards, I couldn't shake my own sense of dread." She was glad no one had been around to see how shamefully she'd behaved immediately after the vision, as she ran around in circles like a frightened child.

"Not a good death then," Old Ogimos said sadly. "Which means the young woman's spirit may not be able to pass peacefully over to the Other Side. Perhaps that's why you experienced what you did. Restless spirits sometimes reach out to the living, as if seeking our aid to help them find their way."

"But why me?" Sirona asked. "Why not one of the other young women? Or, Fiach, or Cuill or Flann?"

"I doubt that Cailin or Enat would ever have such an experience. Having never trained in the grove, they're unlikely to be open to the world of spirits. As for why you, rather than one of your teachers, there are many possible reasons. The unfortunate spirit may think a young woman would be more sympathetic to her fate than a man. There's also the fact that you seem to have a natural affinity for the Drui life. You take your lessons in the grove seriously and are thoughtful and wise beyond your years. Finally, it's possible it might be a warning of some kind."

"A warning?" Sirona asked. "What kind of warning?"

Old Ogimos started walking again. "Perhaps you're meant to realize you must be careful how you live your life, and avoid the mistakes that led to your mother's end."

"My mother?" Sirona knew very little about the woman who'd given birth to her. Whenever she pressed Nesta for information, her grandmother became almost angry. "I don't understand. What did my mother do that led to her death? Was she..." Sirona suppressed a shudder. "... sacrificed?"

"Of course not." Old Ogimos halted and his voice grew gentle. "Her death was an accident. No one intended for her to die."

"And yet, the choices she made led to her end?"

"That's true of most of us. How we live our lives usually influences how we will die."

Old Ogimos was being vague and enigmatic again. Sirona's stomach clenched tighter as her sense of foreboding grew. " _How_ did my mother die?" she asked. "What are you trying to tell me?"

"The facts of your heritage should really come from your grandmother. Now that you're a woman, perhaps it's time for you to ask her these things." Old Ogimos gave Sirona a vague smile. "In truth, I don't think you're anything like your mother, except for your beauty. You've always been a dutiful and devoted student, and I'm certain you'll have a bright future ahead of you as a Learned One."

Old Ogimos turned away and started walking again, moving with his slow, awkward gait. Sirona watched him leave, feeling stunned. _What did my mother do? What terrible secret hangs over my life?_

"So, are you going to ask your grandmother about these things?"

Sirona turned in surprise, suddenly remembering Cruthin. He'd been there the whole while, listening.

"Aye, I will. Why do you ask? And why are you lurking around, spying on my private conversation with our teacher?"

Cruthin shrugged, but his dark eyes were intent and serious. "I thought you seemed different this day. At first, I imagined it was because you were now truly a woman in the eyes of the gods. But it seems it's something else. The gods have chosen you. The vision you had makes that clear."

She should be gratified to think that proud, mocking Cruthin was treating her with respect and a hint of awe. But she was far too upset to feel any real satisfaction. "I'm going to go speak to my grandmother now," she said as she left him.

She walked grimly to the dun and entered the small hut she shared with Nesta. Her grandmother was crouched down near the hearth, stirring some sort of disgusting-smelling herbal concoction in the iron cauldron. Nesta was a healer, and the tribe depended upon her for medicines.

Hands on her hips, Sirona faced her grandmother "How did my mother die? I want to know."

Nesta flashed Sirona a wary look, but continued to stir the contents of the cauldron. "What brought about this question? Are you upset because at the feast last night, Tadhg recited the genealogies of the other girls, but said nothing about your family?"

"Nay. It was something Old Ogimos said. He implied my mother made mistakes that led to her death."

Nesta stopped stirring. "What else did he say?"

"He said that perhaps I'm meant to learn from her mistakes. But since I don't know what they are, I don't see how I can possibly do that!" Sirona inwardly winced at the harsh, accusing tone of her voice. Her grandmother loved her. If she'd kept the truth from her, there must be a good reason.

Nesta removed the spoon from the herbal mixture and laid it on a flat rock near the hearth. She rubbed a hand over her face, as if suddenly weary. "Your mother was killed by wild animals one night when she was outside the dun."

_This was the information she was supposed to use to shape her life?_ Sirona couldn't believe it.

"Of course, that's not all of it." Nesta sighed heavily. "She wouldn't have been outside the dun except Tarbelinus had banished her. He'd offered to send an escort with her, but Banon refused. She was always so proud and scornful. Perhaps that's the lesson you're meant to learn from her death." Nesta's pale blue eyes met Sirona's.

"Why did Tarbelinus banish her?"

Nesta stood. "The real reason was that he wanted to be rid of her. He'd had his pleasure of Banon, yet she failed to give him a son. Rhyell, on the other hand, had done just that." Nesta faced Sirona, her expression grim. "Once Bryn was born, there was no hope for Banon. She might tempt and entice Tarbelinus, but she couldn't give him an heir. The chieftain's pride and arrogance overruled his lust. He had to get rid of her. And Banon, in her foolish rage, gave him the very means."

"What did she do?" Sirona whispered. Her whole body was rigid with expectation.

"She cursed us!" Nesta gestured angrily. "The whole tribe. She said she'd had a vision the Tarisllwyth would vanish from the earth. There was malice in her words. She clearly wanted it to be true. And she said something else... something I won't speak of. Tarbelinus was enraged, of course. He ordered her to leave his sight and never return. Later, he relented and agreed to give her an escort. But Banon had already gone."

Nesta's thin chest heaved. "She took you with her. I was terrified. You were only a babe. I thought I'd never see you again. But when her body was found the next morning, you were beside her, completely untouched. Everyone knew it was a sign, a sign that you were different than your mother." Her gaze met Sirona's. "They understood the gods had protected you. After that, it was easy to convince Fiach you should train in the grove."

It was an amazing story. Hearing it made Sirona feel many things. Anger at her mother. Awe that the gods had chosen to let her live. Grief for Nesta that her daughter had been so foolish and had died because of it.

Sirona went to her bedplace and sank down on it. "About my mother—did she have any other visions? Is there any reason to believe that what she predicted might come to pass? Or, was it all a lie?"

Nesta returned to the hearth, picked up the spoon and resumed stirring. "It's hard to say whether it was a lie. Because we carry the blood of the Old Ones, the women of our line sometimes have the gift of sight. Banon might have had some sort of premonition of the future. But even if her knowledge came from a true Seeing, what she did was cruel and irresponsible. Visions don't always come true. From your Drui training, you must know that. But her goal was to frighten and distress us, to punish us. And that was wrong, terribly wrong."

Sirona swallowed hard. "It's a wonder that everyone at Mordarach doesn't hate me after my mother did such an awful thing."

Nesta left the cauldron and came over to where Sirona sat. "They know you're not like her. They also know the gods let you live, which means there must be some special purpose for your life."

Sirona nodded. She was special, chosen by the gods. It was a heady, exhilarating thought. Then she recalled something else. "You said that the women of our line are known to have the Sight, and you mentioned the Old Ones. Who are they?"

"The ancient race of Albion. I know little about them, except they trace their ancestry through the female line rather than the male. They're also said to know magic, but that's probably only a foolish tale."

"What do you mean, they're said to know magic?" Sirona asked.

Nesta shook her head impatiently. "Shapeshifting and that sort of thing, I suppose. As I said, it's probably not true."

"And why do you think we carry their blood?"

"It's obvious in the way we look. While the rest of the Tarisllwyth are tall and robust, those of our line are small of stature and delicately made. The Old Ones also tend to have dusky skin and dark hair and eyes, although that trait has been lost in our family. If you want to know who most resembles the Old Ones, it would be your fellow student Cruthin."

"I thought he was the son of a sheepherder from two valleys over."

"One of his ancestors must have been of the ancient race. Another characteristic of the Old Ones is exceptional beauty. Banon had that trait, as do both you and Cruthin."

Sirona felt uncomfortable. Beauty didn't seem like a particularly desirable quality for a Learned One. She wanted to be wise and respected, not comely.

"Aye. Whether you like it or not, you'll have to deal with the effect your face and form will have on men," her grandmother said. "Your mother reveled in her beauty. She thought her fair face should bring her whatever she wished. When that didn't happen, she turned cruel and selfish."

"This is all so much to take in," Sirona said. "When Old Ogimos told me to ask you about my mother, I never expected this."

"What caused him to mention your mother?"

"It was because of the vision."

"Vision?"

Sirona took a deep breath. "Last night, at my woman-making ceremony at the lake of the dead, I had a vision. Or, at least I thought that's what it was." She got to her feet, suddenly restless. "I saw a young woman being sacrificed. Old Ogimos said I might have seen it because the spirit of the woman who died was unable to cross over to the Other Side. He also said it might be some sort of warning from the gods. And then... then he mentioned my mother."

"I would think the old Drui would know better than to bring up such things!" Nesta sounded angry. "He had no right to speak to you that way, to imply what you saw has anything to do with your life, or with your mother's!"

"But it might. Perhaps it's a warning. But never fear, I will heed it," Sirona answered hurriedly. "If I have any other visions, I will be very careful how I speak of them. I won't abuse my power, but ask for guidance from my teachers."

"Nay! You can't do that!" Nesta went to Sirona and seized her arm, her expression desperate. "You mustn't tell anyone you have visions. It might remind people of your mother and what she did." She gave Sirona's arm a little shake. "It might make them think you're like her!"

"But I..." Sirona saw her chance to distinguish herself slipping away. If she couldn't tell anyone about what had happened, her new-found ability was meaningless. "But Old Ogimos already knows," she pointed out. "As does Cruthin."

Nesta sighed. "I doubt Old Ogimos would speak of these things. He knows the story of your mother and understands the implications. As for Cruthin, you must warn him not to tell anyone."

Sirona's insides squeezed with alarm. The surest way to get Cruthin to do something was to tell him not to do it. "I have no control over Cruthin. Perhaps you should speak to him. After all, he does owe you a debt for saving his life when he was attacked by the wolf."

During his man-making trial, Cruthin claimed he called a wolf using magic. He'd ended up killing the wolf, but not before it bit him and caused a grievous wound. Nesta had nursed him back to health using her herbal potions.

Nesta shook his head. "If I speak to him, he'll want to know why I'm warning him of these things. Cruthin always asks questions and tends to keep asking until he gets an answer. And I dare not tell him about your mother. It's bad enough that all the adults of the tribe remember what she did."

"But what should I do? How can I convince Cruthin not to speak of these things?"

"Perhaps you should ask the gods for advice. Perhaps they will help you."

Sirona nodded slowly. Then she went to her bedplace and crawled back to where the large wooden chest was kept.

"What are you doing?" asked Nesta.

"I want to find something to sacrifice. I intend to go to the sacred spring, offer a gift to the gods and ask them what I should do." She undid the latch and opened the chest, then moved aside clothing until she found the soft leather bag. Unfastening the drawstring tie, she spilled the bag's contents onto the thin wool blanket covering her bedplace.

It always amazed her how much jewelry her mother had possessed. Armbands, necklaces, rings, brooches—and all of it fashioned of gold and silver. Much of it was set with gleaming stones. Dark red gems like drops of dried blood, blue or purple jewels like the sky at sunset, creamy pearls and great chunks of amber. It didn't look like the ornaments Hyell, the smith's apprentice made. Everything was foreign-looking and clearly very valuable.

She picked up a silver bracelet, the end pieces fashioned into the heads of wolves with deep red stones for eyes.

Nesta came up beside her. "Is that what you're going to offer?"

"Aye." As Sirona examined the bracelet, she heard her grandmother sigh. "What is it?" she asked.

Nesta shook her head, looking distraught. "It's just that..." She met Sirona's gaze. "Your mother was killed by wolves."

"How do you know?"

Nesta grimaced. "What other creature could have torn out her throat?"

Sirona let out a gasp. She had no memory of her mother, and it seemed Banon been a less than admirable person. Even so, it was distressing to think she'd endured such a gruesome end.

She quickly put the rest of the pieces away, then tied the bracelet to her belt. After what her grandmother had told her, it seemed ill-fated to put it on.

As she left the hut and walked through the dun, her stomach squeezed with turmoil. She had so many questions: What was the connection between her vision and her mother? Were her visions related to the Old Ones, the strange, mysterious race her grandmother had mentioned? And her mother's vision—had she lied when she predicted the downfall of the Tarisllwyth? Sirona certainly hoped so.

Outside the gate, her distress increased. This valley was her home. The lush summer pastures, the forests teeming with birds, deer, fox and badger, the rolling hills where the goshawks and gyrfalcons hunted, the rushing streams and quiet pools full of trout and salmon and edged with jewel green moss and delicate flowers. This place was part of her spirit, her soul. The Tarisllwyth had lived here for generations upon generations, existing in harmony with the land, honoring the gods and spirits who also dwelled here. Her tribe was part of the great circle of life. For them to vanish would be like the creatures of the woods vanishing.

She reached the sacred spring, situated in a stand of trees beyond the fields of barley and wheat and the clearing where the tribe held the sacred ceremonies. Near the spring was a tall rounded stone with a face carved in it. The face gazed back at Sirona now, appearing bored and uncaring. She removed the bracelet from her belt and stared at it. For a moment she saw the image of a live wolf, its fur silver and black, its jaws dripping with blood. With a shiver she tossed the offering into the deep pool at the base of the spring. "Rhiannon, Ceridwen, Arianhrod, great goddesses all. Aid me. Show me what I must do."

The water of the pool was littered with other offerings. Sirona gazed into it, watching the ripples fan out from the place where the bracelet had entered. A tingling began along her spine as the image of a woman formed in the depths of the pool. The woman had red hair, pale skin and blue eyes that burned with a terrible fury. She wore a gleaming gold torc, the sign of a queen. Reflected in the gold of the torc were flickering flames, and as Sirona gazed beyond the woman, she saw a huge building surrounded by fire. Faintly, she could hear the screams of the people trapped inside. She smelled smoke... and something else... the reek of burning flesh.

Breathless with horror, Sirona stared at the vision of the woman. As the red-haired queen's expression changed from hatred to satisfaction, a sense of revulsion rose up inside Sirona. She could tell this woman was pleased that the people inside the building were being cooked alive. Sickened, Sirona drew back from the pool. The hatred she had glimpsed in the woman's eyes terrified her. What did it mean? Did this vision foretell her own destiny? Was she one of the people who would be trapped in the pyre of flame?

She dared to once again look into the depths of the pool. "Please," she whispered. "Show me the way. Tell me what I must do."

She waited, but no more visions came to her. After a time, she rose and started back to the dun.

Near the trackway to the gate, she encountered Cruthin.

"Where have you been?" he asked.

Remembering Nesta's warning, she said, "I was fetching some comfrey for my grandmother."

"Where is it?" asked Cruthin.

"Where is what?"

"The comfrey."

She was a terrible liar. "I didn't find any. I'll have to look again tomorrow."

"I thought perhaps you went to the lake of the dead."

"Why would I do that?"

"To see if you might have another vision."

Sirona froze. Somehow she had to convince Cruthin to forget about her Seeing. She forced a laugh. "Of course I didn't have another vision. Indeed, now that I've had time to think about it, I'm certain what I saw at the lake of the dead wasn't a vision either. I must have fallen asleep and dreamed all of it." She gestured dismissingly. "Fiach said he couldn't find me when he went back. It must have been because I was lying down, sleeping."

"In the marsh?" Cruthin raised his eyebrows in disbelief. Then he studied her, his dark eyes narrowed. "Anyway, it doesn't matter if you were asleep or awake. What you saw still has meaning. Indeed, it reminds me of a dream I had when I was unconscious after I was bitten by the wolf during my man-making trial. You remember that, don't you?"

"It was a very foolish thing you did, Cruthin, trying to call a wolf so you could kill it."

"But it worked, didn't it?" he said, grinning.

"I heard it was an old, mangy beast with not many seasons to live. But aye, you apparently did call a wolf to you and manage to kill it, at some risk to your own life." Sirona started walking.

"Let me tell you about my dream," said Cruthin, falling in step beside her. "I dreamed I was in a great feast hall. Huge timber beams held up the thatched roof, and the beams were carved with the figures of animals and painted bright hues. I was sitting in a place of honor by the central hearth—the place reserved for the chieftain or a warrior who's been chosen as champion of the tribe. The hall was filled with people. They were all smiling and looking at me with admiration. They raised their beautiful enamel and gold cups to toast me."

Sirona resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Cruthin continued, "I saw my parents among the crowd. It was strange to see them, knowing they were dead. Their thin, careworn faces were alight with pleasure, and they were obviously celebrating with everyone else. Perhaps they were smiling because for once there was enough to eat." Cruthin gestured expansively. "Platters of bread, fruit, cheese and honeycakes covered the table in front of me and a roasted haunch of meat lay on a vast wooden plank near the fire pit, oozing with delicious juices. I could tell the celebration was for me. I'd done something wonderful, and the whole tribe was recognizing my achievement."

Of course, Sirona thought, even in his dreams, Cruthin was arrogant and full of himself!

"But the strange thing was," Cruthin continued, "I hardly recognized any of the people gathered in the hall. My parents, of course. But no one else, except you."

"Me?" Sirona exclaimed. "What was I doing there?"

"You were helping serve the food. After awhile, you came over to me, put down the platter you were carrying and beckoned for me to follow you. We entered a large room scented with sweet herbs and flowers. I'd never seen such luxury. Thick furs covered the floor. The walls were adorned with rich fabrics in colors as bright and glistening as a dragonfly's wings. There were cushions to sit upon, also made of fine beautiful materials. You knelt down on one of the cushions. But when you turned around to face me, you become someone else, another woman. One much older, with mead gold hair and gray eyes. Her mouth was deep pink and full-lipped, and she gazed at me with a provocative expression. I leaned down to kiss her, but the coldness of her flesh made me draw back.

Sirona turned to look at Cruthin, who gave a shudder. "She'd turned into a corpse. Empty eye-sockets, a mouth gaping in the frozen scream of death. Strands of dark gold hair clung to her rotting skull and putrid, discolored skin covered most of her body, except for one claw-like, skeletal hand that reached out for me."

"What did you do?" Sirona asked, riveted.

"I watched in horror as the corpse rose to its feet. Then I whirled and rushed back into the main portion of the hall. The place was filled with the dead. Their bodies half-decayed, the wraiths moved and walked about, lifting the beautiful cups to their ruined faces. They gazed at me with ghastly, empty eyeholes, smiling with their lips half rotted or eaten away. I began to run. When I reached the door of the hall, I rushed out. A thick mist was everywhere. I realized it would be foolish to dash blindly into such an impenetrable atmosphere. But revulsion and dread goaded me on.

"I ran and ran. Sometimes the mist would thin and I would see more of the dead. They were everywhere. Their bodies were ravaged, but they were still able to move. They reached out for me as I sped past. Sometimes they called my name. At any moment, I expected to crash into something or fall into empty space. But the mist went on and on. Somewhere along the way I realized I must be on the Other Side, the place where the spirits of the deceased live. I began to wonder if I was dead and they were welcoming me to their realm. But if I was dead, why did I feel so panicked and terrified?

"After a while I stopped walking. I decided that if this was Other Side, then the rules of the world of the living didn't apply. I might run and run and never reach any place other than where I'd started out. I had to find someone and ask them if there was any hope of returning to world of the living. But now that I wanted to find someone to speak to, it seemed I was all alone. I started walking again, a slow, measured pace. I thought perhaps this was what it was like to be dead. No sense of time or place. Only endless mist. Then I saw something. As I neared it, I realized it was a turf wall. The place seemed familiar. Then a sheep bleated and I knew where I was. The place I'd been born and spent my early childhood. I entered the enclosure and saw the small wooden lean-to built against the turf wall. I knew that when I went inside, I would find my mother stooped over the fire, cooking bannocks for the evening meal."

"Is that what happened?" Sirona asked.

Cruthin shook his head. "What happened is... I woke up."

Sirona frowned at him. Parts of the dream sounded like Cruthin might have made them up—like when everyone was toasting him as the hero. But there were other parts that were so strange she didn't think he could have imagined them. Like the part about her turning into another woman, who then turned into a corpse. An unsettling thought came to her. She said, "The woman I turned into, what did you say she looked like?"

"She was beautiful. Her hair was light, but darker than yours... almost the color of mead. Her eyes were gray, and she was very well-formed, yet small and delicate."

Sirona nodded, then turned and started walking up the trackway.

"Where are you going?" Cruthin asked.

"I have to tell Nesta I couldn't find any comfrey."

"What about going to the lake of the dead? Are you afraid?" Cruthin taunted.

"I'm not afraid of spirits," Sirona said in withering tones. Thinking quickly, she added. "I want to think about your dream and try to understand the meaning of it." Maybe if she could get Cruthin to focus on his dream, he would forget about her Seeing.

"Why can't you do that at the lake of the dead?"

"Because I want to be alone. You know how Old Ogimos always says that in order to have the gods speak to you, you must escape the distractions of life."

"Old Ogimos—always so wise and knowing." Cruthin made a face.

"Well, he is. I have the greatest respect for him. And I intend to heed his advice this day."

"Very well." Cruthin gestured angrily. "I'll go to the lake of the dead by myself."

As soon as she was out of sight of Cruthin, Sirona began to run. She raced through the gate, startling Old Dergo, who was standing guard. "Where are you going in such haste?" he called out.

"I need... to speak... to my grandmother," she panted.

She found Nesta in the hut as she'd left her, although now she was grinding some herb between two stones. "I have another question for you, grandmother," Sirona said breathlessly. "You said my mother was beautiful. But what did she look like exactly?"

Nesta frowned. "She had fair hair, but not as light as yours."

"Would you say it was the color of mead?"

"I suppose a bard might. It put me more into mind of oak leaves in autumn."

"And her eyes... what color were they?"

"Gray, like the winter sky."

Sirona slowly let out her breath. Cruthin's dream had been about the dead who are trapped between worlds. And her mother was one of them.

# Chapter 3

They were in the grove. As he had the day before, Old Ogimos was giving the lesson. "Let us discuss the purpose of sacrifice, the meaning behind the ritual." He glanced at Sirona and gave a faint nod. "Although death is nothing to fear, it's not something that should be taken lightly either. For every death there must be a reason and proper attention given. When we butcher cattle, either for a feast or when the herd is culled in fall, we offer a part of the animal to Beli, god of the sun, to thank him for blessing us with the light and warmth that makes the grass grow to feed the cattle. When hunters kill the animals of the forest, they leave a portion of the kill to Cernunnos, thanking the god of animals for the meat. When we sacrifice a bullock at Imbolc or Beltaine, we are offering the gift of the animal's life to the gods. As the bullock dies, its spirit floats free, and the balance between this realm and the Otherworld is maintained.

"Everything is about balance. All life flows in an endless circle, from this realm to the other realms and back again. If you seek out a quiet place and concentrate, you can begin to feel that ebb and flow of life, sense your part in it. Understand how everything is connected. Now I want all of you to close your eyes and feel the life force within you, the energy that animates your body. Feel your heart beating. The air flowing in and out of your breast..."

Ogimos continued to speak, but Sirona no longer heard his words. She was focused intently on doing as he said. She could feel the life force within her, how it was linked to everything else. She imagined herself as one of the stars in the heavens, twinkling brightly in the darkness.

A strange tingling began along her spine, and all at once she was looking down at the earth, observing a hillside by the sea. A circle of stones glinted silver and white in the moonlight. Some of the stones were nearly as tall as a man, others only knee high. As she watched, people appeared out of the shadows surrounding the stones. They were naked and had dark markings painted on their skin, swirling shapes, circles and spirals. The people started to dance, weaving back and forth around the edge of stones, but not entering the circle. Bonfires burned all around, turning the hillside into a whorl of shifting light and shadows. As the people danced, it seemed like they were a spindle drawing down the power of the moon and the stars, concentrating it. In the center of the circle, a light began to glow. It grew brighter and brighter. As bright as the sun—

"Visitors! The dun has visitors!"

The hillside vanished as Sirona opened her eyes. Young Avan stood on the pathway to the grove. His freckled face was flushed bright as a berry and he panted for breath.

"A whole group of Silures have arrived," he gasped out.

Bryn was the first on his feet. "Do they look like fighting men? Are we at war?"

Avan shook his head. "This is a peaceful envoy. There are warriors among them, but also a Drui."

Old Ogimos used his staff to lever himself up. "Lessons are finished for today. We should all go to the dun. There will be a feast honoring the visitors, so there will be much to do." He began limping down the pathway, following after Bryn, who had dashed off even before Ogimos finished speaking.

Sirona stood up slowly. She felt dazed and weary, as if her spirit had left her body for a time and then returned. The images she'd seen haunted her. What did they mean? Who were the people on the hillside?

"What's wrong with you, Sirona?" Cruthin asked. "Did you have another vision?"

"Vision?" Dichu's voice was scornful.

"I was trying to do what our teacher bade us do," Sirona answered. "To feel the life force within myself. To sense how everything is connected."

Dichu glared at her and then left the grove.

"Tell me the truth," said Cruthin. "Did you see something?"

"Of course not." Sirona started walking toward the dun.

Cruthin fell in step beside her. "Have you come up with any ideas as to what my dream might mean? Or gained more understanding of your vision at the lake of the dead?"

"The night of the ceremony, I drank mead for the first time," Sirona answered. "And then there was the bloodletting during the ceremony. Those things must have affected my thoughts and made me have an especially vivid and frightening dream."

"I don't believe it was a dream," responded Cruthin. "And even if it was, it was surely sent by the gods."

"I don't want to talk about it anymore." Sirona hurried ahead of him. "I must go and see if my grandmother needs any help."

When she reached the dun, she saw Tarbelinus and his warriors gathered near the gate with the visitors. The Silures were shorter and stockier than the Tarisllwyth, and had dark brown, black or deep red hair. Checked bracco covered their legs and they wore patterned cloaks woven in different colors than the garments of Tarisllwyth, with red and blue predominating. They also wore their hair in a different fashion, tied at the nape of the neck rather than plaited around their faces. One of the warriors had on a cloak banded in six colors, indicating he was of very high status, a chieftain's son or brother. But there was no sign of the visiting Drui.

Sirona continued on to the hut, hoping to speak to Nesta, but her grandmother wasn't there. She must be off helping the other women with the food.

Sirona sat down on her bedplace, closed her eyes and tried to calm her whirling thoughts. The vision of the people dancing on the hillside filled her mind. It seemed to represent some powerful, ancient magic. She was truly blessed to have been given such a vision. But what did it mean? And why had it come to her? Even more unsettling, how would she ever come to understand these things if she couldn't speak of them with anyone?

She agonized for a long while, until she realized quite a bit of time had passed. If she were going get ready to greet visitors, she would have to hurry. She changed rapidly into her nicest gown, fashioned of bright saffron and blue plaid, and quickly combed her hair. Then she left the hut and hurried to the cistern to wash her face. There she encountered Bryn, who was also washing.

"Do you know why the visitors have come?" Bryn asked he dried his hands and face on his crys.

"Are they here to trade?" Sirona asked.

He shook his head. "They've come to ask Tarbelinus to send warriors to fight the Romans. The invaders are pushing west from their strongholds in the sunrise lands. The Silures insist we must join them in stopping the Romans."

"Do you think your father will agree?"

Bryn gestured, his brown eyes flashing. "How can he not? The Romans' greed knows no bounds. They'll keep moving west until they reach us. Then they'll seek to enslave us as they have the eastern Pretani tribes. We must join together with our neighbors to defeat them before it's too late."

"I haven't heard of this Roman threat. Our teachers have said nothing about it."

Bryn's mouth twisted. "That's because they're Drui. They worry about the past rather than thinking about the future."

"The past represents who we are, and defines our connection to the gods," Sirona said. "It's very important."

Bryn scowled at her. Then almost immediately, his expression softened. "Of course you would think so. That's your duty as a student of the grove. But a chieftain must think of the future, and boldly take on any challenges to his authority. He can't hang back and see what happens, as Fiach suggests. He must act decisively."

"Fiach's advice seems prudent to me. War should be avoided if possible." Then, realizing she was upsetting Bryn, she added, "So, tell me, where did you learn all this?"

"I listen in when my father meets with his council. After all, I must know about war and strategy if I'm to be chieftain someday."

"How can you ever be chieftain? Your parents insist you train as Drui."

"Old Ogimos told me that there are instances of a Learned One being chosen as chieftain."

"How could that happen? A chieftain must be able to lead warriors into battle. How could a Learned One do that?"

Bryn shot her a conspiratorial look. "He could do it if he were experienced in fighting and war as well in Drui learning." He leaned near and spoke in a low voice. "I've been training nearly every day. I go into the forest early in the morning. I've hidden weapons and a shield there and I practice with them until it's time to go to the grove."

"Do your parents know about this?"

"Of course not." He shrugged. "Usually they don't even wake. The few times my mother has roused, I've told her I'm going to the sacred spring to make a sacrifice."

"And she believes that?" Sirona asked dubiously.

"Why should she not? That's what Drui do, isn't it?"

Sirona shook her head. Poor Bryn. He was so determined to be a warrior. Yet all her instincts told her that no matter what he did, his parents would never relent.

"We should go to the feast hall," she told Bryn.

He nodded, seemingly deep in thought.

As they entered the crowded feast hall, Sirona saw the flash of gold and bronze ornaments and the bright colors of checked and plaid wool clothing everywhere. In honor of the visitors, all the Tarisllwyth had dressed themselves in their finest attire. Sirona was very glad she'd changed her own garments.

She craned her head to see over the tall warriors, searching for the Learned Ones. She finally saw them, seated on skins and mats to one side of the hearth. In the cooking pit a haunch of beef sizzled and steamed, giving off a succulent aroma that mingled with the other delicious smells of freshly prepared food. At this time of year, Sirona guessed the meal would consist of fresh barley bannocks, creamy cheese flavored with garlic and leeks, and honey and nut cakes.

Sirona squeezed her way through the crowd. As she did so, she caught several of the visiting warriors staring at her, their blue eyes glittering from the mead being served in bronze drinking cups. She thought about what a relief it would be to finally reach full Drui status. Then she could wear the ceremonial garments of the grove, marking her as different from other women. She sat down next to Old Ogimos. On his other side was the Silure Drui, who was surprisingly young. He had dark red hair and piercing blue eyes.

Smiling at Sirona, he said, "I was just telling the others about the coming gathering on the sacred isle. It will be an opportunity to meet with fellow Drui from all over Albion, and even across the sea in the territory of the Belgae. We'll share knowledge and honor the gods. We'll discuss matters of interest to those of us who guide the spiritual futures of our tribes."

"Forgive me, Kellach," Fiach interjected. "But I'm well aware there's another reason for this gathering. You can't deny you hope to persuade all the Learned Ones to join together in condemning the Romans."

Kellach spread his hands in a placating gesture. "The Romans are certainly among those matters that will be discussed, but it's not the sole purpose for the meeting. There hasn't been a true gathering of Learned Ones for many years. It's time we join together and focus on the real meaning of being a Drui: our duty to preserve the knowledge of the past, to pass on the ancient legends and tales, to revere our ancestors and to convey the will of the gods to our people." He paused and looked around. "Your tribe, in particular, has a great opportunity. The sacred isle lies on the other side of the mountains, only a few days travel away. You should be able to send all of your Learned Ones, as well as those in training."

"You want us to take students to the gathering?" asked Fiach.

Kellach nodded. "At least those who've had a few years of learning. What better chance will they have to be exposed to the knowledge and mysteries of their elders?"

Sirona's heart began to pound in excitement. If she could go to this gathering, she might be able to talk to other Learned Ones about her visions!

"You say the gathering is at the time of the Grain Moon?" Tadhg interjected. "That's less than one cycle of the moon away."

Kellach nodded. "I've already visited the tribes of the sunrise lands. I wanted to give them time to make the journey. In fact, some of those across the eastern sea may have already set out. I travel next to the tribes of the Decangi and then to the Segonti, since they live almost in view of the sacred isle."

"I'm not certain it's appropriate to take students," said Fiach. Sirona tensed with disappointment. _Please let us go_ , she thought desperately. _Please_.

"But it's such a wonderful opportunity for them," said Kellach. "This will be their chance to find their place among all the Learned Ones of our people. For a Learned One, being Drui is our first calling. Our primary duty is always to the secrets of the grove, even before the allegiance we owe to our chieftains."

"I understand that," said Fiach. "But I'm still not certain any of our students are ready for this next step."

"Of course, we're ready," Dichu exclaimed. "Or, at least _I_ am. I've nearly mastered the telling of nine-times-nine tales required to reach full Drui status. I can name all the constellations and foretell the movement of the moon and sun in the sky almost as well as Cuill. I've worked hard at my lessons. It would be a great injustice if I were left behind!"

"You see?" Kellach said in satisfaction. "This is a great opportunity for your students of the grove. I would advise you to take all of them."

"Perhaps." Fiach's frown grew deeper, and his hazel eyes under the straight auburn brows were dark and ominous. "Although Math and Merin are clearly too young. And Sirona is also questionable."

Sirona's throat went dry. She longed to say something to convince Fiach she should go, but what? Her visions were the only thing that set her apart, yet she dare not speak of them.

"I've heard that many tribes don't even allow women into the grove." Cuill spoke for the first time. "Her presence there might be considered offensive."

"That's not true," Kellach responded. "There are still a number of female Learned Ones among the Pretani. In fact, I have heard it suggested that females might be better suited for some Drui responsibilities than men are. Healing for example. Women seem to have an innate gift for taking care of the sick and wounded." He smiled warmly at Sirona.

"Sirona's no healer," Dichu scoffed.

"They also make good diviners," Kellach added. "Among some of the northern tribes, they have a tradition of soothsaying."

"She's certainly not a seer." Dichu spoke up again, glaring at Sirona.

Sirona wanted to shout that aye, she was a seer! At the same time, she dreaded the thought that Fiach and the other Drui might be reminded of what her mother had done.

"Sirona has always been a very dutiful and hard-working student." It was Old Ogimos who spoke this time, his deep voice ringing out with such resonance that several of the nearby warriors turned around. "I think she shows great promise, and the journey to the sacred isle would help her develop her abilities."

"What abilities are those?" Dichu sneered. Math and Merin giggled.

Old Ogimos's calm dignity never wavered. "Some individuals are born with a special connection to the spiritual realm. I think Sirona is one of those. Over time, she might learn to go into a trance and visit other realms and see glimpses of the future."

Sirona held her breath. Old Ogimos was clearly trying to help her, but did he tread too close to the dangerous truth?

Fiach and Old Ogimos exchanged a look. Then the head Drui's gaze swept over Sirona. His hazel eyes reminded her of a hawk's, cunning, ruthless and observing far too much. He didn't say anything to her, but turned to Kellach and announced, "It's agreed. We'll all go. Except Math and Merin, who are too young, and Ogimos, who feels unable to make the journey."

Sirona let out her breath in relief. A moment later, her tension returned as Fiach spoke in warning tones. "But remember, on this journey I will have complete authority over all of you. If you fail to show proper reverence and respect for the gods, or for Drui wisdom and authority, you will be punished, and punished most severely." As he finished speaking, his eyes met Sirona's. She froze, wondering if he was thinking of her mother.

# Chapter 4

Sirona paused on the mountain trackway and gazed around in awe. On either side of her the rocky peaks rose to daunting heights, with the greatest of them all, Yr Wyddfa, filling the horizon to her left. She thought how different a world this was from the one she had grown up in. Instead of rounded hills covered in grass and forest, these hills were bare and rugged, huge slabs of stone thrusting up from the earth.

The mountains reminded her of the massive bodies of sleeping giants, their bulky stomachs and enormous faces forming the peaks, their outstretched legs and arms outlining the slopes of the smaller ridges. This place made her feel small and insignificant, and keenly aware of the power of the earth. She could feel the great heart of Rhiannon, the earth goddess, throbbing in the ground beneath her feet. The gods of the sky were also near: Beli, the sun god, and Arianrhod, lady of the moon. Their magic seemed to fill the air around her, making it glow with a sharp, pure light.

As Bryn paused beside her, she breathed, "It's magnificent, isn't it?"

"Aye. I suppose so," Bryn responded, his voice devoid of enthusiasm.

Sirona turned to look at him. "You didn't want to come?"

He shook his head. "I'm only here because my father insisted. For me, this whole journey is a waste of time. Although I suppose I should take comfort in the fact that I'm seeing new places and will have an opportunity to meet people from other tribes. Still, they'll all be Drui, so I don't know if I'll learn anything useful."

"But surely it's better than staying home at Mordarach with Math and Merin."

"Maybe. Especially since I'm so angry with my father for refusing to help the Silures that I can barely stand to be around him."

"I thought Tarbelinus said he was going to give the matter more thought before he made his decision."

"That's the same as his saying no. By the time he does decide it will probably be too late."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because by then the Romans will already have taken over. That's what's happened in the sunrise lands. It's only been a generation since the Romans first invaded Albion. Now those lands are completely controlled by the Romans."

Sirona felt a sudden unease. What if Bryn were right? What if the invaders meant to conquer all of Albion? She would have to pay attention and listen to what was said at the gathering.

At that moment, Dichu came dragging up the slope, panting heavily. He paused as he reached them. "I don't see why we have to go so fast." He shot a hostile glance at Sirona. "And I don't see why Fiach allowed _her_ to come. Everyone knows females don't belong among the Learned Ones."

"That's stupid," retorted Bryn. "At least half of the gods we worship are female, so there's no reason a woman shouldn't train in the grove. Besides, Sirona's doing much better than you at keeping up, even on the steepest slopes. And she doesn't whine and complain like you do."

Dichu glared at Bryn and then gave Sirona a look of pure hatred. She started to turn away but was stopped by a sudden tingling along her spine. She glanced back at Dichu, and as she looked at him, he abruptly changed. He appeared older, his body taller and much bulkier. No longer was he gazing at her, but staring up at the heavens, his arms outstretched. All at once, his body jerked as if he had been struck. He fell to his knees, although his supplicating posture didn't alter. Another invisible blow hit him and several lines of blood trickled down his forehead. He staggered, then felt backwards and lay still. His blue eyes continued to stare up at the sky, although now they were empty of life.

Sirona closed her eyes and exhaled sharply. When she dared to open her eyes again, Dichu was standing in front of her, appearing completely normal, right down to the disgusted expression on his thin face. "Why are you staring me at like that?" he snapped.

Sirona shook her head, trying to clear it. "It was nothing." Moving past Dichu, she started down the slope. Her heart was pounding and she felt nauseated. This vision had been so real... and terrifying. Although she didn't like Dichu, she didn't want to see him die. She reassured herself with the thought that this Seeing, like the one she'd had in the grove, was clearly of something in the future. The Dichu she'd seen killed was a grown man.

In an effort to escape her distress, Sirona quickened her pace. In a short while, she'd caught up with Cruthin, who was far ahead of the rest of the Learned Ones and students.

When she reached him, he was standing at the top of another ridge. He gestured. "There it is: Yys Mon. The sacred isle."

Sirona looked to where he pointed. The mountains rolled down to a landscape of deep green hills, tan-colored coastal lands and finally, a strip of gray sea. Where sea and sky met, she could barely make out a land mass, a misty apparition floating on the horizon, seemingly at the edge of the world. Sirona felt a prickling sensation along her spine. Although no vision followed, a clear sense of apprehension filled her. "Something's going to happen there," she murmured. "Something... bad."

Cruthin turned to look at her, frowning. "What are you talking about? I thought you wanted to go there."

She struggled to shake off the mood. "Of course I do. It's just..." She took a deep breath. The urge to tell Cruthin about her vision of Dichu was very strong. But she dare not do so.

"I can hardly wait to get to the sacred isle," said Cruthin. "I can feel myself being drawn there like a lodestone to iron." He stretched his arms out expansively. "I know I will find magic there... and knowledge... and power." He started walking again. "The fact is, I've gone as far as I can among the Tarisllwyth. Our Learned Ones have taught me all they're able, which isn't much."

"How can you say that?" Sirona asked, aghast.

"Oh, they've given me a great number of things to memorize," said Cruthin. "Endless genealogies and sagas, laws and ritual handed down for generations. But when it comes to true understanding of the spiritual realm, our teachers are pathetic. Of them all, only Ogimos really has any glimmering of the vast, rich, fantastic world that waits on the Other Side."

"That seems like a very foolish and conceited thing to say. While some of our lessons are tedious, I know I've learned a great deal in the grove."

"Even Ogimos admits his knowledge is limited," Cruthin went on. "He's always saying there are some things that are meant to be mysteries. But I don't believe that. I won't stop searching until I find the answers I seek."

Sirona didn't respond. Cruthin's words only increased her turmoil. She couldn't help feeling his quest for knowledge was going to lead him into danger.

* * *

It took another day to reach the coast. Once there, they all gathered on a cliff overlooking the beach. A large dun was situated on a strip of land almost directly across from the sacred isle. "An impressive fortress," said Tadhg.

Fiach nodded. "The Segonti are a wealthy tribe. The sea is generous, and they're able to grow a great deal of grain on the island. They also have access to a source of copper ore in a place south of here, and between the ore and the grain, they're able to trade for almost any luxury item they desire. I recall Tarbelinus coming here in years past to trade hides and wool for grain during years when our crops didn't prosper."

"I remember that as well." Bryn spoke up. "I begged my father to let me come along, but he refused. I was very young then. I'm not sure I'd even been initiated yet."

"We've been favored with good crops for many years now," said Fiach. "That's because we're so vigilant in honoring the gods."

"I see they have two sets of ramparts." Bryn motioned to the high earthen walls surrounding the settlement. "I wonder what enemy they fear that makes them build such formidable defenses."

"Attack from the sea is their main concern," Fiach responded. "The Scoti, the people who live across the sunset sea, are skilled boatmen. During the sunseason, they come here and ravage undefended Pretani settlements, stealing wealth and metalwork, as well as women and children, who they take back to their own land to enslave."

"What about the people who live there?" Sirona pointed to a small cluster of stone huts set back on the beach, away from the dun. "When the enemy comes, how do they keep from being captured?"

"The fisherfolk have their own ways of surviving. They were here long before our people came. Some say they are related to the Scoti and that's why the sea raiders don't bother them."

Sirona gazed out at the sea, thinking about the Scoti. She could almost see the raiders climbing out of their boats and surging onto the land, brandishing weapons, their expressions fierce and exultant.

Uneasy, she turned away from the coast and looked back the way they'd come. Yr Wyddfa and the other great mountains loomed like dark shadows over the land. Already she missed the highlands, with their complex pattern of ridge and valley, forest and meadow, mist and sky, all woven together like some rich, vibrant fabric. The beach below seemed very flat and barren, and she wondered at the people who lived in a place so exposed.

"So, what's next?" Bryn asked. "Do we go to the dun and ask the Segonti for their help in getting across to the island?"

"If we were going to take the oxen with us, we'd have to ask the Segonti to transport us. Since we're not, it's the fisherfolk in the village who will take us across."

"Why aren't we taking the oxen?" Bryn asked. "What about the cart? Won't we need it on the sacred isle?"

"We can carry our supplies ourselves. There's no need to pay the Segonti to transport the cart and oxen." Fiach gestured to the group of stone huts below. "Although the fisherfolk are a backwards people, they're very skilled when it comes to the sea. They know the tides and the weather even better than the Segonti. We'll be perfectly safe." He turned back to face the group of Learned Ones and students. "Cuill will come with me to try to arrange a crossing before nightfall. We'll meet the rest of you on the beach."

Fiach and Cuill started down the hillside. Everyone else followed more slowly. The wheels of the supply cart kept getting stuck in the soft, sandy soil and they had to push it out. By the time they reached the beach, Fiach and Cuill had already come back from the village. Fiach shook his head as he strode up. "They refuse to take us across today. We'll have to camp here for the night."

"How can they refuse us?" Dichu asked angrily. "Don't they realize as Learned Ones we're favored by the gods?"

"They worship different gods than us," Fiach said. "They follow the faith of the Old Ones."

His reference to the Old Ones immediately caught Sirona's attention. "Are the fisherfolk of the same race as the Old Ones?" she asked.

"How should I know?" Fiach said irritably. "I have little interest in these people. They're crude and primitive and live the same way they have for generations, since even before our people came to these lands. It's said their ancestors built the great cairns and standing stones that dot the coasts and the sacred isle, but I don't believe it. They appear far too ignorant and uneducated for such endeavors."

"If they think they can refuse our request for passage to the island, then they are dense-witted indeed," said Dichu.

"If they're the ones who are skilled in making the journey across the straits, then I'm willing to defer to their decision as to when to cross," commented Tadhg. "I think we're much safer staying here for the night and setting out tomorrow."

Gazing out at the sea, Sirona had to agree with Tadhg. She could sense the great power there, the vast, churning energy of the foaming blue-gray waves. It was terrifying and yet exhilarating.

"There's another group of Drui who are also stuck on this side of the straits." Cuill motioned. "Let's go and greet them."

They went to where the other Learned Ones were camped and discovered they were a branch of the Decangi. While Fiach, Cuill and Tadhg conversed with their head Drui, the Tarisllwyth students set up camp, putting up the leather tents, collecting driftwood for the fire, and helping Ioworth, the youth who had come along to care for the oxen.

They finally finished their duties and gathered around the fire to eat a meal of oat bannocks, dried meat, and berries. The Decangi Learned Ones passed around skins containing a beverage called curmi, which they said was made from fermented barley and herbs. The drink made Sirona sleepy. To shake off the mood, she stood up and walked a short distance from the camp. Although it was almost sunset, she could still make out the settlement of the fisherfolk down the beach. She longed to go there and ask them about the Old Ones. She decided to see if Cruthin would come with her, but when she went looking for him, she couldn't find him. She approached Bryn, who was still eating, and asked, "Have you seen Cruthin?"

He shook his head and continued to gobble down what she guessed was his third or fourth meal cake. After a moment, he shoved the rest of the food into his mouth and stood. "Do you want to go looking for him?"

Sirona suspected Cruthin had already gone to the fishing village on his own. If she wanted to find him, she'd either have to go there by herself or accept Bryn's offer. Given that it would be dark soon, it seemed best to have Bryn accompany her. She nodded.

Bryn got a piece of firewood and daubed it with pitch from the supply wagon to make a torch while Sirona fetched her cloak from her pack.

"Perhaps Cruthin went down by the water," Bryn said when he joined her.

Although she doubted Cruthin had gone this way, Sirona willingly followed Bryn to the shore. The ocean fascinated her, with its sharp, wild scent and mesmerizing rhythm. They moved slowly along the beach, the torch flickering in the breeze. Sirona glanced out at the vast body of water, where the waves stretched out endlessly into the twilight. This was the realm of Manawyddan, the god of the sea. A part of her longed to walk into the water and feel its power. She imagined striding into the waves, then sinking down into the sea's embrace. All at once, she shivered. The sense of foreboding she'd felt earlier had returned. "Let's walk back the other way," she told Bryn.

"Perhaps Cruthin went to the Segonti settlement," he suggested.

"I doubt it."

"I suppose not." Bryn sighed. "Although that's where I wish I could go. I'd love to see the Segonti defenses up close and talk to their warriors. But of course, I can't. They wouldn't speak of such things with a lowly student of the grove." His voice rang with bitterness.

Sirona experienced the familiar pity. It must be difficult for Bryn to have his yearnings thwarted at every turn. "I think Cruthin may have gone to the village of the fisherfolk."

"Why would he do that?"

Should she tell Bryn about the Old Ones? It would only make him ask questions, questions she couldn't answer. "It's merely a thought. A place we could look for him."

"All right. Let's go there."

As they started walking, she could sense Bryn watching her. After a time, he said, "I'm very pleased you came on this journey. While I have little interest in Drui matters, I truly admire you, Sirona. Of all the Learned Ones, you're the only one who seems to me to possess any special ability."

She walked a little faster, feeling embarrassed. "That's ridiculous," she told him. "I'm not even full Drui yet. I have years of learning ahead of me."

"But I was speaking of natural ability," he persisted. "Even Ogimos sees it. You seem to understand people and situations better than anyone I know. You always look beneath the surface of things."

"Cruthin does that also."

"Aye, but he is too conceited to make use of his awareness. While you..." He hesitated, then continued, "Sometimes I feel like you see things that aren't there, that you have visions. Is that true?"

She could hardly tell Bryn about her visions; he was Tarbelinus's son. It had been a mistake to go off alone with him. Several times this past spring she'd caught him watching her when they were at lessons in the grove. His interest in her made her uncomfortable.

"Come on," she said, "we're almost there."

Sirona hurried toward the village, which was made up of small round stone huts. They reached the dwellings, but they saw no sign of any people. Then, all at once, two forms loomed out of the darkness. Sirona hurried forward calling, "Stop, please, I would speak with you."

Abruptly, Sirona realized one of the people was Cruthin. He was accompanied by a small, dark-haired woman who wore a plain, roughly woven cloak and a short leather crys, baring her slender legs. "This is Pellan," Cruthin announced. To the young woman he said, "These are my friends, Sirona and Bryn."

"Are you coming back to camp?" Sirona asked.

"Not yet. Pellan and I haven't finished talking."

"You could bring her with you," Bryn suggested. "There's plenty of food."

Cruthin looked at Pellan and smiled. "I don't think Pellan's hungry." He put his hand on her arm in a possessive gesture.

Sirona felt a stab of irritation mingled with disgust. Cruthin wasn't trying to learn about the fisherfolk. He had other things on his mind. "Are there any other villagers around?" she asked. "Perhaps some the elders?"

"They've all gone to bed," said Cruthin.

"Come on." said Bryn. "We should head back."

Sirona nodded reluctantly. If everyone had retired for the night, there was nothing she could do. Perhaps she would get a chance to speak with them in the morning.

She and Bryn started off. Halfway to the Tarisllwyth camp, Bryn said, "How typical of Cruthin, going off on his own with no consideration for anyone else. Of course, it makes no difference to me what he does, but I'm sorry he's upset you."

"I'm not upset."

"You must understand," Bryn continued. "That's how men like Cruthin are. They get their pleasure where they will. Women mean little to them. But not all men are like that, Sirona. Some do not share their bodies freely, but wait for a woman they care about."

Hearing the hunger in his voice, Sirona realized she must get away. "Thank you for going with me," she told him. "I'll talk to you in the morning." She took off running, hoping he wouldn't follow.

She ran all the way back to camp, unable to banish the image of Cruthin with Pellan from her mind. Seeing them together had awakened something inside her, something she hadn't known was there. She couldn't help imagining the two of them going off behind a sand dune and snuggling close... kissing... Cruthin's hand sliding beneath the short, leather crys and touching Pellan's breasts. Although it wasn't a vision, the images came to her clearly and made her feel a strange longing.

As the tents and supply wagon came into view, she sought to push such thoughts from her mind. She didn't have time for such things. As a seer and a soon-to-be Learned One, she had too many responsibilities to be distracted by the yearnings of her body.

* * *

In the morning, the Tarisllwyth placed their heavier supplies on cowhides and dragged them down to where the boats would put out to sea. "I haven't seen Cruthin this morning," Cuill said when they reached the beachhead. "Does anyone know where he went?"

Sirona saw Bryn looking at her. Gazing at him calmly, she said, "I'm sure he'll be here. He was very eager to go to the sacred isle."

Fiach pointed down the beach. "The fisherfolk are coming."

"Shouldn't the Decangi cross before us?" Tadhg asked. "They arrived before we did."

"They're waiting for another group," Fiach said. "They've agreed we should be first."

As the fisherfolk approached, Sirona realized Cruthin was with them. She felt a renewal of her frustration. She wished she could have been the one to meet with the fisherfolk and ask them questions about the Old Ones.

"These men will take us across the straits," Cruthin announced as he strode up. As he smiled, his teeth very white against his tanned skin, Sirona was startled to realize how much he resembled the fisherfolk. He had the same lean, wiry build and dark coloring, although he was taller. If, as her grandmother said, Cruthin carried the blood of the Old Ones, then it seemed likely the fisherfolk were related to them as well.

Fiach gave Cruthin a sharp look, appearing displeased. Then he motioned to one of the fisherfolk. "Show us what boats we'll be taking so we can begin loading. And tell us how many people can be in each boat."

"Four in a boat and one bundle of supplies," their leader answered. His speech had an unfamiliar cadence. It took Sirona a moment to understand his words.

"Cuill and Tadhg, you will come with me in the first boat," Fiach said. "Dichu, Sirona and Bryn in the second." He looked at Cruthin. "You can bring the rest of the supplies with you."

They dragged the hides over to the boats and began loading their supplies. Sirona moved close to Cruthin. "I would like to cross with you. I want to talk to you about the Old Ones."

"Why not?" Cruthin said. "Three in the boat would be better anyway. I'll tell Caw. He's their leader."

Cruthin went to speak to the fisherman. Sirona glanced at Fiach. If the head Drui saw what was happening, he might be angry that she and Cruthin had contradicted his orders. But Fiach appeared too preoccupied to notice. He was directing Cuill and Tadhg as they loaded the first boat.

Bryn noticed, though. Sirona could feel his gaze burning into her. He thought she wanted to be with Cruthin because she desired him. She couldn't tell him the real reason she was seeking out Cruthin was because she wanted to find out if he'd learned anything about the Old Ones.

* * *

"It was wonderful. Pellan told me all about their beliefs," Cruthin said as he and Sirona sat next to each other in the oval, hide-covered boat. She was aware how bright his dark eyes were, how animated he looked. She couldn't help wondering what excited him the most—learning about the Old Ones or being with Pellan. "Their main deity is the Great Mother Goddess," Cruthin continued. "They worship her in all her incarnations. The earth is her body, the sea, her watery womb. In the sky, she shows her face as the moon, exerting her power over the earth and sea. We and all the animals are her children. In some ways it's not much different than what we believe about some of the goddesses. But there's more. These people have learned how to capture the Great Mother's magic."

When Sirona gave him a skeptical look, he nodded. "It's true. The ancestors of these people built the standing stones and the great stone graves. Some of their elders even remember the purpose of those sacred places. Pellan says only a few people are ever initiated into the mysteries. But those individuals are able to do miraculous things. To change their form into that of an animal. To become one with the Great Mother and visit the Otherworld. Even to travel to the stars." He took a deep breath, obviously entranced.

Sirona was also intrigued. Despite her resentment of how he'd learned these things, Cruthin's words echoed something she'd always felt, that the real power of the gods was in the earth, in the trees and the rocks and water all around them. She'd often experienced a sense of awe when she was walking in the forest, or watching the sunlight reflect on the waterfall at the other end of the valley. It was at those moments she felt closest to the gods, rather than during ceremonies.

"What else did Pellan tell you?" Sirona asked.

"That was mainly what we spoke of, but she _showed_ me other things." He smiled a smug, satisfied smile.

Sirona rolled her eyes and turned away. As she gazed across the water at the heavily-forested shores of the sacred isle, the strange sense of foreboding she'd felt in the mountains returned, as strong as ever.

# Chapter 5

When they were close enough to see the beach clearly, the fisherman pulled in his oars and climbed out of the boat. He stood in the waist-high surf and gestured for Cruthin to join him. The two of them guided the boat to shore, landing it on the broad beach. Nearby, the other boats had already arrived. Sirona helped Cruthin and the fisherman unload the supplies. Then she retrieved her pack and watched the fisherman guide the vessel back into the water.

Cruthin looked around, his face glowing. "I can't believe we're finally here. Pellan told me there are several sites on the isle that were built by her people. I intend to find one of them."

Although the thought of visiting one of these places excited Sirona, she still resented that Cruthin had been the one to learn these things. "We'll be expected to attend the gathering and take part in ceremonies," she pointed out. "I doubt we'll have time to explore the island."

"There'll be plenty of Drui and students to assist with the ceremonies. No one will notice I'm gone. Or if both of us are, for that matter... if you'd like to go with me."

"I would like to learn more," Sirona said, "but I can't forget Fiach's warning. He said if we failed to show proper respect and reverence to the gods, we would be punished severely."

"Fiach can't watch us every moment. He'll be busy with meeting other high Drui and planning the ceremonies."

Sirona nodded. "I suppose we might have an opportunity to slip away for a short while and look for one of those sites."

Cruthin smiled at her, a dazzling warm smile that immediately made her uneasy. "It's agreed then. I'll come find you when I'm ready."

Dichu and Bryn approached, each dragging one of the loaded hides. Dichu halted, panting. "I can't believe we're expected to transport our own supplies all the way to the gathering. We should have brought Ioworth to help."

"Then who would watch the cart and the oxen?" Sirona asked. "Without them, the return journey would be very difficult."

"The Decangi have slaves to do most of the work," Dichu said. "As do many of the other tribes."

"The bondsmen of our tribe had to stay at Mordarach to begin the harvest," said Bryn, coming up beside Dichu. Sirona noted that his hide was loaded with about twice as much as Dichu's. "Tribes that can afford to send many people on a journey like this are obviously more prosperous than we are."

"Since we don't have slaves, we should force the fisherfolk to help us," grumbled Dichu.

"How would we force them?" Bryn asked. "We're dependent upon them to take us back across the straits,"

"They seem little better than animals to me," said Dichu. "They should be pleased to serve us. We're Learned Ones and far above them in the eyes in the gods."

"They believe in different deities than we do," Sirona said. "Isn't that so, Cruthin?"

"Aye," Cruthin answered. "They have their own religious beliefs. And I hardly think you could say they are inferior to us. In fact, they may possess more power and influence with the gods than we do."

Dichu gave a snort of contempt. "If the gods favor them so much, why do they live in such rude hovels?"

"They choose to live the way they do," Cruthin said. "They could become like the Segonti and live in a walled settlement and herd cattle and till the fields. But they prefer to earn their living from the sea, as their ancestors did before them."

"Why are you stopping here?" Fiach came up, scowling. "It's a long walk to the gathering place, and I would like to arrive before nightfall."

Dichu gave a groan and began pulling his burden along the sand. Cruthin grabbed one of the hides from their boat and started off. Sirona approached the remaining hide. Bryn came up next to her. "I can drag your burden as well as mine."

"I think I should do my part. Otherwise Dichu will say that women are weak and worthless and don't belong among the Learned Ones."

"At least let me carry some of it." Bryn bent down and began transferring the heavy items—skins of mead, cooking pots and two tents—to his hide. They set out after the others. Fiach walked in front, carrying his ceremonial staff and the crimson leather bag that contained the sacred objects of the tribe. Behind him followed Cuill and Tadhg. Tadhg carried his own pack and his harp, Cuill, his pack and Fiach's. The students brought up the rear, each carrying personal items in satchels or leather packs over their shoulders and also dragging a hide full of supplies.

They left the beach and entered the forest, proceeding slowly down a well-worn pathway. As she walked, Sirona's heart raced. All her instincts told her that her visions were somehow connected to this place. But the sense of warning she'd felt before coming to the sacred isle remained. She struggled to push her uneasiness aside and focus on the present. Leaving Bryn behind, she gradually made her way to Cruthin.

"Can you feel them?" Cruthin whispered as she drew near. He jerked his head toward the woods surrounding them. "Ancient spirits dwell here." Sirona glanced around at the gnarled branches of the great oaks and beeches twined with ivy, black bryony and sacred mistletoe. Cruthin continued, "They've watched this pathway over many, many lifetimes. They observe and wait, then whisper what they see to the Great Mother. Their message is carried in the rustle of their leaves and in their seed pods and pollen drifting on the breeze.

"And the Great Mother hears," he continued. "She knows that people pass this way, intruding on her domain. She tolerates us, but feels no connection to us." He turned to look at Sirona. "How arrogant we are in the grove, thinking we can make the gods listen to us. What are we but one small tribe? No more significant than one hill among the highlands, one star among the heavens. Our manner of worship is flawed, too. I can see that now. The Great Mother does not heed boring chants and rituals. She wants fire and light. She wants celebration and music."

Sirona skin tingled with expectation as Cruthin continued, his voice hushed and reverent. "Pellan told me how her people build bonfires on the tops of the hills to celebrate the turn of the seasons. They make no sacrifice, but feast and dance, all the while drinking a special beverage that makes the stars glow brighter and fills their minds with powerful visions and dreams. Pellan was only allowed to go once, and she said she woke up the next morning with an aching head, but also with incredible memories, as if she had visited places far away, other worlds and other times."

Cruthin sighed. "I wish we didn't have to go to the gathering. Nothing important is going to happen there. Most of the Drui are old and ignorant, too caught up in their endless traditions and rituals to understand real power." He made a face, then looked at Sirona. "I'm convinced the Goddess guided me here because she wants me to visit one of these sacred places. She wants me to hold a ceremony there."

"Did Pellan tell you what to do?" Sirona asked. "Do you know how to hold a ceremony honoring the Goddess?"

Cruthin nodded. "I have everything I need. Now I'm merely waiting for the right time."

"Tell me more about the ceremony. What happens? What rituals are involved?"

Cruthin shook his head. "I won't speak of this anymore, not until we have the ceremony. Discipline is required when dealing with the gods. There is a pattern to all things and it must be followed." Cruthin's pupils appeared large and dark in the dim light, as if they had swallowed the irises of his eyes. Gazing into his rapt, fervent face, Sirona knew a thrill. But it was mingled with suspicion. She wondered if he really knew how to hold a ceremony, or if he was just pretending in order to impress her. It seemed very likely the latter was true.

Sirona turned her attention back to her surroundings. Along the pathway, some of the trees were marked with offerings, a piece of cloth or strip of leather, the fur of a squirrel or bright bird feathers. They must be getting close to the gathering place. Thank the gods. Her arms and shoulders ached from dragging the heavy hide. She wondered how Bryn managed to pull twice as much.

The forest thinned, then abruptly opened out into a huge clearing. In the center, dozens of wooden poles supported a great thatched roof covering a structure large enough to shelter all the Tarisllwyth plus two other tribes. The building had no walls, and in the open area around it were scores of people.

Halting at the edge of the clearing with the rest of the Tarisllwyth, Sirona was amazed by how many Learned Ones were there. Some were young and vigorous, but the majority were old, with gray and thinning hair and a certain frailty in the way they carried themselves. Their clothing also varied. Although the full Drui wore crys and cloaks marked with the three sacred colors of red, green and white, the patterns and colors of their bracco ranged from bright saffron to brown, from deep red to blue or green. Many wore their hair pulled back from their faces, while some wore it plaited, like the Tarisllwyth. The majority, especially the older men, had beards.

"I didn't realize there were so many Learned Ones in Albion," she remarked.

"There are even a few women," said Bryn, coming to stand beside her. He glanced pointedly at Dichu.

Fiach said gruffly, "If you don't want to be putting up tents and gathering water and firewood in the dark, you'd best get busy."

"Where should we make camp?" Bryn asked as he surveyed the tents and lean-tos scattered around the clearing.

"I don't have time to decide every little detail," Fiach snapped. "Find a suitable spot and see to your tasks." He hurried off toward the large structure. Cuill and Tadhg dropped their packs on the ground and set off after him.

"Once again, we're left behind to do the unpleasant work," complained Dichu. "I vow, if I'm ever head Drui, I'm going to have a servant who does nothing but wait upon me."

"You'll never be head Drui," said Cruthin.

"Then who will? Certainly not you."

Sirona tensed. She hated this bickering.

Thankfully, Bryn distracted them by saying, "What about making camp over there?" He pointed to an area on the other side of the clearing, near the edge of the woods.

"You would pick a place far away," said Dichu. Despite his complaining words, he grabbed the edge of his hide and began to drag it the direction Bryn indicated. Sirona and the others followed.

When the tents were in place and the supplies unloaded, Sirona offered to fetch fresh drinking water. She hoped to have a chance to speak to one of the female Drui, or perhaps someone who was a seer.

She set out carrying the waterskins. Among one of the larger groups, she saw a tall woman with sandy hair streaked with gray. As Sirona approached, the woman smiled and said, "Welcome. It's good to see a young woman at the gathering. I'm Dysri, of the Cunogwerin, a branch of the Brigantes."

Sirona nodded a greeting. "I'm Sirona of the Tarisllwyth. Can you tell me where I might find fresh water?"

"Aye, there's a stream nearby where the water flows over the rocks and is fresh and clear. Come with me. I'll show you." Dysri started to walk into the woods. Sirona followed, encouraged by the woman's open, friendly manner.

A little way down the path, Dysri glanced back at her. "Did you know that at one time at least a score of female Drui attended the gathering? But fewer and fewer women are allowed to enter the groves these days."

"Why do you think that is?" Sirona asked. "Do you think that there are fewer women Drui because the female deities have lost importance?"

Dysri gave a soft laugh. "Men can be so foolish. The goddesses represent things eternal and profound: the fertility of the earth and all creatures, the streams and rivers and lakes on which all life depends, the lady of the moon who marks the rhythms of the seasons and guides the wheel of stars across the sky. To suggest that female power is not important shows great ignorance."

They reached a small stream, and Dysri took Sirona to a place where the water spilled over the rocks and tumbled down into a clear, glistening pool. "When there is prosperity and plenty, people often forget about sacred meanings and turn their minds to other concerns," Dysri continued as Sirona began to fill the waterskins. "This is a time of men, of warriors and battles, of struggles for power and dominance between tribes and against the invaders. Because the Great Mother is not believed to directly influence such things, She and Her realm have been deemed unimportant."

Sirona glanced at the older woman. "You speak of the Great Mother. Where did you learn about Her?"

"Among my tribe She is still accorded the highest place of honor among the gods. Is it not so with your people?"

"We worship many goddesses, but none of them are thought to possess the sort of power you speak of." Sirona realized this woman was discussing the same things Pellan had told Cruthin. On a hunch, she asked, "I'm interested in discovering some of the places where the Great Mother was once worshipped. A friend of mine was told there are such sites on the sacred isle. Is that true? Can you tell me how to find one of them?"

Dysri nodded. "But I'll warn you, it's not as simple as seeking out a circle of stones or an ancient mound. The Great Mother shows herself to very few... usually only those who carry the blood of the ancient race of the isle."

Sirona straightened, her excitement growing. "My grandmother says I'm descended from them."

Dysri cocked her head in interest. "Your grandmother? Is she Drui, too?"

"Nay, only a healer."

"Among my people, Drui are often healers as well as training in the grove. Indeed, I'm a healer myself."

Sirona draped the full waterskins over her shoulders and the two women started back. "My grandmother says that my ancestry may also be the reason I have visions." She looked at Dysri shyly. "Do you think that's possible?"

"Aye. Very possible. Tell me, what sort of visions do you have? Do you see the future? Or the past?"

"I don't know. I'm trying to find someone who can help me understand the things I've seen. Do you have any suggestions?"

Dysri grew thoughtful. "If your visions come from the Goddess, I fear you won't get much help from anyone here at the gathering. The Great Mother is not accorded much respect among Learned Ones these days." She glanced at Sirona. "And you're so young. I fear it will be difficult for you convince people of your abilities. Perhaps you should be careful about who you discuss your Seeings with. Drui are really no different than other people. There's as much petty jealousy and competitiveness among those trained in the grove as among any group of warriors." She smiled faintly. "Perhaps that's because most Drui are men, and the male force makes them aggressive and ambitious."

"And the female force—the energy of the Goddess—you think that's different?"

"Aye. Although the Goddess can sometimes be as fierce and ruthless as any male deity. But male and female energy are both necessary for life to exist. There must be a balance between those forces, as in all things."

"I appreciate your advice," Sirona said. "But I would still like to know how to find one of the places sacred to the Great Mother. Can you help me?"

Dysri didn't speak for a time. Then she said, "There's a site not far from here. But I can't tell you how to find it. Your spirit must guide you. If that doesn't happen, then you're not meant to go there."

"Could you at least tell me which direction to begin my search?"

Dysri pointed. "It's that way, toward the sea."

"Thank you," Sirona said.

When they reached the edge of the forest, Dysri said, "Come back to my tent with me. We could share a meal before the gathering."

Although Sirona was intrigued by her conversation with Dysri, she feared being away from the Tarisllwyth camp for so long. "I'll join you in a little while," she said.

"My tent is over there." Dysri gestured. "Come and join me as soon as you can."

Sirona carried the waterskins back to their camp. Bryn was sitting on one of the hides, eating. "Have some food," he said. He motioned for her to hand him one of the waterskins. He took it and drank rapidly.

She sat down beside him, then wondered if she should do so. Recalling the way he'd acted the night before, she grew uneasy. Getting to her feet, she said, "Where's Cruthin?"

"Oh, he's around somewhere. Sit down and eat. I traded some of our mead for freshly cooked bannocks and cheese. It's delicious."

"But we brought food with us."

"Not as good as this." He held out a fresh bannock, which smelled wonderful. Sirona's stomach growled, but she forced her hunger aside. "I should find Cruthin."

Bryn scowled at her. "I'll eat it all if you don't join me now."

Sirona started to walk away. Bryn called out, "Don't go far. Fiach says everyone's going to the meeting hall." He jerked his head in the direction of the huge timber structure. "I'm fairly certain they're going to discuss the Romans."

"I'll return shortly," Sirona told him.

She searched the open area and finally found Cruthin coming out of the forest with a load of firewood. "I've met someone you should talk to," she said excitedly. "Her name is Dysri and she told me more about the sacred sites of the Old Ones. She said one of the places isn't far from here. Perhaps this would be a good time to look for it, while all the Learned Ones are busy."

Cruthin shook his head. "Tomorrow the moon will be full. It'll be better to go then." "But tomorrow there will be ceremonies. It will be difficult to get away."

"I'm not ready yet," Cruthin said. "I still have some things to prepare."

"Such as?"

He shook his head. "I can't tell you."

Again she wondered if he really had a plan. "Don't you want to meet Dysri? She told us to come and eat with her."

"Did she tell you anything of the mysteries? Did she explain what rites and rituals the Old Ones used?"

"Nay, but we'd barely met. You can't expect her to share such knowledge with someone who's almost a stranger."

"It's likely she doesn't really know very much. Pellan told me to be wary of the Learned Ones. She said that years ago, they tried to steal her tribe's magic. They tortured some of her people, trying to get them to reveal their secrets. She says you can't trust the Learned Ones, at least in matters like this."

Sirona could hardly imagine Dysri torturing anyone. "Perhaps Pellan doesn't know very much about the mysteries either," she said coolly. "Perhaps she warned you away from the Learned Ones so you wouldn't talk to other people and find out she's lying."

Cruthin's mouth quirked. "Perhaps you wish it was you who was alone with me by the sand dune last night."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Sirona responded, feeling embarrassed and angry. "I have no interest in engaging in loveplay with you! I have no time for such things!"

Cruthin cocked his head and regarded her with heavy-lidded eyes. "Sex magic is often part of ceremonies honoring the Goddess."

"Who told you that? Pellan, I suppose."

"Nay. She _showed_ me. Sex magic is very powerful. If you give me a chance, I'll share what I learned with you."

Sirona turned away. She suspected Cruthin was manipulating her, trying to get her to lie with him to satisfy his own needs. But what if his assertion was true? "I'm going to find Dysri," she said. "I'm going to ask _her_ if sex magic is part of the Old Ones' rituals."

"You're never going to discover the mysteries if you're not willing to take any risks," taunted Cruthin.

Sirona hurried to Dysri's camp. She was very disappointed to find the place deserted, except for a servant tending the fire. "Where's Dysri?" she asked.

The man answered with an accent so rough and harsh, it took a moment for her to understand his words. "She's gone into the meeting place with the rest of them." He pointed to a wooden platter of mealcakes on a rock by the fire. "You should eat. There's plenty." Sirona's stomach had been growling ever since she smelled Bryn's food. She sat down on a cowhide by the fire and began to eat.

The man brought her a skin containing a slightly bitter beverage that reminded her of the curmi the Decangi had brought. He also offered her a basket of berries and a small white cheese. "Thank you. You're very generous," she told him.

It seemed odd that a servant should treat her so cordially, but perhaps Dysri had mentioned her and said she would be coming back. She scrutinized the man. He was fairly old, and moved with a limp, but his dark, wavy hair was untouched by gray. His fair skin was sprinkled with small brown freckles and he had light eyes, perhaps gray or pale blue, although she couldn't tell by firelight. He seemed to possess a mixture of the characteristics of her own race and the darker coloring and smaller stature of the fisherfolk.

"What's the name of your tribe?" she asked him.

"I serve the Brigantes," he said. "They're from the north."

Serve. So, he was a slave. Remembering Cruthin's words, she couldn't help asking, "Have you ever heard of the Old Ones?"

The man smiled. "I am one of the Old Ones."

Sirona stared at him a moment. Then a thought came to her. "Why are you a slave? How do they make you serve them?"

"I've chosen this," the man answered. He pointed to his leg. "When I was young, I was chasing a great stag and fell among some rocks and broke my leg. It was a very bad injury. My people took me to a woman healer. She straightened the bones in my leg and gave me medicine. She healed me, and now I owe her my life."

"Was it Dysri?" Sirona asked.

The man nodded.

"But why do you owe her your life? Your injury was not so bad that it would have killed you."

The man shook his head. "My people are hunters, and a hunter with a wounded leg is worthless. Life is harsh for my people. It wouldn't have been fair to ask them to provide me with food for the rest of my life because I couldn't hunt."

"They would have let you die?"

The man nodded again.

"And so you serve Dysri now."

The man smiled. "It's not an unpleasant life."

"What's your name?"

"Lovarn. It means 'wolf'. Hard to believe that I was once as fierce and strong as one of those beasts." His smile widened.

"I'm Sirona. I thank you for your generosity. Do you think Dysri will be back soon?"

"I don't know. She's eager to meet with the other healers. But you could wait for her," Lovarn suggested.

Sirona nodded. "For a while. In the meantime, tell me about the Old Ones."

"What do you wish to know?"

"I've heard your people possess magic."

"Some of us do."

"And that you worship a female deity called the Great Mother."

"My people live simply. We don't need many gods. If the earth should grow barren, the animals would die and we would die as well. The earth is our mother. She is more important than anything."

"Is it true your people built the great stone cairns and raised the standing stones?"

"Aye. But that was a long time ago. We no longer possess the magic used to create those things."

"It's been lost?"

"Some of it lingers, but it is rare to find anyone who can use it. Most of my people no longer try. Why should we bother? The magic didn't save us from your people. They conquered us and enslaved us and pushed us into the wild and barren lands. Our children went hungry and our numbers declined. Now there are few of us and many of your people."

"My people? What does that mean? Anyone who is not one of the Old Ones?"

Lovarn nodded. "The Pretani. And the Scoti, from across the sea."

"But if you had magic, how did they defeat you? And if the Great Mother is such a powerful deity, why did she allow you to be defeated?'

"The Great Mother represents the power of the earth. The actions of men aren't important to her, for they don't affect the things that are eternal: The rivers and streams. The trees and plants. The animals. All the things of this realm. She doesn't care for one kind of animal over another, so why should she care for us more than other men?"

"Because you petition her. You sacrifice to her."

Lovarn shook his head. "That's not our way. In our rites we try to reach out to the Great Mother, to become one with Her. But we don't bargain with Her as you do with your deities. We don't believe She will save us. Why should She? If we're meant to die out, then it will be so."

"But that is sad! So much has been lost. The magic has dwindled and almost disappeared."

"You don't understand. Magic can be used for evil as well as good. And it's dangerous. Those who wield magic must always pay the price." Lovarn's expression grew hard. "To use magic is to change things. There are few people who are wise enough to do that. We're all part of the pattern, and if one piece of it is altered, then the whole pattern changes. It's like a stone dropped into a lake. The ripples fan out, out and out, until the whole lake is affected.

"Magic is power and very few people can wield power without destroying a part of themselves. You must be very strong to do so. And the selfish desires that have a hold on our hearts make us weak and vulnerable. Unless you can say that you do not have such desires, then you shouldn't use magic."

Although she couldn't explain why, Sirona had the sense that Lovarn was speaking of Cruthin. He was so determined to seek out knowledge, no matter the cost. In his arrogant quest to know the mysteries, he might well be risking his life. The thought aroused the familiar sense of foreboding. Sirona suddenly felt an urgent need to find Cruthin and make certain he was well.

She rose from her place by the hearth. "Thank you for the food. And for talking to me." Despite his age and the fact that he was a slave, Sirona felt strangely drawn to Lovarn. She smiled at him one last time, then started off.

The meeting of Drui was finished and everyone had returned to their camps. Two dozen fires glowed here and there in the clearing. Sirona saw a group of bards near one fire, practicing with their instruments. She heard the lilting melody from a pipe, like the voice of a small runlet. Then the drums joined in, loud as thunder, yet rhythmic like the sound of mighty footsteps. Soon after, harp music rippled through the air, glistening and bright. The melody tore at her heart, as if the strings being plucked were inside her.

She walked through the clearing and observed Fiach and Dichu with some Learned Ones she didn't recognize. Continuing her search, she saw Bryn with some other young Drui. She approached the group. A young man wearing the garments of a full Drui was speaking. "Strategy is for the chieftains to worry about," he said. " _Our_ responsibility as Drui is to earn the favor of the gods. We must increase the number of our sacrifices, and be scrupulous in carrying out every detail of the rites of those sacrifices. We must also consider whether we haven't grown meager and grudging in our offerings. Once we spilled human blood in our rites. Then we decided that the practice was wasteful. But what if human blood is what the gods desire? It could be that the reason that the gods have turned away from us and allowed the Romans to gain power is because _we_ have turned away from the old ways and become stingy in our offerings."

The man's words caused a choking dread to rise up inside Sirona. She remembered her first Seeing and the terrifying images of the young woman being killed. She quickly moved away from the young Drui, not wanting to hear any more.

A dozen fires lit the area with a soft glow, and from all directions came the murmur of voices. There were so many people gathered here. How would she ever find Cruthin? She decided to head back to Dysri's camp. Even if the Brigante woman hadn't returned, Lovarn would be there.

But when she reached the camp, there was no sign of Lovarn or Dysri. Sirona decided to wait and sat down by the hearth. The beverage skin Lovarn had offered her was still there. She drank some more of the bitter liquid and it made her sleepy. Sleepy enough that she curled up in her cloak and closed her eyes.

* * *

"Sirona. Little one."

She woke to see Dysri leaning over her. Sirona sat up stiffly, trying to remember where she was.

"I wouldn't have left if I'd known you would come back," Dysri said. "There's still plenty of food if you're hungry."

"I ate already. Lovarn said there was plenty."

"Lovarn?"

Sirona tried to collect her thoughts. How could Dysri not know who Lovarn was? "You know, the man whose leg you mended, and so to repay you, he now acts as your servant." When Dysri didn't respond, Sirona realized something was wrong. "Why are you staring at me? Why don't you answer?"

Dysri released a long slow breath. "The man named Lovarn is dead. He died a long time ago."

"Nay. That can't be! I sat here and spoke with him. It was just before nightfall."

Dysri sank down beside Sirona. "May the Great Mother keep us," she murmured.

Sirona felt cold. It must have been a vision. But this one had been so real. She could remember every detail.

After a long while, Dysri said, "I did once treat a man named Lovarn. He had a terrible leg injury. The broken bones were poking through the skin and the wound had begun to putrefy. I told him that to save his life we must cut off his leg. He refused. He said he would rather die. And so, after a few days, he did."

"But you... you must have been kind to him. You must have tried to heal him and that's why he remembers you. And perhaps his spirit does serve and protect you, even if his body is no more."

"Perhaps," Dysri said. "Tell me, what did he look like?"

Sirona described Lovarn.

Dysri nodded. "Aye," she said. "I remember him. It seemed such a waste that a vital, handsome man like him should have to die. But the Old Ones don't fear death. They understand as well as any Drui that life and death are simply different faces of the same thing."

"He told me about the Old Ones. And about magic and the gods. He seemed to be warning me." The chill inside Sirona deepened.

"Has anything like this ever happened to you before?" Dysri asked.

Sirona shook her head. "There was no hint that Lovarn wasn't real, even though we spoke at length. Other times when I've had visions, it has felt as if I were watching from a distance. But Lovarn was right there, close enough to touch. As real as you seem to me now."

The more she talked about it, the more it bothered her. She'd had a long conversation with a spirit. And the things he had told her. Hints of danger. Insinuations that she was seeking something she could never possess.

Suddenly Sirona didn't want to talk about the Old Ones. She wished she had never brought up the subject. "I thank you for your concern and generosity, but I think it's time for me to go back to my tribe's camp."

"There's no need for that," Dysri protested. "You could sleep here. Almost everyone will be talking long into the night. I doubt you'll be missed."

"If my friend comes back to our camp, I want to be there." That was not the real reason Sirona had decided to leave. She wanted to be away from Dysri's camp, to forget about meeting Lovarn.

"As you wish," Dysri said. "But if you should ever want to talk, feel free to search me out. You appear to possess extraordinary gifts for someone so young. I would hate for those gifts to be wasted, or for you to be hurt trying to wield a power that's too great for you."

Lovarn had also spoken of power and the perils in using it. Everywhere she looked, there seemed to be a premonition of danger.

She thanked Dysri once more, then returned to the Tarisllwyth camp. Bryn had built a fire and was staring into it with a gloomy expression on his face. Despite her worries about encouraging his interest, Sirona sat down beside him.

"They'll never do anything," Bryn muttered. It sounded like he was gritting his teeth. "They'll never agree to fight the Romans." He picked up a piece of wood and poked angrily at the fire. "I went to the gathering. At first I was full of hope. One of the men who spoke was Cangerix, the chieftain of the Durotriges. He told how the Romans have overrun his lands, built fortresses and demanded tribute. He even said they had banished the Learned Ones from his territories. Cangerix asked for the aid of the Learned Ones in petitioning the gods to favor his cause. He also asked them to go back to the leaders of their tribes and urge their chieftains to make war against the menace that threatens all of us. Then Elidyr, the head Drui of the Durotriges, spoke. He warned that if the Romans aren't stopped, someday all of the Learned Ones would vanish and with them all the knowledge our people have nurtured and honored since the land first rose out of the sea. He made it sound like a call to war. I was ready to shout out a battle cry and offer to lend my sword arm to the cause."

Bryn let out a groan. "But then everything went awry. Another group of Learned Ones began insisting the Romans are _not_ a threat. That as long as our people pay them tribute, the enemy will allow us to honor our gods and continue our traditions. The meeting went on and on, with one group arguing for fighting the Romans and another group arguing against it. After a while, I could tell it was hopeless. These stupid fools are never going to do anything. They'll talk and talk, debating and arguing, and in the end, nothing will happen." He shook his head, obviously distraught. "By Beli, I wish I'd never come!"

"I'm sorry," Sirona said. She wondered what he thought of the young Drui's suggestion that they return to the practice of sacrificing human victims. But she wasn't about to bring up the matter.

Bryn looked at her, face flushed, eyes bright in the firelight. "You understand, don't you? You realize the Romans must be defeated, that if we don't drive them out of Albion, they'll eventually enslave us all?"

"I don't know what to think," Sirona answered. "I've only really heard about the Romans this sunseason. What you say makes sense, and yet..." She tried to make her voice soothing. "War frightens me. It seems like such a waste of life. What if you go into battle with the Romans and ended up being killed? You're so young, your whole life ahead of you. Think how your parents would feel. You're their only child, the only real legacy they leave behind."

Bryn stared at her a long while. Sirona grew uncomfortable and wondered if he was angry with her. Although she sometimes grew tired of Bryn's attentions, she still valued his friendship.

At last he said, "As a female, you must think the way you do. Women are the keepers of life, so it is natural for them to be cautious. I won't condemn you for your reluctance to engage the enemy. But I do blame the men who think like you, especially the Drui. For it's clear to me that if the Romans prevail, all that we are taught in the grove will eventually perish."

His words made Sirona feel cold inside. _It's true_ , a voice whispered. _As the Pretani defeated the Old Ones and drove them to the margins of the land, so the Romans will do to us. Someday we will be only a memory, a dream of glory and greatness that is no more._

# Chapter 6

"Sirona, get up. It's nearly time to leave." Bryn poked his head in the entrance of Sirona's tent.

"Leave? Where are we going?" she asked sleepily.

"To a place called the lake of sacrifice for a special ceremony. Fiach told us about it last night, although I guess you weren't around."

"How far away is this lake?"

"Quite a long walk. Nearly on the other side of the island."

Which meant they would be traveling _away_ from the sacred place of the Old Ones. "Do we all have to go?" she asked.

"Aye. Fiach will insist."

Sirona got up and began to search her pack for a change of clothing. Bryn was right. There was no way she could refuse to make the journey.

She dressed and plaited her hair, splashed her face with water, then joined Bryn and the other Tarisllwyth. Dichu was going on and on about how exciting it was to be around Learned Ones who possessed so much knowledge. He had spent the night with a group of Drui whose main responsibility was to keep track of the laws and traditions of their tribes, and he was obviously enthralled by the idea of having such influence. "These men, called brehons, make certain the laws apply equally to both kings and to cattle herders," he asserted. "When it comes to the settlement of disputes and making certain the proper punishment is meted out to wrongdoers, they have more power than even the chieftain or the head Drui. Our tribe has never had a brehon. Perhaps it is time we do," he added with a small smile.

"Oh, I'm certain you would like that," Bryn answered. "As long as you're the one chosen."

Dichu's expression grew serious once more. "Obviously, I'm not ready for such responsibility. I have much to learn when it comes to these matters. In fact, I'm going to ask Fiach if instead of returning to Mordarach, I can live with a tribe called the Trinovantes for a time, so I could train with their brehon. I think I could do more good for my people by pursuing such a path, rather than staying at Mordarach and continuing my studies there. I don't feel I can learn much more from Ogimos and Fiach. And Cuill's and Tadhg's knowledge lies in other areas." He nodded to the two younger Drui, clearly hoping to gain support from them for his plan.

Bryn gave a contemptuous snort. "Good luck persuading Fiach. If you do succeed at going off on your own, I can't say we'll miss you much." He shot a look at Sirona, as if seeking her agreement. The thought came to her that it probably didn't matter what Dichu did with his life. If her vision were true, he didn't have many years left.

The memory of her vision of Dichu reminded her of her conversation with Lovarn and her plan to tell Cruthin about it. As she was looking around for Cruthin, Fiach returned. "It's time to leave," he said. "Cuill and Tadhg will carry our offering. As for the rest of you," he glared at the students, "Remember, this is an important rite. I expect you to behave with dignity and restraint. As we walk, you should keep your thoughts on the gods and the sacred ritual we are about to perform. No talking, except in quiet, respectful tones."

The Tarisllwyth took a place near the middle of the procession of Learned Ones. Many of the other tribes carried bundles wrapped in red cloths. Others transported their offerings in carts pulled by slaves or oxen. One tribe had brought a two-wheeled vehicle pulled by two sleek tawny-brown horses. Sirona had only seen horses a few times before, when traders came to Mordarach. "The chariot belongs to a tribe called the Iceni," Fiach told them. "They intend to offer the vehicle as their gift to the gods."

Sirona couldn't help staring at the chariot, which was driven by a stocky, fair-haired man. Something about the vehicle and the horses seemed familiar, although she couldn't imagine what it was.

Bryn also appeared intrigued by the vehicle... but aggravated as well. "What a waste," he told Sirona. "They would be much better off using the chariot in battle to defeat the Romans."

Fiach must have heard him, for the head Drui's expression grew tight with irritation. "Without the gods' favor, we are nothing," he admonished Bryn. "Remember that, and remember your place as a student, as I have told you before."

Bryn's face flushed as bright as a cranesbill blossom, but he said nothing further. Only later, when Fiach had moved off to speak with someone from the Decangi tribe, did Bryn mutter, "Fiach's a fool. They all are. The gods won't save us. We must use our weapons for fighting, not squander them as offerings."

Sirona was surprised at the tension between Bryn and Fiach, but didn't give it much thought. What she really wanted was for Cruthin to show up so she could talk to him about the man-spirit called Lovarn.

The procession started off, following a pathway that looked as though it hadn't been used for some years. They made their way slowly through the oak and elm forest, their progress limited by the number of people in the procession and the feebleness of the older Drui. Sirona was glad for the sluggishness with which they progressed. Cruthin would have plenty of opportunity to catch up.

After a while, they reached an open area of cultivated fields. The grain had already been harvested, leaving behind golden stubble where crows and chaff finches searched for fallen grain. Sirona was impressed with the size of the fields and the obvious richness of the land. No wonder the Segonti were such a prosperous and powerful tribe.

They walked along the edge of the grainfields, then once more entered thick forest. Sirona realized she could smell the sea. The coast must be nearby.

The procession continued on, winding through woodlands that showed hints of summer's passing. The blackberries and elderberries were almost ripe and there was a slight tinge of brown to the fern and bracken along the pathway.

Well past midday they reached their destination. The lake of sacrifice was a large, open stretch of water surrounded by willow, sedge and flowering rushes. A pair of swans floated on the calm surface of the lake. Overhead, an osprey searched for prey. Everyone gathered in an open area near the lake, grouping together by tribe. Sirona, Bryn and the other Tarisllwyth ate mealcakes and dried meat from their packs and passed around a waterskin while Fiach conferred with the other head Drui.

When Fiach returned, they joined the rest of Learned Ones at the edge of the lake. A man named Elidyr—who had seemingly been appointed the leader of all the Drui—stood on the shore and began to speak in his ringing voice. He called down the gods, evoking them in triads so their power would balance each other: Beli, Llew and Gwyn Ap Nuad; Bran, Gwyddion and Govannon; Cernunnos, Arawn, and Manawyddan; Ceridwen, Rhiannon and Arianrhod.

As he spoke, the pair of swans took flight and an ominous sense came over Sirona. As a tingling began along her spine, she tensed. Her last few visions had been so distressing; she wasn't certain she wanted to experience another one. In an effort to halt the vision, she sought to focus on the details of the ceremony before her: the sound of Elidyr's voice as he evoked the gods, the expressions on the faces of the members of each tribe as they solemnly presented their gifts. The beauty of the objects offered: the curving lines and elegant shape of a ceremonial bronze shield. The sleek, bold form of a sword as it was flung into the air and tumbled end over end until landing in the water. The glitter of jewels on a dagger hilt. The sheen of polished metal and bright colors.

She thought about the days of craftsmanship that had gone into fashioning these weapons. As each item splashed into the water, she imagined the offerings drifting to the bottom of the lake, past fish and reeds and seaweed. Down to the place where the spirits dwelled, where the forces of life and death lurked. Down into the realm of Ceridwen, the dark mother of pools and lakes. With each tribe's offering, her sense of foreboding increased.

The chariot was brought forward. The fair-haired man no longer drove it but led the team of horses, guiding them by the harness. As the vehicle neared the edge of the lake, Sirona saw the image of a man lashed to the inside of the chariot. His head lolled around and his body jerked as the vehicle moved over the uneven ground. When she blinked, the image of the man vanished. She dug her nails into her palms, her body rigid.

The chariot halted at the water and two Drui came forward. They spoke the name of their tribe, the Iceni, and the name of their clan's special deity, Epona. The tingling along Sirona's spine started again and before her eyes, the one chariot became many. They were arrayed in a long line. Warriors stood on the platforms of the vehicles, their long hair and mustaches riffling in the soft breeze. Their bare torsos flashed with bright gold and bronze neck and armpieces. Their checkered war cloaks—thrown back over their shoulders—bore the colors of a dozen tribes. Woad blue and saffron yellow plaid, crimson and deep green check, purple madder, yellow and rust brown, sloe black, scarlet and bleached white. A multitude of hues against the green landscape.

Behind the chariots stretched an army. Pretani men with swords, staves, axes and daggers raised for battle. The fire of determination glowed in the warriors' eyes. Gazing upon their ferocity, their exultant battle lust, Sirona was filled with a terrible dread. _They're going to die. All of them are going to die_. She closed her eyes, trying to banish the vision and fight off the sense of horror. It's not real, she told herself. _It's not real_.

She opened her eyes when she heard someone cry out. It was Bryn. His face was a mask of fury and Fiach had a fierce grip on his arm, restraining him. Sirona looked to where Bryn's attention was focused. The chariot and horses were in the water. The horses were trying to swim, but the chariot had been weighted and the vehicle was dragging the horses down. They whinnied and struggled, their eyes wild. All around, the Drui watched, their faces impassive.

Sirona felt sick. No wonder Bryn had cried out in protest. She'd assumed they would unharness the horses before they pushed the chariot into the water, rather than drowning the poor beasts. A shiver of revulsion traveled through her. Between her Seeing and watching the doomed horses, she felt overwhelmed with death and despair.

"Turn me loose!" Bryn spoke in a low, dangerous voice as he tried to jerk from Fiach's grasp.

"You will not shame us," Fiach warned in a whisper. "If you do, I'll—"

"Nay, I'll not shame you," Bryn answered harshly, "But turn me loose this moment!"

Fiach did so, and Sirona experienced a sense of relief. But it didn't last long. One of the horses whinnied frantically, and her stomach twisted with distress. Her anguish wasn't merely over the animals. The lingering dread her vision had aroused wouldn't leave her. Why had she seen the chariots and warriors? And why did she feel certain that everyone in her vision was going to die?

She gazed steadily at the alder and willow bushes on the other side of the lake, trying to dispel the terrible feeling of loss. When she finally dared look out at the water, the surface of the lake was patterned with a skein of shimmering ripples, but there was no sign of the horses. They had sunk into the dark depths. She shuddered violently at the thought.

"Sirona?" Bryn spoke beside her. "Are you all right?"

She turned to him, but the man standing next to her was not the Bryn she knew. This was a warrior. He had a worn war cloak flung back over his shoulders and a metal and leather garment covered his chest. Muscles bulged in his ruddy, weathered arms as he held a round wooden shield in one hand and a huge sword in the other. His face seemed harsh and manly. A bristly auburn mustache hid his mouth, and his brown eyes were so fierce and bright, it took her breath away. She swallowed hard, willing the image away.

"Sirona." He gave her a little shake. Two heartbeats passed and Bryn was himself again. Sirona forced herself to appear calm, but she still felt sick.

Now that the ceremony was over, people began to congregate in small groups. There would be a period of relaxation and rest before the final rite of the gathering, which was the traditional sacrifice of Llewnasa, the seasonal rite giving thanks for the harvest. It seemed early for such a ceremony, but Fiach had mentioned that many of the Learned Ones were anxious to return to their tribes before the autumn rains began. Some of them had to travel a very long distance, clear across Albion, and in some cases, across the sunrise sea as well.

Sirona followed the other members of her tribe to a sheltered area under the trees. Her thoughts on her visions, she took little note when Fiach shouted, "Where have you been? How dare you neglect to take part in the sacred rites?"

"I didn't miss the ceremony," a familiar voice answered. "I watched from the forest. I can tell you every object that was sacrificed."

Sirona's head snapped up at the sound of Cruthin's voice. He looked very pleased with himself, which made Sirona wonder if he'd discovered one of the sacred places. She hurried toward him, eager to find out what he'd learned.

Fiach continued to berate Cruthin. "It was most irresponsible of you to wander off. All the Learned Ones and students are needed at every ritual. The more of us there are, the more influence we have with the gods. Tonight, I expect to you to be part of the sacred circle." The head Drui fixed Cruthin with a severe look, then walked off.

"Where were you?" Sirona asked Cruthin.

Cruthin smiled. "I was with the Great Mother Goddess."

Bryn, who had also joined them, snorted. "Rather than a goddess, I think it more likely you went back to the mainland and spent the night with your friend Pellan."

Sirona was startled. "Is that what you did?"

"Of course not. I told you, I went into the forest to prepare for tonight." He stared at her, his expression dark and mysterious.

Bryn looked from one of them to the other. "What are you planning?"

"Nothing," said Cruthin. He glanced at Bryn. "Aren't there some people here discussing the war with the Romans? Don't you want to go talk to them?"

"Nay," Bryn answered. "I'm staying here with the two of you." He gestured to Sirona. "Sirona looked unwell during the ceremony. I want to make certain she's all right."

"It was nothing," she responded. "I haven't eaten much the last few days. Then, when I saw the horses drowning, I started to feel sick."

"Horses?" Cruthin asked.

"Aye." Bryn's voice was scathing. "The stupid fools sent a whole chariot and team to the bottom of the lake. A hideous waste, and cruel besides. Those poor beasts were terrified." He turned to Sirona. "It was very upsetting, I agree. But it still doesn't explain the way you looked a few moments ago. You were as white as bleached wool."

Sirona made her voice coaxing. "Would it be possible for you to get me something to eat? I think that would help. Not traveling food, but something like what you brought back to camp last night?"

Bryn frowned. "If I fetch you some fresh food, will you promise to stay here?"

Sirona nodded. "I promise."

Bryn shot Cruthin a narrow-eyed glance, then turned back to her. "I'll find you something."

As he walked off with long, rapid strides, Sirona breathed a sigh of relief, although it was mingled with guilt. "Bless Bryn for his soft heart." She turned to Cruthin. "So, what happened? Did you find one of the sacred places?"

"Not yet, but I will." He smiled at her. "Tonight I'll show you all the secrets."

"Tonight? You mean, after the ceremony?"

Cruthin shook his head. "If we wait until the sacrifice is finished, it'll be too late. We must leave before it's over. We still have to find one of the sacred places. That might take awhile."

"You heard what Fiach said. He expects us to attend the ceremony."

"As long as we're part of the circle at the beginning of the ceremony, that's all that matters. There will be so many people there—how can Fiach keep track of us? We'll stay on the outer edge of the gathering, then slip away when no one is watching. The Great Mother Goddess will aid us. We're meant to do this, I know it. Come with me now," he urged. "We'll hide in the woods until the rite is about to begin, then find a place where it will be easy to slip away."

"I promised Bryn I would remain here."

Cruthin shrugged. "Do what you will." He turned and started to walk off.

"Wait!" She ran to catch up with him. "Aren't you going to tell me what happened? You say you were with the Goddess—what does that mean?"

"I can't explain it," he said. "You'll have to experience it for yourself." He turned once more to leave her.

"Wait," she cried again. "Don't you want to hear what happened to _me_ last night?"

He shrugged.

Rapidly, she explained about going back to look for Dysri, about meeting Lovarn and their conversation, then coming back later and finding out that Lovarn was a spirit. "Isn't it amazing?" she asked. "What do you think it means? I felt like Lovarn was warning me about something, but I don't know exactly what it was."

Cruthin cocked his head and gazed at her intently. "Are you still going to deny that you have visions?"

Sirona stiffened as she realized she was doing exactly what her grandmother had warned her not to do. But pretending she didn't have visions had begun to feel futile, at least with Cruthin. She would have to trust him to keep quiet. "Aye, I do have visions," she answered. "But please don't tell Fiach, or any of the other Learned Ones."

Cruthin nodded. "They wouldn't be pleased that one of their students had such power, especially a female."

"And there's something else," Sirona said. "Another reason no one from our tribe must know about my visions. My mother made a terrible prediction about the future when I was a baby. It was so awful that Tarbelinus sent her away. If any of the tribe who were adults back then learn I have Seeings, they might think I'm going to do something like my mother did."

"What did your mother predict?" asked Cruthin.

Sirona hesitated, loathe to repeat the awful prophecy. Finally, she said, "My mother predicted the Tarisllwyth would be destroyed. That we would disappear from the earth."

Remembering all the things Bryn had told her about the Romans, Sirona experienced a sudden chill. What if her mother's Seeing was a true one... and the Romans were the reason for her tribe's downfall? She recalled her vision during the sacrifice: The vast number of warriors lined up for a battle. Her terrible sense that they were all going to die.

She met Cruthin's gaze. "What do you think? Do you believe what my mother predicted might actually come to pass?"

"How should I know?" Cruthin responded. "Anyway, it isn't important. I don't really care what happens to the Tarisllwyth. I'm concerned with the mysteries and our connection to the gods and the Otherworld."

Cruthin's attitude shocked Sirona. But she probably could have guessed he would react that way. He always seemed to have utter contempt for anything he wasn't interested in. His cold attitude disturbed her, and make her worry she'd made a mistake in confiding in him. "You won't tell anyone about my Seeings, will you?" she asked anxiously.

"Of course not," he answered. "Fiach's a fool. He knows nothing about the things that truly matter." He made a sound of disgust. "All those years of training in the grove, and no one even mentioned the Great Mother Goddess. She's the one we must honor, the one we must worship." His gaze met Sirona's. "That's what you and I will do this night."

Although a part of her agreed with him, she still had doubts. "I don't see why we can't wait until after the ceremony to search for one of the sacred places. It's going to be very awkward to leave in the middle of the rites."

"Nay, it won't. Everyone will be focused on the ceremony. They won't pay any attention to us."

"But shouldn't we be focused on the ceremony as well? Won't the gods be angry with us for leaving in the middle of it?"

Cruthin shook his head. "I told you, the other gods are nothing compared to the Goddess. She is the one we must honor."

Cruthin walked off. Sirona watched him go, feeling torn. A part of her believed she was meant to go to this sacred place. That there she would find answers to the questions troubling her. But another part of her was afraid. When she'd first beheld the sacred isle, she'd experienced an overpowering sense of dread. Did she dare ignore that warning?

* * *

The sky was dark, the Grain Moon beginning to rise. Its pale golden shape was barely visible through the trees surrounding the clearing where the Learned One gathered, some carrying torches. The participants began to form a circle, surrounding the large altar stone set in the center of the clearing. Sirona watched from behind a massive oak, waiting for the rest of the Drui to find their places. She'd managed to get away from Bryn by giving him the excuse of needing to go into the woods to relieve herself. Bryn obviously suspected she and Cruthin were planning something.

Bryn was probably right to worry. If she and Cruthin were caught slipping away, Fiach would certainly punish them. Sirona suppressed a shudder and tried to decide what to do.

She'd thought several times of seeking out Dysri and asking her about Cruthin's plan, but the few times she caught sight of the Brigante woman, she was always surrounded by other people. Sirona would have to wait until tonight and look for some sign from the gods—or the Goddess—advising her what to do.

Of course, maybe Cruthin wouldn't come, and she wouldn't have to decide. The circle was almost complete, and he still hadn't appeared. The thought that he might have gone without her filled her with frustration.

Elidyr and two other high Drui entered the clearing carrying torches. Behind them, led by slaves, were two white bullocks. As people stepped back to allow the Drui and sacrificial animals to enter the center of the circle, Sirona hurried to find a place among the ring of participants.

The bullocks were led to the altar and the head Drui of all the tribes positioned themselves around them. Elidyr gestured for silence. At the same time, Sirona felt someone touch her arm. She turned and saw Cruthin standing behind her. Exhaling in mingled relief and aggravation, she focused her attention on the center of the circle.

Elidyr evoked the gods, and all the Learned Ones began to chant, a low, ringing sound that echoed off the huge ancient oaks surrounding them. As a soft wind blew through the clearing, the hair on the back of Sirona's neck stood up. It was as if the gods had come, and she could feel them moving around her. A huge owl flew across the clearing, directly over the two bullocks in the center of the circle. In the moonlight, the bird's feathers flashed white, then it was gone. A murmur of wonder went through the crowd.

Sirona's body tightened with expectation. The owl's appearance seemed to be a message from the Goddess. Was this a sign she should follow the bird?

The Learned Ones began to chant more fervently. Elidyr spoke again, extolling the gift they were about to offer, not one but two sacred bulls, proof that they were a dutiful and reverent people who honored the gods with the best they had.

Sirona observed the bullocks in the center of the clearing. Most sacrificial animals had a white patch on their hide, marking them as sacred, but these beasts were almost completely white. They were also mature, well-muscled animals, not the young beasts that usually fell before the knife. Some tribe had carefully raised these animals, preparing them for years for this special sacrifice.

As the two other Drui came forward with the red leather bag carrying the special knife used to cut the animals' throats, Sirona felt a gentle touch on her hand. She turned to see Cruthin motioning with his head, indicating they should leave. She was torn. This was no ordinary sacrifice, but a powerful ritual such as had not been held for many years. All the Learned Ones gathered here believed the shedding the blood of these two special animals represented an act of devotion so profound that the gods could not help but listen to their pleas.

She closed her eyes, searching for some sign indicating what she should do. Abruptly, she remembered her vision of the circle of stones on the cliff above the sea and the people dancing around them. The smell of the ocean. Throbbing, surging music, guiding the dancers as they looped and swirled. The moon, high in the sky above the stone circle and the people. The stars whirling in the heavens above the dancers, gathering light, drawing it down to the people, filling the air around them. She could feel the light, like a caress against her skin. A whisper of breath passed over her.

When Cruthin touched her hand again, Sirona jerked back to awareness and opened her eyes. All at once, she knew she had to go with him. Arianrhod, lady of the silver wheel, goddess of time and destiny, was calling to her.

Cruthin moved off into the shadows. Sirona waited a few heartbeats, then followed.

* * *

They walked a long while in the pitch dark woods. The moon had gone under a cloud, but Cruthin insisted they keep moving. At last he stopped, and she pulled up beside him. "Do you know where we're going?"

"Of course."

Sirona suspected he was lying, that he had no idea which direction to go. "We can't keep on like this, wandering around blindly. We'll get lost and never find the sacred place."

"What do you suggest?"

"Perhaps if we tried asking the Great Mother to show us the way, She would answer."

"You mean, if _you_ tried... if you had some sort of vision." There was an edge of derision to his voice.

"Not a vision, exactly," Sirona said. "But if we opened our minds, the Goddess might communicate with us. That's what happened at the ceremony. I wouldn't have left with you if I didn't have a clear sense that the Goddess wanted me to go."

Cruthin shrugged. "Do what you will. Otherwise, we're stuck here, waiting for the moon to reappear."

Sirona took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She tried to think of the Mother Goddess. Instead, the image of Lovarn filled her mind. He gazed at her intently, and all at once, she knew exactly which direction the sacred mound lay. She could see it in her mind. She opened her eyes and pointed. "This way."

"Perhaps the Goddess speaks to you because you're a woman," Cruthin said irritably. "Perhaps she favors you because of that."

She turned to start walking, but Cruthin grasped her arm. He pulled her around so they faced each other. "This night, you will _become_ the Goddess." Abruptly, he leaned over and kissed her.

As his mouth met hers, Sirona was startled, but her surprise soon turned to pleasure. She savored the feeling of Cruthin's body against hers, hard and male. His mouth on hers, subtle, caressing. His smell, like an animal's, wild, dark and musky. He deepened the kiss, urging her mouth open. She tasted him and the world whirled around her. The blood rushed through her body, making her breasts and groin throb.

As abruptly as he'd grabbed her, Cruthin released her and stepped back. "Mmmm," he muttered. "Sex magic with you will be most potent. But first, we must find the Goddess's place. Show me which way we should go."

Stunned, Sirona didn't move for a time. Then she started walking, focusing on the inner sense guiding her.

As they walked, the clouds shifted and a shaft of moonlight flickered down through the trees, illuminating their way. But Sirona didn't need the moon to show the path. She walked on steadily and confidently, sensing the pull of the sacred place. As Cruthin followed after her, she recalled the kiss. It had felt wonderful... and somehow _right_. As if they were meant to be together.

She realized she'd always been attracted to Cruthin, to his dazzling dark looks and lithe body. At this moment she ached to have Cruthin hold her in his arms, to press her beneath his body, to feel his bare skin next to hers. The very thought of it made her shiver with expectation.

# Chapter 7

The forest thinned and finally ended. In the open area was a mound. Too round and perfect to be a hill, it rose up abruptly from the level terrain all around. There was a ditch around it and stones arranged in a ring at the base. As they drew near, Sirona saw an opening on the side of the mound. Breathless with excitement, she made her way through the ring of stones to the opening. Boulders blocked what appeared to be an entrance into the mound, with dressed stones marking the top and sides. The moon shone down, making the pale gray rocks glisten.

She examined the stones. On them were markings, spirals, dots and lines, weathered but still visible. Tingling with awe, she stroked her hand over the markings, wondering what they meant.

"What is it?" Cruthin called.

"There's a grave here, an ancient one." She returned to the ring of stones at the base of the mound. Laying her palm on the rough surface of one of the stones, she closed her eyes and concentrated. All at once, she was falling. She could see stars above her. Below was endless, empty space.

Astounded, she drew her hand away. Cruthin was standing nearby. "What do you think?" he asked. "Is there magic here?"

She nodded, then glanced around and tried to shake off the dizziness the brief vision had aroused.

"What's wrong?"

"This isn't what I expected. There's power here. The stones hum with energy. But what it means..." She shook her head.

Cruthin approached her. "Come with me."

She followed him to a grassy area a short distance away. He spread out his wolf pelt cloak—made from the animal he'd killed during his man-making trial a year before—then began to take things out of his pack. A waterskin. Leather bag. A small gold knife. The weapon looked like no weapon Sirona had ever seen before.

"Where did you get that?" she asked.

"Pellan. She said it was something passed down through her family. Her people believe gold has special powers. Don't be afraid. It's not a weapon, but a kind of amulet. Now, eat with me. Drink."

"Pellan gave you all those things? Why?"

"She recognized I had a special connection to the gods. When she discovered I wanted to hold a ceremony honoring the Goddess, she agreed to help me."

"That was very generous of her," Sirona said skeptically.

"She said no man could ever get as close to the Goddess as a woman could. That's why it's important you are here."

Was Cruthin merely using her? Yet, she wanted to be part of this. The idea of worshiping the Great Mother Goddess and feeling Her power enthralled her.

Cruthin held out the skin. Sirona accepted it and took a swallow. She'd expected mead, but this beverage didn't taste sweet and fiery, but cool and dark, like the earth. It reminded her of the drink Lovarn had given her, although it was not quite the same. "What is it?" she asked.

"Magic," Cruthin said. "It will give you enchanted dreams."

Sirona drank a little more, then handed back the skin. Cruthin opened the leather pouch and took out a mealcake. "Take a bite," he urged.

Sirona did so, then watched as he gulped down the rest of the contents of the skin and finished off the mealcake. "What's next?" she asked.

Cruthin smiled lazily. "Next, I evoke the Goddess."

He drew away from her, then lifted his arms to the heavens and began to sing:

_"Arianhrod, Ceridwen, Rhiannon,_

_Blodeuwedd, Modran, Don,_

_Branwen, Cyhiraeth, Morrigan._

_I invoke you—maiden, mother, crone_

_Lady of the moon,_

_Keeper of the cauldron,_

_Great queen,_

_Maiden of summer,_

_Lifegiver,_

_Grain goddess,_

_Lady of love and desire,_

_Keeper of pools and springs,_

_Raven of death._

_Enfold me in your warm, soft flesh._

_Fill me with your light._

_Quench my thirst with your gleaming rivers and streams._

_Feed me from your supple breasts._

_Make me strong._

_Make me powerful._

_Make me invincible."_

Sirona had never heard Cruthin sing before. He had a bard's voice, beguiling and honey sweet, yet edged with power. For the first time she saw him not as the fellow student she'd known nearly all her life, but as a Drui. Listening to him evoking the magic of the night sky sent a thrill down her body.

If he seemed changed, then she was as well. She felt keenly alive, her senses heightened. When Cruthin came to where she stood and said, "Take off your clothing," she didn't hesitate. She reached down, grasped the skirt of her gown and pulled it over her head.

Cruthin's gaze moved over her. She could feel it lingering on her breasts, making her nipples tighten, then moving down to her groin. Never before had she felt so acutely aware of her own flesh. Of the softness and fragility of her skin. Of the heat of her blood flowing through her veins. The weight of her breasts, as if they pulled her toward the earth. Of the hidden opening between her thighs. Of her womb, small and empty inside her, and yet ready to grow and swell and burst with life. All that was needed was a man's seed.

Cruthin drew near. He put his hands on her shoulders, then cupped her breasts. She gasped at the pressure of his callused palms against her nipples. He kissed her, then nuzzled aside her hair and nibbled on her neck. She sighed with pleasure. His soft breath tantalized her skin. His mouth enflamed her flesh. Swirling, dark energy.

Her limbs went limp, and she leaned against him, grabbing his shoulders to keep from falling. With a swift, easy movement he picked her up and carried her over to the mound. She heard his harsh breathing as he labored up the slope. At the very top, he lay her down upon the soft grass. "Wait here," he said.

As if in a trance, she watched him climb down. The stars swirled overhead. The moon shone down upon her body. She was cold. She was on fire.

He returned in moments. Very carefully, very deliberately, he laid the small gold knife between her breasts, with the blade pointing downward. She wanted to ask what it meant, but she couldn't speak. He stood over her and began to undress. She drank in the vision he made. The long, sinewy grace of his torso. His strong neck and proud features. The way his dark hair brushed his shoulders. His narrow hips and lean, tanned legs. And rising up between them, his phallus. Bold and alive, it thrust out like a weapon. She stared at it in amazement, wondering how it could possibly fit inside her. He saw the direction of her gaze and smiled. "I will please you."

He came over to her and straddled her hips, looking down at her. "Take me, Sirona. Become the Goddess and mate with me."

She was overwhelmed by desire. A hunger she had not fathomed. It welled up inside her, making her body ache with need. The need to be joined with this man, to feel their bodies fit together. Her flesh a sheath for his living, pulsing dagger.

"Aye," she whispered. "Aye."

He knelt between her thighs and used his hand to guide himself into her. There was pressure, then pain. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth against the searing, stretching sensation. As her flesh yielded, she gasped with relief and desire. Then she looked up at him.

It wasn't Cruthin who leaned over her, but some creature with the torso of a man and the head of a stag. And it wasn't a stag's eyes that met hers, but the ferocious golden-eyed gaze of a predator. Sirona screamed and began to struggle. The beast held her down. She fought harder, flailing her arms, clawing and writhing with all her strength.

At last, somehow, she threw the creature off. She lay there panting, afraid to look. Afraid the beast meant attack her again. Dreading that she would once more have to gaze into those cold, yellow eyes. Finally, trembling, she dared to turn her head. Cruthin lay beside her, his face and torso livid with deep, bloody scratches. "Why did you do that?" he asked.

Sirona felt numb with shock. "I'm sorry," she said. "It wasn't you who I was fighting. It was... some creature. Part man. Part stag. Part... wolf, I think. I thought it was going to... devour me." She shuddered.

Cruthin sat up. "Cernunnos," he said. "You saw Cernunnos?" His voice was taut with excitement. "Of course. Arianrhod, the lady of the moon, the goddess of the silver wheel, she is the consort of the Horned One. I made you a goddess. And you, in turn, conjured a god. But why..." He looked at her quizzically. "Why did you fight Cernunnos? Why didn't you accept him—accept me—into your body?"

"I couldn't help it," she said. "I was afraid. The creature I saw was monstrous."

"A pity. If you weren't such a coward, you could be my consort. Together we could make great magic."

Cruthin stood and climbed down the mound. Sirona watched him in dismay and confusion, then began to dress. When she finished, she made her way down as well. Looking around for Cruthin, she saw him dancing in the open meadow nearby. His movements were wild and unrestrained. Flailing arms. Twirling body. Jumps and leaps. Pure, instinctive movements. As if he heard music. All at once, Sirona heard it, too. A wild, keening melody, sad and lovely.

She watched Cruthin, in awe of the beauty of his movements. He reminded her of an otter cavorting beside a stream. A salmon leaping the rapids. A deer bounding through the forest. Lithe and graceful. The moonlight flashed over his spinning body, black, then silver, then black again. Light and shadow. Life and death.

As he jumped and twirled in the tall grass among the bracken and heather, people came out of the shadows to join him. Slender and naked, they danced around him, moving in a slow, rhythmic pattern. They began to chant in a language Sirona had never heard before. And yet, it seemed familiar, as if the meaning of the words was buried in her mind somewhere.

When she returned her gaze to Cruthin, he had turned into Cernunnos again. On his head were the antlers of a stag, while his body remained that of a man. She couldn't see his face. But she knew now that he was the god of the animals, of the hunt, of death. This time she was not afraid. She was watching from a distance, not feeling the hot breath of the beast looming over her. Faster and faster he whirled, until he was a blur. The moonlight shone down, turning him into a vivid, bright light. The light grew in intensity, blazing, brilliant, the brightest thing she had ever seen. Then it vanished.

She blinked in shock. No matter how she strained her eyes, she could see nothing in the place where Cruthin and the other dancers had been. "Cruthin," she cried. "Cruthin, where are you?"

She moved forward, her gaze sweeping the area. A cloud had covered the moon, and everything was cloaked in darkness. Gradually, her eyes adjusted, and she caught sight of Cruthin lying nearby. She ran to him. He didn't move when she touched his face, and she had the horrifying thought that he was dead. She put her hand to his throat and cried out in relief when she felt his pulse.

She rushed back to where they had left their supplies and grabbed up the wolfskin and their other clothing. Returning to where Cruthin lay, she balled up his bracco and put them under his head, then covered him with his crys. She put on her gown and stretched out next to him, then dragged the wolfskin over them both. Cruthin seemed to be in either a trance or deeply asleep. She was also exhausted. She couldn't keep her eyes open...

* * *

When Sirona awoke, the sun was already up and shining hotly on her face. She sat up slowly, and memories of the night before filled her mind. She recalled the desire she'd felt. Then the terrifying sight of the monster looming over her. Yet, it hadn't been a monster, but Cruthin. Cruthin had turned into Cernunnos. He'd called down the Goddess and She had transformed him. She had also brought the people who danced in the circle of light.

Sirona shook her head. It must have been a dream, or some sort of Seeing caused by the potent brew they'd drunk. A dream... and yet... here they were, far from the rest of the Learned Ones. All at once, panic engulfed her. They'd left a sacred ceremony. Now it was morning and too late to go back and pretend they'd been there all along!

She leaned over and grabbed Cruthin's shoulder and shook him. "Wake up! It's morning. We must go back." She shook him again. When he didn't respond, she jostled him more vigorously.

"Uhhh," he moaned, rolling away from her.

"Come on, Cruthin. Get up."

He mumbled something but didn't rise.

"Please, Cruthin. Please." She shook him again, roughly this time. After several attempts, she was able to rouse him. He was sleepy and disoriented, and she had to help him dress. Seeing the marks of dried blood on his chest and face made everything seem more real. She hadn't dreamed it. Cruthin had turned into Cernunnos. It was incredible. Astounding. And yet, in the cold light of day, she wondered if even such an amazing experience could compensate for what they now faced. To leave an important sacrifice, a ceremony meant to honor the gods.... Her breath caught as she wondered what their punishment would be.

She finally got Cruthin walking, although he still acted as if he were half-asleep. As they made their way across the clearing toward the forest, she glanced back at the mound and remembered the small gold knife. She went back to look for it, climbing on top of the mound. By daylight, the sense of power had all but vanished. And so had the knife. She couldn't find it anywhere.

She returned to where she'd left Cruthin. He'd lain down again and she had to rouse him. Eventually, she got him moving again. She decided they should go back to the gathering place, rather than returning to the lake of sacrifice. That way they could say they had returned there on their own after the ceremony.

She was able to find the pathway between the gathering place and the lake of sacrifice and they started walking. Cruthin didn't speak. He still seemed to be in some sort of trance. She wondered what he remembered from the night before.

She recalled the people who had appeared and danced around Cruthin. Were they spirits, visitors from another time? Were they the Old Ones? She tried to remember what they had looked like. Dark-skinned, small-statured men and women, like the fisherfolk. Their naked bodies had been painted with strange symbols, some of which reminded her of the markings on the stones at the entrance to the mound. They reminded her of the people she'd seen in her first vision.

She wondered if the events of the night before were that Seeing come to life. But there were differences. Her vision had been of a hillside by the sea. There had been no mound there and the circle of stones was much larger. And something told her that the time of her vision was still in the future.

When they drew close to the gathering place, Sirona slowed her pace. If they didn't rejoin the others, they would be left behind on the sacred isle. Would that be such an awful fate? But neither she nor Cruthin knew much about surviving on their own. To even attempt such a thing would be foolish. Then she heard voices, and the decision seemed to have been made for her. They walked into the clearing, which was full of Learned Ones.

Someone said, "There they are." In moments, they were surrounded by Drui.

* * *

"These young people have failed in their duty and damaged our relationship to the gods. What does it matter how many bulls we sacrifice if some of our number have no regard for the sacred rituals?" Elidyr paused for breath, then continued, "I'm not certain what punishment is appropriate here. Nothing like this has ever happened at a gathering. For that matter, I know of no incidence of such disrespect among my own tribe, or any other. If these two were children and just learning their responsibilities as Learned Ones, it would be one thing. But they have been through their man-making and woman-making rituals. As adults, they must be held accountable."

"I agree," Fiach answered. "In fact, this is not the first time that Cruthin..." He pointed, "that this young man has shown disregard for our rules. I warned him that if he went off again on his own, I would see him expelled from the grove."

Sirona stood rigid. It was as bad as she had feared. They were in trouble, grave trouble.

"Of course, he must be expelled," another man spoke. "But is that enough? He has trained for years to learn the mysteries, the secrets of the grove. Can we let him walk away with that kind of knowledge when he clearly has no respect for it? What will the gods think of us if we allow the sacred wisdom to be tainted and betrayed in such a manner?"

"What of the woman?" someone asked. "Is she to be held accountable the same as the man?"

"Her failing sheds doubt upon all female Learned Ones," said another Learned One. Sirona recognized him as the young man who'd was talking about making human sacrifices to the gods. He was young, with black hair and strange pale eyes. "I say we should expel all females from the grove!"

"That's nonsense." It was a woman who spoke now. An ancient-looking crone Sirona had only seen only once or twice during the gathering. "If you reason thus, then men are not fit for the honor of the grove either, since one of your number has broken the sacred law as well." The woman motioned to Sirona and Cruthin. "I, for one, would like to know why these two young people left the ceremony. Perhaps they had good reason for doing so."

Should she speak? Sirona wondered. Should she tell them about the incredible things she'd seen at the mound?

She opened her mouth, but before she could utter a word, she heard Cruthin's harsh whisper. "Tell them nothing. They're too stupid to understand."

Inclining her head to him, she whispered back, "What if they decide to kill us? Will you advise silence then?"

"They won't," he said. "The Great Mother Goddess won't allow it."

"If you would speak, then share your words with all of us!" Elidyr thundered. He took a step toward them, his face a rictus of harsh lines. "Tell us the reason for your blasphemy!"

Cruthin's expression was calm, almost disdainful. "What happened to us last night is beyond your understanding."

"Your defiance is matched only by your arrogance." Elidyr turned away. "Such willful disobedience must be punished severely!"

"I will speak! I know why they left the ceremony." Sirona saw Bryn making his way through the crowd. "They wished to go to a place of the Old Ones," he said breathlessly.

Sirona stared at Bryn in astonishment. There was no way he could know such a thing, unless Dysri had told him.

"Come forward." Elidyr urged Bryn nearer, and Bryn obeyed. He was taller than most of the Learned Ones, his bearing, proud and bold, like a warrior. Guilt squeezed Sirona. She had lied to Bryn more than once and not always treated him kindly. What if he was punished for defending her?

"Tell us why you believe they had some purpose other than making a mockery of the ceremony," Elidyr said.

"I heard them talking about their plans to find a place of the Old Ones. That woman." Bryn pointed to Dysri. "She will tell you it's true."

Dysri stepped forward, her voice calm and assured. "It is indeed true. The young woman came to me for advice, asking me to help her find a place sacred to the ancient race. She seemed very serious and respectful. I don't think she meant to offend the gods by her actions."

"It matters not why they left the ceremony, only that they did so." The young man spoke again, his voice harsh and impatient. "The council of high Drui must decide on an appropriate punishment. I would argue for death myself. Send their spirits to the Otherworld, to apologize for what they've done."

"You can't do that!" Bryn cried. He moved closer to Sirona. "This woman is a seer. The gods speak to her. If you kill her, they will be angry. Are you willing to risk that?"

Everyone looked at Sirona. She wanted desperately to speak, to tell them what she'd experienced. But she felt Cruthin behind her, his eyes boring into her. Was he right? Would speaking about what had happened to them taint the sacred nature of what they'd experienced?

Elidyr turned to Fiach. "This woman is of your tribe. Do you have any reason to believe she's a seer?"

Fiach stared at Sirona, eyes narrowed.

"Has she told you she has visions?" Elidyr asked.

"Nay," Fiach answered.

"This is absurd," interjected the young, dark-haired Drui. "If those of her own tribe don't know of her visions, I don't think—"

"It's true!" Dysri moved to stand between Sirona and Elidyr and the other Drui. "Sirona has exceptional gifts. During the gathering, she came to my tribe's camp to find me. I wasn't there, so she spoke with a man who appeared to be guarding the camp. She conversed at length with this man, named Lovarn. When I came back to the camp, she told me of the incident, and I told her that the person she had spoken to had been dead for a dozen years."

There was murmuring among the gathering. Then the young Drui said, "She might have made that up. She could have learned of this Lovarn from someone else and created this tale to make you think she talks to spirits."

"Nay," Dysri said. "No one else here knows about Lovarn. What she experienced was indeed a glimpse into the other realm. These things come to her unwilled. She doesn't seek them out. Perhaps it's true the gods wanted her to leave the ceremony. Perhaps they had some other purpose in mind for her last night."

"And what of the man? Does he also see visions? Is he also 'gifted'?" The young Drui's lips curled in disgust.

"Aye." Sirona stepped forward, unable to remain silent any longer. Her voice came out strong and bold. "Cruthin is more than gifted. He doesn't merely see visions, he becomes one with the gods. Last night, I saw him turn into Cernunnos. I saw the antlers upon his head. His face became that of a beast... with yellow eyes and a cruel mouth. And there was more. I saw people dancing in a circle, drawing down the magic of the night sky. I—"

"Silence!" Elidyr cut her off. "You can make up whatever tales you wish, but it doesn't change what you've done." He made a slashing motion. "The council will discuss this matter in private and decide your fate. For now, you'll both be confined to your tribe's camp." He nodded to Fiach. "They must be guarded at all times."

"Of course," Fiach answered.

# Chapter 8

"Take them to our camp." Fiach ordered. Cuill and Tadhg moved to obey.

As Sirona and Cruthin were led away, she heard Bryn imploring Fiach, "Tell the other Learned Ones that Sirona is a seer and they won't punish her so harshly. As for Cruthin, if you can make them believe Sirona convinced him that the gods were speaking to her, telling her to leave the ceremony, they may be lenient with him as well."

"They broke the sacred laws and shamed our tribe," Fiach retorted. "Why should I help them?"

"Because if you don't, I'll go back and tell my father you did nothing to prevent the deaths of two members of our tribe. He won't be pleased. By rights, their lives belong to him, not to you!"

"Their lives belong to the gods," Fiach said coldly.

Sirona's heart sank. Bryn had tried his best, but it seemed unlikely his words would sway Fiach.

She walked numbly back to the camp, where Cuill ordered her and Cruthin to go into their tents. Inside the hide shelter, Sirona tried to quell the queasiness in her belly. Would she come to the same awful fate as the young woman in her vision? It was not so much the thought of dying that troubled her, but the idea that if she were sacrificed, her spirit would never be at peace. It horrified her to think of ending up like that young woman, doomed to wander endlessly in the twilight realm between worlds. A sob welled up inside her. She pressed her fist into her mouth to stifle it. _Please, Great Mother, help me!_

She recalled what she had experienced at the mound and the circle of stones—the light from the sky, the people who appeared out of nowhere, the image of Cruthin as Cernunnos. She'd known great magic. But was one night of dazzling wonder worth losing her life?

Some time later, she heard Fiach's voice outside the tent. She moved near the entrance, hoping to learn what their fate would be. A moment later, there was a strangled sound. "He's gone," Fiach cried. "Sirona!" Fiach thrust himself into her tent and dragged her out. "Where is he?" Fiach demanded, looming over her. "Where is he?"

Sirona shook her head, too startled and stunned to answer.

Bryn, who was standing nearby, seized Fiach's cloak and tried to pull him away. "Leave her alone!" he shouted.

"How dare you assault me!" Fiach cried, twisting from Bryn's grasp.

"Leave her alone," Bryn repeated. He wrenched his eating knife from his belt and brandished it.

"Your father will hear of this," Fiach muttered. "He won't be pleased." To Sirona, he said. "Get up. Get up and tell me what you know of Cruthin's disappearance."

She stood. "I know nothing."

Fiach's gaze swept over her and a cruel smile touched his lips. "How does it feel to know your lover has abandoned you? You are cursed, as your mother was." His mouth twitched, then he turned back to the others. "Tell no one about this," he said. "We'll leave for Mordarach tonight, before anyone can discover our prisoner has escaped. We won't speak of Cruthin ever again. It will be as if he never existed. If you should see him in this realm, I want you to fetch as many warriors as you can and order them to kill him."

Sirona didn't know whether to be relieved or despairing. If they were going back to Mordarach, then it was unlikely she would be sacrificed. But she would still be punished. Perhaps banished as her mother had been. The thought made her feel sick inside.

Fiach turned back to Sirona. "Take down your tent and pack up your supplies. Quickly."

As soon as Fiach left, Bryn approached Sirona. "Come on," he said. "I'll help you get ready to leave."

* * *

Sirona paused on one of the high peaks and surveyed the vast landscape around her. The mountain vistas that had seemed so exhilarating on the journey to the sacred isle now struck her as desolate and lonely. She watched an eagle circle, floating effortlessly on the wind currents. All she could think about was the bird's ruthless search for prey, and that when it spied a hare or a vole or other small animal, it would swoop down and impale the helpless creature with its huge claws and sharp beak.

The next moment, she thought of Cruthin, and her distress turned to anger. He had left her, and without a thought for what might happen to her after he was gone. She tried to tell herself he'd had no choice, that there was no way the two of them could have slipped away without notice. He had chosen to save himself, that's all. But she knew she would never have abandoned _him_.

"It's a spectacular view, isn't it?" Bryn came up behind her. "We've been very fortunate it's been clear both times we've crossed the mountains. I'm certain it's often stormy and blustery, or the sky is heavy with rain clouds. From here, doesn't it seem you can see to the end of the world?"

Sirona nodded, but without conviction. Beautiful scenery did little to lift her mood. Before leaving for the sacred isle, she'd promised her grandmother she wouldn't get into trouble on this journey. How miserably she had failed.

"Don't worry," Bryn said softly. "Once we get back to Mordarach, Fiach will have to defer to my father's wishes, and Tarbelinus won't allow the punishment to be too severe."

Sirona looked at him. No matter how much Bryn wanted to protect her, her fate was beyond his control. "I appreciate all you've done for me," she said. "You've been a loyal friend."

He moved nearer, his brown eyes hot and intent. "I would like to be more than your friend, Sirona."

She searched her mind for something to say, a means of discouraging him. But after all he'd done for her, every response she thought of seemed too harsh. "Please, I don't want to speak of these things." She walked away, retreating once again into the anguish of her thoughts.

* * *

When they arrived at Mordarach, everyone came out to welcome them. As soon as she saw Nesta, Sirona stiffened. She could hardly bear to look at her grandmother.

Nesta started to make her way over to Sirona. Before she reached her, someone asked, "Where's Cruthin?"

Fiach, who had been quietly talking to Tarbelinus, jerked around. His powerful voice rang out. "The young man called Cruthin has betrayed our tribe and offended the gods. We'll speak of him no more. He is expelled from the grove, and from our tribe. If he's ever seen near Mordarach, he'll be put to death."

Everyone stared at Fiach in stunned silence. Then Tarbelinus said, "Come with me, Fiach." To the rest of the tribe, the chieftain announced, "Later, when the travelers have washed and rested, we'll celebrate their return."

Nesta finally reached Sirona. Her blue eyes were dark with concern. "What happened, Sirona?"

Sirona shook her head, fighting back tears. The sense of shame and failure overwhelmed her.

Nesta grasped Sirona's shoulder. "What is it, granddaughter? Why are you so distraught? Is it because Cruthin's been banished?"

"I'm sorry," Sirona whispered. "I thought... I truly believed we were being guided by the gods." She turned away.

Nesta let out a cry. "Whatever Cruthin did, you were involved as well?"

Sirona nodded.

"Let's walk back to the hut. We can speak of this there."

When they reached the dwelling, Sirona sank down on her bedplace. The familiar scents—herbs and cooking—both soothed and tormented her. She might be on the verge of losing everything she cared about.

"Sirona," Nesta said sharply. "Tell me what happened."

She shook her head. "Not now, grandmother, I'm... I'm too tired."

Nesta let out her breath in a long sigh. "Very well. I'll make you some broth. You should eat something after your long journey."

* * *

_She was being pursued by wild beasts. When she looked back, their yellow eyes glowed in the mist. She could see the glint of their vicious fangs. Their huge, gaping mouths. A voice told her to surrender, to stop running and let them kill her. But she could not. She did not want to die like that, torn into bloody pieces. Alone in the darkness._

"Sirona." She woke to find Nesta gently shaking her. She clutched Nesta's hand and sat up on the bedplace, trembling.

"Sirona." Nesta's voice sounded strained. A moment later, Sirona turned and saw Tarbelinus sitting near the hearth. The chieftain seemed much too large for the small space. With his masses of tawny gold hair and big, muscular body, he reminded Sirona of a cat waiting to pounce on its prey. It was as if the terrors of her dream had followed her into the waking world.

Tarbelinus spoke in his deep voice. "Sirona, you must leave Mordarach. I'm sending you north. Your father is a warrior there, with one of the Brigante tribes. Perhaps you can find him."

She was being sent away. It was as bad as she feared.

"I'll send an escort with you," Tarbelinus said. "You'll be safe, guarded at all times." His expression softened. "It will be better this way. There's nothing for you here."

Nesta made a choked sound. Sirona looked at her, feeling empty.

"The chieftain wants to make certain nothing happens to you," Nesta said. "Is that not kind of him?" Her voice dripped sarcasm.

Sirona looked from her grandmother to the chieftain and back again. "Before I go, I want to hear the truth about Banon."

Something changed in Tarbelinus's eyes. Sirona could sense hostility... and a kind of fear. "Nay," he said.

"Aye," said Nesta. "She has a right to know."

Tarbelinus took a deep breath. "I'm responsible for your mother's death. She didn't deserve to die... like that anyway." He paused. "But that's not to say I'm sorry." He gestured angrily. "She made my life miserable. She threatened my family. Terrorized Rhyell. I had to send her away. I promised Banon an escort, but... we parted in anger. I should have sent someone after her. But I didn't. I must live with that."

He shifted his weight. Sirona could tell he longed to stand up and move about, but the hut was too small. He continued, "Before she left, Banon threatened us. Cursed us. Said the dun would be destroyed. That I would be led away in shackles. She said that Bryn..." He paused again, as if afraid to utter the words. "She said my son would be killed in the first battle he fought in. That's why I've never allowed him to become a warrior."

So, that was the secret Nesta wouldn't share with her. The reason Tarbelinus had made his son's life miserable all these years—insisting he train to be a Learned One when he had no calling for it. Thinking about the unhappiness Bryn had experienced because of his father's decision, Sirona grew angry. "You had no right to try to change Bryn's destiny," she said. "If the gods will it, then he will die in battle. His life until then should be of his choosing. Not yours!"

"I have every right," Tarbelinus said. "I'm not merely his father, but also his chieftain. I make use of the abilities of any man of the Tarisllwyth as I see fit."

"You will fail," Sirona said. The memory came to her swiftly. "I've seen a vision of Bryn in battle attire. He's meant to be a warrior."

Tarbelinus's blue eyes flashed fire, and he struck her across the face. She fell back.

Nesta knelt beside Sirona. "How dare you!" she cried.

An image flashed into Sirona's mind. A lovely woman with dark gold hair and deep gray eyes stood before Tarbelinus, hands on hips, taunting the chieftain. Her sneering gaze was cold and empty, heartless. Sirona realized she couldn't blame Tarbelinus. Her mother had been cruel and selfish. She hadn't cared who she hurt.

_And her blood runs in your veins. You are cursed as well._ As the thought filled Sirona's mind, she felt cold and sick.

Nesta released Sirona. Straightening, head held high, Nesta faced Tarbelinus. "Leave us. I must prepare my granddaughter for her journey."

As soon as Tarbelinus had gone, Sirona turned a pleading look to Nesta, "Grandmother, come with me."

Nesta shook her head. "I would never survive the hardships of the journey."

Sirona felt tears spill down her cheeks. Nesta came to soothe her. "You possess the same sort of power your mother did, although you can choose to use it for good rather than ill. I'm convinced the gods have a purpose for you, and they will protect you."

"Are you very certain, Grandmother?"

Nesta nodded. "Beyond my faith in the gods, I've insisted Tarbelinus give you a proper escort and furnish you with supplies and household goods. With that and the wealth you have from your mother—along with your fair face and youth—some northern warrior will be eager to handfast with you."

"But what about... being a Learned One?"

"I'm afraid that path is closed to you now. It would have been difficult enough here, among your own people. But to go to another tribe and expect them to accept you as Drui...." Nesta smiled, although the expression looked forced. "Perhaps it's better this way. You'll be able to have the life of a normal woman, instead of enduring the rigid discipline of the grove. You'll have children and enjoy the pleasures of a family."

"But I know nothing about running a household... nor being a wife!"

Nesta placed a hand on her arm. "Our lives don't always turn out as we expect, and most of us experience sorrow and disappointment. But sometimes joy comes from unexpected things. While Banon was always a trial to me, she gave birth to you. And raising you has been the greatest satisfaction of my life."

Sirona began to weep. She felt as if her life was over. For as long she could remember, all her energies were focused on being a Drui. Now that could never be.

Nesta embraced her, holding Sirona against her frail, bony body.

After a time, Nesta gently drew away. "There's something else I must tell you. Something that Tarbelinus requires in exchange for your escort. It's a small thing, and one that—out of kindness—you should be willing to do."

Sirona gazed at her grandmother warily. "What does Tarbelinus want?"

"He wants you to tell Bryn that you don't return his affections."

Sirona gave a quick, bitter laugh. "Why should that matter? I'm sure Tarbelinus has made it very clear to his son that he can have no future with me."

"That's true. But Tarbelinus would prefer it if you told Bryn these things yourself. The chieftain has only recently discovered Bryn's... fondness for you, and I think it reminds him of his own unreasoning passion for Banon all those years ago. He realizes Bryn won't give up easily, and he thinks the best way to end his son's hopes is for you to make it clear you don't love him." Nesta paused and her forehead furrowed. "That's true, isn't it? You don't return Bryn's feelings?"

Sirona considered carefully. She'd grown up with Bryn, and until recently thought of him as a brother. But now, facing the prospect of losing him, she could see how much she'd come to depend him... and care for him. Those feelings might have turned into love if given the chance. But that could never happen now.

"Sirona?" Nesta prompted.

She met her grandmother's gaze, "What would it matter if I said I loved Bryn? Tarbelinus would never allow us to be together."

"That's true," Nesta agreed. "And given that fact, no matter what you feel, it would be kindest if you told Bryn that you don't care for him the way he does you. There's no point making him yearn for something that can never come to pass."

The aching sense of loss inside Sirona deepened. There was no chance she and Bryn could ever be together. It would be cruel to make him continue to hope for such a thing. She nodded slowly. "Very well. I will do as Tarbelinus asks."

Nesta looked relieved. "You must speak to him soon. Tarbelinus is much more likely to be generous in the supplies he sends with you if he knows you have fulfilled your part of the bargain. As a matter of fact, I'll fetch Bryn now."

While she waited, Sirona felt the bitterness build inside her. She was sick of Tarbelinus and his belief that he could control the lives of those around him. He'd manipulated Bryn all his life, and now he sought to command even his son's heart.

A moment later, Bryn pushed his way into the hut. "You wanted to see me." Warm brown eyes met hers. Seeing the longing and despair in their depths, Sirona's heart twisted. _Poor Bryn, forced into a life he despised, and all because of Banon's prediction._

She cleared her throat. "As you know, I'm going north."

"You mean, my father's _sending_ you north." His voice was edged with fury.

She shrugged. "The fact is, I'll be far away from here. It's likely I'll never return."

"I could go with you." Hope sprang into Bryn's eyes.

"Your father would never allow it."

His fierce gaze met hers. "I could follow you. I'm a man now. My father doesn't control me."

If only Bryn could come with her. It would make all the difference. Her other losses would be almost bearable. But then reason returned and she shook her head. "Your father would pursue us, and when he found us, he would have his warriors drag you back to Mordarach. As for me... it's likely he would have me killed."

Bryn stared at her. Then he nodded. "I could come and find you later."

Sirona remembered Nesta's words. It wasn't fair to allow Bryn to plan his whole life around her. She must force him to face the finality of the situation. "My grandmother... she implied that in order to be accepted into another tribe, I will have to handfast with one of their warriors."

"Why not handfast with me?" Bryn implored.

Sirona winced, knowing the pain her words would cause. "Because you're not a warrior, and except in your father's tribe, you have no hearth to call your home."

Bryn looked as if he had been dealt a brutal blow. "It's true," he finally said in a ravaged voice. "But only because I haven't been given a choice."

Sirona ached for him. There must be some way to ease his despair. All at once, it came to her. "You were right, Bryn. I do have visions of the future. In fact, I've had one of you. In it, you were dressed in battle attire. You appeared to me as a warrior."

His face lit up. "A warrior? What do you think it means?"

"Perhaps it's time for you to leave Mordarach, find a place in another tribe and train as a warrior with them. I don't think any chieftain would turn away an able-bodied young man who vowed to serve him."

"Perhaps a tribe in the north?" Bryn said hopefully.

"Nay. If you travel the same direction as I do, Tarbelinus would surely find you and bring you back. You must set out east or west or south, so your father doesn't realize where you've gone until you're far away."

Bryn nodded. "It's a good plan." He smiled at her faintly. "And since it was given to me by a seeress, I know it's what I must do. I'll find another tribe to train with. When I'm a blooded warrior and have a place in a tribe, I'll come and find you."

His brown eyes burned into Sirona's. The love she saw there both warmed her heart and tore it to pieces. It seemed to her that few people in life ever realized their dreams. If Bryn got his chance to be a warrior, he must be content with that.

But what if her mother's prediction for Bryn came true? What if by encouraging him to pursue his dream, she ended up sending Bryn to his death? She must tell him of her mother's prophecy and let him decide for himself. "There's one more thing, Bryn... the reason your father has refused to allow you to train as a fighting man. When you were a baby, it was predicted..." She could not bring herself to mention her mother, "if you became a warrior, you would die in the first battle you fought in." She held her breath, waiting for Bryn's reaction.

He stared at her, eyes bright with emotion. "If I die, I die. But at least I will die knowing I have fulfilled my destiny. All the years training in the grove have taught me not to fear death. But I do fear not fully living my life while I remain in this realm."

Sirona nodded. She felt certain she was doing the right thing in freeing Bryn from the crippling control of his father. Only by leaving Mordarach could he ever have a chance for happiness. That happiness might be fleeting, but at least he would know it for a time.

But what of her? She was losing everything, and all because she'd followed what she thought was the Goddess's plan for her. That night at the mound and circle of stones had been magical, but not enough to make up for what she now faced. And even that experience was flawed. Because of her fear, she had rejected Cruthin and lost the opportunity to know sex magic. Her failure gnawed at her, despite her anger at Cruthin for leaving her.

Bryn interrupted her thoughts. "Sirona, in your vision, did you see any sign or symbol on my shield that might tell me what tribe I will fight for?"

She frowned in concentration, trying to remember. "You were older... with the long mustache of a warrior. You wore a kind of leather garment on your chest. I didn't really take note of the colors you wore. But there was..." Her gaze snapped up to meet his. "... there was the outline of a white horse on your shield."

"A white horse?"

She nodded.

"I've never heard of a tribe that used such a symbol," he said, his eyes wide in wonder.

"Then perhaps you'll have to search for them."

"I wish you would have told me this when we were still at the gathering. I could have asked around to find out which tribe uses the white horse as a battle emblem."

Sirona touched his arm. "Don't let what I have told you guide your life too completely. So far, none of the things I've seen have come to pass. Instead, follow what is in your heart, what you sense the gods are telling you to do."

Bryn smiled sadly. "It's true that I have a long way to go before I'm worthy of handfasting with you. But someday, Sirona, I will be a warrior. Someday when you need protection, I'll be there. I won't fail you."

As Bryn turned and left her—ducking awkwardly under the low porch of the hut as his father had before him—Sirona felt the tears begin to fall. She wasn't certain what she wept most for: her own loss, or Bryn's heartbreaking innocence of the cruelties of life.

* * *

Her circumstances were so luxurious as to be almost embarrassing, Sirona thought as they left Mordarach. Tarbelinus had provided a cart for her to ride in and two warriors to guard her. He'd also offered to send a bondswoman to wait upon her, but Sirona had refused. She didn't see why some other young woman's life should be disrupted along with hers.

Sitting back in the cart, which was filled with sheepskins, blankets, cooking utensils and her new garments, she contemplated how different her "banishment" was from her mother's. Her mother had left on foot, carrying few supplies, while Sirona was well provided for. Yet despite her comfortable circumstances, she felt a yawning emptiness.

The idea of going to live with a northern tribe seemed like a tale told about someone else. She couldn't imagine it, this new life among a people she'd never met. Although she tried to see some vision of her future, nothing came to her. As they traveled farther and farther away from Mordarach, her sense of despair deepened. She was leaving everything she'd ever known. Her grandmother, whom she'd never truly appreciated. The world of the grove, which had filled her days and shaped her thoughts. It seemed like she was dying, as surely as Banon had died. To the people of Mordarach, she would be dead. Like Cruthin, she would cease to exist to them.

Cruthin. She wondered where he was. Had he returned to the mound on the sacred isle? Gone back to the mainland? She tried to see him in her mind, to catch some glimpse and reassure herself that he yet lived. But she saw nothing. She cursed silently. What was the point of having visions if they wouldn't come when she needed them most?

Her anguish deepened, and tears blurred her eyes as she watched the scenery pass. She became aware of a change in the landscape and realized they were leaving the highlands. The hills weren't as steep here and the contours of the land were a little softer. They were traveling into the territory of the Cornovii.

With each step the oxen took, the pain built inside her. Finally, overcome, she called out to the two men. "Please, stop. I need to..." She searched her mind for some excuse to go off into the woods and spend her grief in private. "I need to relieve myself," she finished.

They halted the oxen. Sirona grabbed her pack and climbed down from the cart. As she started off into the woods, the tears welled up in earnest. By the time she reached deep forest, she was sobbing.

She staggered forward, half blinded. Gradually she realized that if she went too far, she might get lost, and her fear of being left alone in strange territory caused her to halt. She slid to the ground and rubbed at her swollen eyes. Gazing up bleakly at the sky, she wished it were night time, so that she could see the moon. Arianrhod's silver light would comfort her.

She sighed, then, looking around, noticed several fluffy white blooms of a flower Nesta used in some of her medicines. The blossoms were formed of many tiny white flowers clustered together with one tiny purple flower in the center. As a child, Sirona had pretended that a wish made upon the secret purple center would travel directly to the ears of the gods and be granted. Now, she picked one of the flowers and inhaled the bloom's perfume, then touched the purple center. "Please, Arianrhod," she whispered. "Lady of the moon, who guides the silver wheel of the heavens, tell me what to do."

She sat there, waiting for an answer. After a time, she realized she must go back. Culhwch and Einion would worry if she stayed away too long.

She started back to the cart, and had gone a little distance when she heard men shouting. At first she thought it was Culhwch and Einion calling for her. Then she realized the language was unfamiliar. She took a few more steps, and suddenly knew that Culhwch and Einion were in trouble.

As she moved toward the voices. the sounds grew quieter. When she reached the edge of the trees, she understood why. Culhwch and Einion's bodies lay on the ground by the cart. They had been no match for the warriors milling around the area.

The enemy men were dressed very strangely, in short crys that bared their legs. They also wore metal helmets. Observing their foreign attire, Sirona decided they must be Romans. Bryn had been right. They _had_ come this far west.

She counted ten, twenty. Several explored the cart, digging among the supplies meant to equip Sirona's household when she arrived in the north. Finding a waterskin, one man put it to his lips and drank. He made a face and dumped it back in the cart. She wondered what he expected it to contain.

As the man continued to paw through the supplies, she worried he would find the jewelry in the bottom of the cart. Then she realized it didn't matter. They were going to take the whole vehicle. As she watched, one of the men used a stick to prod the oxen forward. The other enemy warriors followed behind.

Sirona closed her eyes. She had the faint hope that what she was seeing was a vision, a glimpse of something which might take place but had not yet actually happened. But when she opened her eyes, the sight of her tribesmen's bodies told the horrifying truth. This was real. She was wracked by tremors, and her stomach threatened to heave itself up. For a time, she was afraid to move. The dread that the men might come back paralyzed her.

She waited in the trees until almost twilight, then cautiously approached the place where the cart had been. Culhwch had a huge gash in his chest. The blood from the wound had soaked his crys like a dark lake spreading out over the fabric. He appeared so young. Sirona tried to remember how many years it had been since he'd had his man-making. Not more than five, she thought.

A few paces away Einion lay face down. She thought of turning him over, but decided she couldn't bear to. Einion had a wife and two small boys back at Mordarach. If she looked upon his face, knowing his family would never see him again, she would start weeping.

And she must not weep. Must not mourn these men who would never have been in this place except for her. She had a task to complete before she gave in to her grief.

She surveyed the area and began to gather up rocks, the largest she could carry. She piled them on top of the two dead men, hoping to protect their bodies from wild animals. A poor burial, but the best she could manage. She worked steadily, moving farther and farther away to gather the rocks. Her legs trembled with fatigue. Her back ached. But she kept at her task. When the moon appeared over the horizon, she knew it was Arianrhod offering her blessing.

She guessed that near half the night was over when she finally decided the two mounds of stones were large enough. A determined animal could still dig its way in, but this time of year, with plenty of game around, perhaps the scavengers would find easier pickings elsewhere.

She straightened, one hand on her aching back. "Culhwch and Einion, brave warriors both, I ask Arianrhod, lady of the moon, to carry your spirits on her fine pure light and set them gently down in the Otherworld. There may you live in happiness and plenty, fighting battles where no man is injured or suffers, and there is feasting and celebration for eternity."

Tears slipped down her cheek as she said the words. Then she gestured as she'd seen Fiach do and stepped back, away from the two rock cairns, waiting for the dead men's spirits to be released and float free.

Her task over, she staggered back to the forest and burrowed into a pile of leaves under a great oak tree. She fell into a dreamless sleep.

When she woke it was twilight. She decided she must have slept the rest of the night and the day following. Although nothing had bothered her as she lay among the leaves, now that she was awake, she realized how vulnerable she was. This was exactly how her mother had died, alone in the forest, attacked by predators.

The thought made her get to her feet and start walking. She left the woods and moved out into the open, finding the ruts made by the cart and following them back the way they had come. Her heart thudded with dread. Each breath she took seemed to catch in her throat. She had gone only a short distance when she realized her worst fear had come to pass. Glancing back at the moonlight-bleached landscape, she caught a glimpse of movement. Something was stalking her.

She moved more rapidly, her panic building. Now she could hear the beast's footfalls as it pursued her. She kept her gaze straight ahead and quickened her pace, although she didn't run, fearing that as soon as she did so, the animal would pounce.

Then gradually her mind began to function again. She reminded herself that she'd been trained for years not to fear death. And if she must die, she wanted it to be a good death, not this—being brought down like helpless, hunted prey. Determination filled her, and she made up her mind to stop and confront the predator. She slowed her pace and fumbled in her pack for her eating knife. A puny defense, but after all, Cruthin had killed a wolf with just such a weapon.

As soon as she found the knife, she whirled and faced her pursuer. Twenty paces away was a huge wolf. In the moonlight, its fur seemed tipped with liquid silver. Sirona waited, breathless with tension. Then her fear ebbed away as the beast sat down on its haunches.

She could feel the animal watching her, not with the fierce, feral yellow gaze of a predator, but with eyes that were dark, solemn and somehow wise. She was stunned. Death had seemed so close, and yet it had passed her by again. The gods surely must have a hand in this.

She slipped the knife back in her pack and began to walk away. The wolf followed, moving closer. It circled around to block her pathway. "Not this way," it seemed to be saying.

Its dark eyes probed her, reaching out, as if trying to make her understand. All at once, she realized what the animal wanted. The wolf was trying to get her to follow it. "Did Arianrhod send you?" she whispered.

The wolf watched her with its patient gaze. When she started toward it, it got up and loped off. She followed, wondering if she had gone mad.

# Chapter 9

Bryn drew his oiled leather cape more tightly around himself and glanced up at the sky. His face was immediately pelted with cold raindrops. He grimaced in frustration. In this weather, it was impossible to tell what time of day it was, let alone what direction he was headed. He must follow his instincts and hope he didn't end up walking in circles. The only other alternative was to find a place to wait out the rain.

But a rain like this could last for several days, and he had to keep moving. His father would certainly send someone after him. Tarbelinus would assume he was following Sirona, but that didn't mean he was safe from pursuit. Sirona and her escort would also have headed east for the first few days of their journey.

At least he had a day's head start. That had been a stroke of luck. Another Ordovice tribe had come visiting, seeking news about the gathering on the sacred isle. Tarbelinus had taken their guests hunting, and while all the warriors were gone from Mordarach, Bryn had set out. Of course, that meant he hadn't been able take his favorite hound, Cadarn, since the dog was with the hunters. But that might be better anyway. Having the dog with him would make him easier to track.

He tried to decide who his father would send after him and whether those men were be sympathetic to his plight. Some of the warriors had told Bryn they thought Tarbelinus was a fool for insisting he train to be a Learned One. If those men were the ones sent in pursuit, Bryn didn't think they would follow too aggressively. As he walked along, trying to travel in a straight pathway, he felt excited and pleased with himself, although occasional thoughts of Sirona dampened his mood. Almost a sennight had passed since she'd left Mordarach. By now, she should have reached the territory of the northern peoples. He hoped they would appreciate her and care for her. Perhaps she could even locate Dysri's tribe. The Drui woman seemed to have a fondness for Sirona.

But it wasn't enough to know she was safe. He wanted to be with her. With effort, he struggled to suppress the yearning. It wasn't time for them to be together. Before he made Sirona his wife, he must prove himself as a man and a warrior.

A twinge of anxiety prodded his stomach. It wasn't going to be easy to walk into the fortress of another tribe and gain acceptance. He might be tall and strong, but he was also young and inexperienced. He'd never fought a man in real combat. Never wielded a spear except against hunting prey. Other young men his age were so much farther ahead in their training.

At the thought, he cursed. So much time wasted. And what had he learned? The names of the gods and how to honor them. The way the sky changed over the seasons. Lists of ancestors. Laws and legends. Useless things. He cursed again. It galled him to be so far behind. Irritation made him quicken his pace. The sooner he came upon another tribe, the sooner he could begin to make up for all the years he'd lost, learning endless nonsense in the grove.

* * *

Bryn felt a rush of excitement as he heard the bellow of hunting horns in the distance. If he could meet up with members of another tribe soon after they'd made a kill, they would be in fine moods and more likely to welcome him to their dun. He listened until he heard the baying of hounds, then took off.

He circled around the area where he thought the prey must be, stopping every little while to gauge the location of the dogs by the sound of their frenzied bellowing. Although he was breathless and sweating from sprinting with his heavy pack, he relished the exertion. It was almost like he was one of the hunters, experiencing the excitement of the chase, the expectation of the kill. This why he had left Mordarach, so he could be one of the men who tested their endurance and cunning against the beasts of the forest...or against other men.

Hearing the sound of something moving through the woods, he pushed his way through the thick underbrush. He reached a game path and a few seconds later, jerked to a halt as he saw a man coming towards him. Their eyes met for a heartbeat. Then Bryn whirled and ran as fast as he could.

Even as his legs pumped and his lungs frantically sucked in air, his mind registered what had sent him on this desperate flight. One look at the man's dark, cropped hair and his strange garments told Bryn he was face-to-face with a Roman... a Roman carrying a wicked looking hunting spear. Running away seemed like his only option.

He ran and ran. Only as the muscles in his legs started to cramp with exertion and his breath come in great heaving gasps did he slow. At last he paused, doubled over, too spent to continue. He listened for pursuit, but the blood was pounding in his head so loudly, he couldn't hear anything else. Gradually that subsided, and he glanced around. The only noise was the trill of birdsong. All at once, a sense of shame came over him. Why hadn't he pulled out his short sword and confronted the man? Why had he immediately assumed the Roman would best him? A hunting spear was dangerous, but difficult to wield in the cramped space of a forest pathway. If he'd had time to get out his weapon, he could have defeated and killed the other man.

The next moment he told himself he'd done the sensible thing. Where there was one Roman, there would be others. He might have run into a whole troop of the enemy, and found himself facing impossible odds. Flight was his only hope. It would be foolish to throw his life away in a confrontation. He was hardly ready for combat against experienced warriors. That was why he was making this journey, so he could find a place to train, so that someday, he _would_ be ready.

He let a breath out like a sob, suddenly overwhelmed with frustration and fatigue. Three days he'd been traveling east. Now, he'd have to turn back, or change direction. What if he went south? As far as he knew, the tribes there hadn't been overrun by the Romans.

He cursed aloud, then started forward. The first thing he must do was find a stream where he could drink his fill and replenish his waterskin. And from now on he would have to proceed with more caution.

He glanced up at the sky, trying to gauge direction. Aye, he would go south. It seemed the wisest thing to do. For a brief moment, he considered that the sighting of the Roman might have been a sign from the gods. Maybe they were trying to tell him that his destiny lay elsewhere. Or, he might be imagining things because he was so drained by his panicked run. "I wish you were here, Sirona," he said aloud. "I could sorely use your insight and wisdom."

The only response was the sweet, bright cry of a lark.

* * *

_Someone was following him._

Bryn halted and glanced back into the gold green blur of the thick elm and oak forest. Or, maybe it was some _thing_ , he thought uneasily. Whatever it was, man or beast, it had been pursuing him since he set out that morning. When he'd first heard the tell-tale crack of branches and rustle of dried leaves, he'd assumed it was some sort of game. Getting out his bow and an arrow, he'd slipped behind a large tree trunk to wait. When no deer or boar appeared, he'd decided the animal had caught his scent and left the area. He'd started walking once again, but soon experienced the unmistakable feeling he was being stalked. Remembering his encounter with the Roman, he decided to put away the bow and arrow and get out his short sword.

Now he paused, listening, gripping the wire-wrapped wooden hilt of the weapon tightly in his sweaty palm. His heart raced. Why would a wolf pursue him when there was so much other prey around? If it were a man, then why didn't he confront Bryn and be done with it? Why stealthily follow after him?

He took a deep breath and tried to decide what his father or one of his warriors would do. They wouldn't wait for their pursuer to strike, but would boldly seek out whoever or whatever was following them. The only trouble was, it seemed as soon as he halted, the being tracking him also halted, so he had no clear sense of exactly where his pursuer was. How could he confront an enemy he couldn't see? Somehow, he must set a trap for his pursuer.

He increased his pace until he was going as fast as he could without tripping. Then, all at once, he whirled and started back the other direction, his eyes scanning the forest, searching for a blur of movement. He thought he saw something and headed straight towards it. As he passed a large tree, something flashed to his left. He jerked to a halt and stared hard in that direction. Although he saw nothing he could identify as anything other than a natural feature of the woods, he started toward the place where the hint of movement had been. He held his sword at the ready, his whole body thrumming with tension. As he passed several hawthorn bushes large enough to conceal a man, his breathless dread increased. Now he was certain his pursuer was human. No animal would behave like this.

He searched the bushes but found nothing. Frustrated, he halted his quest and looked around. He knew, simply knew, there was someone out there. Why didn't he show himself? He began to slash at the bushes around him, swearing oaths, "Coward! Dog! Come out and show yourself!"

As he raised his arm for another go at the hapless vegetation, he felt something sharp dig into his back. "Here I am," a male voice said from behind him.

Bryn could feel the weapon piercing his crys. As several heartbeats passed, he considered that at least the man had spoken in the Pretani tongue. He wasn't facing a Roman this time, but one of his own people.

"Who are you?" the man finally asked. "And what are you doing slinking around in the territory of the Dobunni?"

"I wasn't slinking around," Bryn said. "I was merely traveling through. If I'd encountered a settlement or farmstead, I would have stopped and announced myself."

"Oh, really?" the man sneered. "I saw you pass right by a cattle bothy, creeping through the trees so you wouldn't be seen."

Bryn experienced a twinge of shame at being caught in a lie. The fact was, he'd decided not to approach any settlement or dwelling until he'd had a chance to observe the inhabitants. He'd fixed upon this plan after encountering a dead man among the trees. The body showed several sword wounds, now covered with maggots. The discovery had sent a chill of horror down Bryn's spine. Bad enough to think he might be set upon and killed while he was alone and far away from his family, but the idea of having his body left to rot truly sickened him.

"You can't blame me for being cautious," he said. "I'm a stranger here and don't know how I might be greeted by your tribe. What I don't understand is why you didn't approach me."

Bryn felt the point of the sword or knife point dig more deeply into his flesh. "I'm approaching you now," the man said. "So, what are you doing here?"

"I'm seeking a place in the warband of some chieftain. I've left my own tribe, for reasons I don't wish to reveal. I would serve another man, if he be valiant and honorable. And, most of all, I wish to fight the Romans."

All at once, the pricking pain in Bryn's back eased, and his captor let out a guffaw. "You want to serve a chieftain who is honorable and valiant, and you've come to the territory of the Dobunni? That's a fine jest. My father knows nothing of honor, although he is brave enough." He gave another hearty laugh.

Bryn turned to stare at the man, who was now red-faced with mirth. He was young, perhaps a year or two older than Bryn, short and stocky, with wild, wavy black hair and dazzling blue eyes. He wore leather bracco beneath a crys of plain, undyed wool, with a strip of crimson-dyed leather for a belt.

While Bryn gazed at him, puzzling over his words, the man's expression turned wary. He looked Bryn up and down, sizing him up. "Are you skilled with weapons?"

"Some," Bryn hedged.

The man held up his sword. "We'll fight. If you win, I'll take you to my father and you can swear yourself to him, if you wish."

"And if I lose?" Bryn asked, his stomach sinking.

The young man grinned wolfishly. "Perhaps I'll spare your life. Perhaps not."

"Please," Bryn said. "Before we fight. Let us introduce ourselves. If I'm going to die, then I want to know the name of the man who kills me. I am Bryn ap Tarbelinus of the Tarisllwyth branch of the Ordovice."

"And I am Cadwalon ap Cadwyl of the Dobunni," the man said. Then he lunged.

Bryn only narrowly avoided the blade. He backed up, trying to recall all the advice he'd heard about swordplay. _Watch the man's eyes. Rest your weight on the balls of your feet. Keep your sword up._

As they engaged in earnest, Bryn found he could barely keep out of harm's way. His opponent moved with lightning quickness, and it was only Bryn's desperate panic that enabled him to avoid being stabbed. As he was steadily driven backwards, Bryn realized he'd soon get pinned against a tree and be unable to maneuver. Then he would die.

He tried to feint, to throw the other man off balance. It was no use. His opponent was too experienced, too wily and quick. _Llew, save me_ , Bryn thought desperately. _Cernunnos, lord of the forest, come to my aid!_ He didn't want to die here, alone, unmourned. Sirona's face flashed into his mind. He wondered if he'd ever see her again.

He tried to go on the offensive, driving forward. By the time he reached the place where the other man had stood, Cadwalon was gone, and Bryn's weapon slashed thin air. He let out a yell of rage and began to flail wildly with his blade. Cadwalon repeatedly moved out of reach at the last moment. Then, when Bryn grew winded, his opponent began to press him once more. Bryn tried to meet each blow and deflect it. Finally, a second too late, he lost his grip on his sword and it went spinning off into the bushes.

"Aha!" Cadwalon cried in triumph. He backed Bryn into a tree, his sword blade digging into Bryn's throat. Bryn waited, breathless and terrified. He wanted to beg for his life. Digging his nails into his palms, he fought the cowardly urge. He would die a man. Perhaps his spirit would someday return to the living and he would have another chance to prove himself as a warrior.

He saw his opponent's mouth quirk and one of his dark brows went up, reflecting surprise and, it seemed, amusement. All at once, Cadwalon drew back. He nodded, looking pleased. "I like you, Bryn ap Tarbelinus. I would offer you a place in my warband." Bryn opened his mouth to answer that he would be delighted to fight beside someone so skilled. But before he could speak, Cadwalon continued, "But the fact is, I have no warband. I'm still forced to fight for my father. It won't always be this way, I promise you. Someday _I'll_ be chieftain."

Bryn let out his breath in a sigh of relief. He wasn't going to die after all. Had his prayers to the gods been answered, or was it simply his destiny to live a while longer? He remembered Cruthin saying after the wolf almost killed him that it clearly wasn't his time to die yet. At this moment, Bryn felt the same. Yet his future was far from settled. Remembering Cadwalon's words, he said, "You told me your father is not an honorable man. What does that mean?"

Cadwalon shrugged. "I could give you many instances of my father's defiance of the law. Which tale would you like to hear?" When Bryn shook his head, not knowing how to answer, Cadwalon continued, "After my father had his face slashed in battle and his eye put out, the Drui said he could no longer be king because he was flawed and therefore, unacceptable to the gods. So he killed all the Drui and left their bodies to rot." Cadwalon smiled broadly. "Or, perhaps you would like to hear of how when he couldn't get Oswael and his warband to stop raiding our cattle, he invited the chieftain to come to our hall for one of the festivals. After the meal was over and Oswael and his men were very drunk, my father had his warriors fall upon the visitors and kill them."

Bryn gaped. The things that this man, Cadwyl, had done were terrible, horrifying violations of the sacred laws of their people. He shook his head in disbelief and said, "Doesn't Cadwyl fear the gods will punish him?"

Cadwalon threw back his head and laughed. "My father fear the gods? Nay! Cadwyl fears nothing. Not in this realm or the next. Ask him, he will tell you it is so!"

Bryn experienced an abrupt letdown. He'd finally found a tribe that might accept him. But how could he serve a man who flaunted the sacred laws and dared the gods to punish him for his defiance?

Cadwyl saw his expression and said, "What's wrong? Has our little skirmish changed your mind about being a warrior? I wasn't going to kill you. Truly. It wouldn't be right." He raised his chin proudly. "Unlike my father, I do have some honor. Without honor, you can gain men's fear, but not their respect. When I am chieftain, men will serve me and fight for me because they recognize me as a strong and brave leader, not because they fear I will kill them if they don't do my will."

"But, as you said, you're not chieftain yet," Bryn pointed out. "If I'm to be accepted by your tribe, I must serve your father. And I don't know if I could give my loyalty to such a man."

Cadwyl cocked his head. "You're an odd fellow, Bryn ap Tarbelinus. You look big and brawny, but you have little experience with weapons. You say you wish to find a place in some chieftain's warband, yet you don't wish to serve a man such as my father. What makes you so arrogant that you would refuse the offer of a place in his hall?"

"I'm not arrogant," Bryn said. "It's only that..." He'd hoped to leave that part of his life completely behind. But it seemed he could not. "I trained in the grove for a time. I was supposed to become a Drui. I have no desire for that life, but... I can't say those years didn't influence me."

"And so when I tell you that my father killed the Drui, you're shocked? You think he must be some sort of monster?"

Bryn nodded.

"Well, he is a monster," Cadwalon said. "But he's also the most powerful, ruthless man you'll ever meet. The thing is with Cadwyl, you either give in to him, or you die. Or, in your case, you could turn around and go back home." Cadwalon gazed at him questioningly.

Bryn considered this, then shook his head. "I can't go home. That would be worse than anything."

"Well, then, you must learn to think as I do. Cadwyl can't live forever. And he's made many enemies, including both of my brothers. Perhaps one of them will finally kill him."

"Then, what will you do? Serve them?"

"Nay, of course not. Then I will fight my brothers for the kingship. They are no more honorable than Cadwyl, and weaker and less canny besides. Cadwyl used to favor them, but when they rose up against him, he declared them outlaw and made me his heir. Of course, who knows if he truly means to see me be king after him. Cadwyl is a canny old wolf, playing all of his sons against each other."

"What does your mother think of all this? Whom does she favor?" Bryn asked, curious about this family that sounded so different from his own.

"My mother?" Cadwalon cocked his head in surprise. "What does she have to do with it?"

"Well, does she take your side, or that of your brothers?"

"My side, of course." He smirked. "You must consider that each of us was birthed by a different woman. My father has no loyalty when it comes to his consorts either."

Bryn was shocked. He'd heard of chieftains who had more than one wife, but, thinking of his mother Rhyell and her temper, it didn't sound like a good idea.

Cadwalon cocked his head. "I've told you something of my people. What of yours? Why are you here, so far from your home dun? Did you do something to disgrace yourself?"

"Nay, of course not. My father and I simply didn't see eye-to-eye about my future. He wanted me to continue to train the grove. I was determined to become a warrior."

"And so you left and traveled all the way here?" Cadwalon gave him an incredulous look. "Surely you could have found another tribe closer to your homeland. What about the Silures or the Cornovii?"

Bryn didn't really want to explain about how he'd turned south when he'd encountered the Roman. Now that he was far away from the potential danger, his decision seemed cowardly. "I decided to travel this direction so I might see more of the countryside."

"Huh," Cadwalon responded. "Well, I think your father is a fool to want you to be a Drui. You'll need a lot of training, but you're certainly big enough and quick enough to make a fine warrior." He smiled. "Perhaps by the time I'm chieftain, you might serve in my warband."

Cadwalon's words thrilled Bryn. At last someone saw his potential. But then he remembered that for the immediate future, he would be serving Cadwalon's father. Could he overlook the terrible things this Dobunni chieftain had done? He reminded himself that he'd had no other offers. And however cursed and wicked Cadwyl might be, the chieftain was successful and powerful and had undoubtedly surrounded himself with skilled warriors. By spending time among them, Bryn would be able to learn a great deal. When he was finally ready to go off and fight the Romans, the fact that he need feel no loyalty to a man like Cadwyl might make leaving easier.

He nodded. "Take me to your father and I will swear to him. If he will have me, that is."

"No need for that. Cadwyl doesn't take oaths from his men. He simply offers them the choicest war booty and a life of ease and idleness when they aren't engaged in combat. That is why his dun is crammed with skilled fighting men."

Bryn wondered what Cadwalon meant. Everyone knew that warriors were served first and given the choicest portions. They enjoyed a life of ease and comfort when there was no threat against their people. But even those things wouldn't be enough for the warriors of Bryn's tribe to give their loyalty to a man like Cadwyl. He found he was very curious to meet this strange southern chieftain—this man who defied the will of the gods and the rules of men.

* * *

As soon as Bryn saw Cadwyl's dun, he was struck by the fact that the Dobunni settlement had clearly been attacked on more than one occasion. The earthworks showed evidence of being rebuilt several times and the palisade walls were badly scarred by fire on two sides. But it appeared the inhabitants of the fortress had not only withstood the assault but eventually gotten the better of their attackers. Arranged on poles around the entrance to the palisade were nearly a dozen rotting human heads. "That's where my father will put the heads of my brothers, Awmlaad and Hueil, after he kills them," Cadwalon said, his face split wide with a grin.

Bryn had heard of trophy heads, but never seen one. From his Drui training, he understood the significance of the practice. The spirit resided within the skull, which meant that if a man's head was detached from his body, he couldn't return as a whole being from the Otherworld to seek revenge. Still, as he passed by the empty-eyed, gruesome visages, Bryn felt a little sick. He wouldn't like to think of his own head being stuck on a pole and left out for the birds and insects to feast on. As they entered the dun, he once again wondered what he'd gotten himself into.

The inside of the hillfort reeked of charcoal fires, rotting meat, dung and animals. Bryn thought of Mordarach and the way the workshops, stables and midden were located away from the dwelling places and hall. But here, everything seemed to be mingled together. The smith was near the entrance, which wasn't far from where the butchering was apparently done, which was only a little way from what appeared to be the kitchen. The smells of all those activities blended together to form a thick, odiferous haze over the whole fortress. By the time they reached the chieftain's hall, Bryn was almost gagging.

The inside of the hall was no better. It was dark and smoky, and a foul stench seemed to waft up from the rushes covering the floor. The place was crowded with fighting men. Most were dark like Cadwalon, although a few had red hair. Their necks and arms glinted with gold and enamelwork jewelry, but their hair and beards were long and matted and their crys and mantles torn and dirty. Looking at them, Bryn could almost see why the Romans were said to consider his people savages.

And yet these coarse warriors looked utterly formidable. They were brawny and thickly-muscled, although many of them weren't as tall as Bryn was. He told himself that if he trained with these men, he would learn the skills he needed to defeat the hated enemy.

Cadwalon continued to push his way through the mass of warriors. Bryn followed behind him, trying to quell the nervousness in his belly and appear assured and confident.

All at once, Cadwalon leaned close and said, "That's him. That's Cadwyl."

Bryn squinted in the dim light and saw what looked like a bear seated on a stool near the hearth. A tangled mass of head hair and great, bushy beard obscured the man's face and spilled over his shoulders, mingling with the thick black pelt he wore as a mantle. As Bryn drew near, he decided part of the reason Cadwyl had such an unkempt appearance was to make himself appear more formidable. He wasn't a large man. He was wider than his son, but no taller. And much, much uglier. Cadwyl's features were blunt and thick, his skin weathered and leathery. And then there was the hideous wound that cut through the place where his left eye should be. It was a face to give anyone nightmares.

As Bryn approached, he felt Cadwyl's good eye upon him, shrewd and calculating. Although he strove to appear calm, he was drenched with sweat, and his heart raced. He didn't doubt that if Cadwyl disliked anything about him, the chieftain was capable of ordering him put to death and adding his head to the gory trophies guarding the gate of the dun. To make things worse, Bryn could sense that Cadwalon wasn't altogether at ease either. They stopped a few paces away from Cadwyl. "This is Bryn ap Tarbelinus," Cadwalon announced. "A man in search of a chieftain to fight for."

Cadwyl grinned. Then he jerked a great knife from his belt, the hilt decorated with gold wire and red and purple enamel and the blade fouled with dried blood. He held the knife as if he meant to lunge at Bryn and stab him in the chest. Then, abruptly, he turned to the carcass of a pig sitting on the table beside him and chopped off a hunk of meat. Skewering the meat on the tip of the knife blade, he held it out to Bryn.

Bryn reached out and took the greasy chunk and put it in his mouth. As he chewed the rich, succulent meat, he realized that for better or worse, he was now Cadwyl's man.

# Chapter 10

Sirona sat down on a rock and opened her pack. She took everything out and searched the bottom, hoping to find some crumb or particle of food she'd overlooked. Finding nothing, she sighed. A short distance away, the wolf waited, lying down like a hound before the fire.

They'd been traveling like this for four days. The wolf would set off and she would follow. When she grew tired or hungry, she would stop and the wolf would come back and wait for her. Once she'd left out food, but the wolf hadn't approached the dried meat. She'd understood then. It was a spirit, not a real animal. Which was why she continued to follow it. She believed the gods must be speaking through the wolf and it was leading her where she was meant to go.

But there were times when doubts overwhelmed her. She had no idea where the wolf was taking her, and she was haunted by what she'd left behind, the loss of everything she cared about. At those moments she felt like giving up. Lying down and surrendering to her fatigue and hunger. The dried meat and barley bannocks in her pack were gone and, despite the verdant green forest, there was little to eat but a few berries here and there. She hoped the wolf realized they must reach their destination soon or she would collapse from starvation.

Sirona took a drink from her waterskin. Maybe quenching her thirst would revive her. That morning they'd entered a thick forest of oak, pine and yew, so dense and impenetrable that without the wolf, she wouldn't have been able to travel a stone's throw without getting hopelessly lost. She glanced at the animal, and the wolf raised its head expectantly. It was a beautiful creature. Much darker than the wolf Cruthin had killed for his man-making, so many cycles of the moon ago. This wolf had black fur tipped with silver. Its face was silvery gray, with dark eyes. They weren't wolf's eyes, but seemed human.

She wondered if the wolf was Lovarn. He'd told her his name meant wolf. She had tried talking to the animal, asking it to appear to her in human form. It continued to gaze at her with those strange, compelling eyes. She decided it didn't matter who or what the wolf was, only that the animal had been sent to guide her.

But guide her _where_? She knew they were traveling north. If she encountered another tribe, what would she tell them? How could she explain how she came to be there? And why should any tribe take her in? Her hair was disheveled, her clothing dirty. She'd lost the bronze comb Rhyell had sent with her, and she had only one change of clothing, and that gown was nearly as old and soiled as the one she wore. All the jewelry from her mother was gone. Except for what was in her pack, all her possessions had been stolen by the Romans.

Thinking of these things, she grew even more discouraged. For all she knew, she was going to die here, lost in these endless woods. Forgotten. Alone. Cursed. Tears welled up in her eyes. She was so tired. She'd been walking for days, with no clear destination ahead. Now she was out of food. What was the point of going on? Why not stay here until death came?

She slumped over, head in her hands. Then she heard a sound. The wolf. It began to circle her, growling. Not threateningly, but as a sign of impatience. "Go away," she whispered. "Leave me alone."

But the animal wouldn't relent. It circled ever closer, finally darting in to nip at her clothing. Sirona sat up and watched the wolf stop a few paces away. "What do you want?" she asked. "Why won't you leave me in peace?"

The wolf again moved in a circle, whining. Obviously, it wanted her to get up and follow. She groaned, but didn't rise.

The animal rushed toward her, grazing her body. Even this close, it had no odor. The awareness reminded her that this was no natural creature. It was one thing to defy an animal. Another to ignore a messenger of the gods. She stood up wearily and began to follow the wolf.

The forest was a blur of green, endless, oppressive. If she kept on like this, she would eventually collapse and die. Her body would rot away and she would become part of the earth again. Her flesh and bones would feed the animals and nourish the soil. Her spirit would return to the warmth and safety of the great mother's womb, from there to be born again into a new life, a new body. The idea soothed her. It wasn't such a terrible fate. Perhaps in her next life she would be more fortunate.

A short while later the forest ended, and Sirona halted, staring. Pink campion, blue harebells and mauve heather grew in profusion around a mound like the one on the sacred isle. The wolf ran to the mound and disappeared behind it.

Sirona followed, her despair replaced by wonder. On the other side of the mound was a small doorway, much like the one in the mound on the sacred isle, except there was no stone blocking the entrance. Seeing no sign of the wolf, she decided the animal must have gone inside. She dropped her pack on the ground, then ducked down and stuck her head inside the passageway leading into the mound. It smelled earthy and pungent, like a fox's den. She felt a hint of fear, wondering what sort of animal might wait within. Then she decided the wolf wouldn't have gone in if she weren't meant to follow.

She crawled inside, where light filtering down through an opening in the top revealed a cozy dwelling space but no sign of the wolf. Sirona was puzzled. After guiding her for days, why would it simply vanish?

Unless this was her destination. She glanced around. There was a small hearth, with animal skins and large, flat rocks for seating arranged around it. Numerous baskets and jars were pushed back against the sloping sides of the stone wall of the chamber. She went to one of the baskets and opened it. Inside was some ground-up meal. She dipped her finger in the powdery substance and licked it. The meal tasted like hazelnuts. Another of the baskets was full of dried berries. She picked up one of the jars, removed the beeswax seal and sniffed. Then she brought the jar to her lips and drank. It contained a strong, vaguely sweet beverage. She drank some more. The drink made her dizzy, but also revived her.

She explored further. The baskets and jars and other objects in the chamber were tidily arranged, but there was a layer of dust over everything. Someone had been here, but a long time ago. She puzzled over why the wolf had guided her to this place. Was she supposed to rest here and eat the food? What if the people who had stored it away came back and were angry she'd dared to help herself to their hoard?

But she was too hungry and exhausted to agonize over these matters for long. She pulled the baskets and the beverage jars over to the hearth and began to eat. The nutmeal was rich and nourishing, but difficult to consume by licking her fingers. She wondered if she added water if she could make a kind of mealcake over the fire. If she had a fire. She took several deep draughts of the beverage. It made her sleepy. She decided to go out and get her pack, so she could wrap up in her cloak.

It was getting dark, and there was no sign of the wolf. Now she was completely alone. Then Sirona saw the faint outline of the moon, gleaming through the trees at the edge of the clearing. The increasing moon, when the lighted half circle resembled a pregnant belly. She felt certain she'd been guided to this place for a reason. Although that purpose hadn't yet been revealed, she must trust that the Goddess had a reason for bringing her here.

Turning back to the mound, she noted that it was also shaped like a pregnant belly. She would be safe inside the earth mother's womb.

* * *

Sirona woke to find the underground chamber filled with fire. She jerked upright, terrified. The flames danced before her eyes, gleaming and bright. Then they died back, and she realized she was looking into an ordinary hearth fire. She blinked in amazement, trying to understand what had happened. Then she saw someone seated on the other side of the fire. A woman, small-boned and gracefully built, with long, thick dark hair and a beautiful haughty face. She gazed at Sirona with a patient expression.

Sirona immediately had the sense of being in the presence of someone incredibly strong and powerful. For a moment, she wondered if she were seeing a vision of the Great Goddess herself. Then, even as she had the thought, the woman changed. Her hair turned white. Her face became as thin and hollow as a skull. Her body grew stooped and wizened. Sirona took a deep breath. "Who are you?" she whispered. "Are you the Great Mother?"

The woman gave a cackling laugh. "If I were, you would have been burned to nothingness. The power of the Great Mother is awesome. To come in contact with even a tiny portion of it is to risk annihilation."

"Then, who are you? _What_ are you?"

The old woman laughed once more. "I am Itzurra. I have come to claim you."

Claim her? The implication of her words chilled Sirona. "Why?" she asked. "What have I done?" She looked around. "I didn't mean to eat your food... but I was so hungry. And I didn't mean to intrude upon this place either." She thought about mentioning the wolf guiding her there but wasn't sure the woman would believe her.

"It's not what you have done, but who you are. It's time for you to face your destiny."

"My destiny? What is that?" Sirona's heart was pounding. Her whole body went rigid as the woman moved nearer.

"You are the one who will carry the past into the future," Itzurra said. She grasped Sirona's arm in her claw-like hand. "The blood of the Old Ones runs in your veins. You have it from both your mother, Banon, and from your father."

"My father? What do you know of him?"

"He was a warrior of one of the Brigante tribes. He's dead now, because he couldn't endure the legacy of his mixed blood. Many people can't. They want to be from one world or the other, and can't survive in the twilight space between. But do we not all live our lives in the doorway between two worlds?"

"You mean, this world and the Other Side?"

Itzurra smiled. Despite her great age, she had all her teeth. "Although much of what the Learned Ones teach is nonsense, some of it is true. I suspect it won't be difficult to instruct you. You will understand some things because of your Drui training, and the rest will come easily because it's already in here." Itzurra touched her chest.

"You're going to teach me magic?" Sirona asked excitedly.

Itzurra's smile wavered. "I wish I had more to offer you. But much of the power has been lost."

"What about my visions?" Sirona asked. "Will you tell me what they mean?"

"Your visions aren't from our world, but the other. I can't help you with those."

"What other world?"

Itzurra's expression grew grim. "The world of men, of warriors." The old woman shook her head. "It's the mixture of your blood that torments you. You can never truly belong to one realm. This conflict led to your parents' deaths, but I think you are stronger. I think you will be able to learn to balance the two kinds of power and use them wisely."

Sirona nodded. This was why the wolf had led her to this place. So she would finally learn the secrets of the Old Ones. She thought of Cruthin. If she ever saw him again, she would be able to tell him she'd finally discovered what they'd sought.

"Sit by the fire," Itzurra said. "Let me tell you the story of the Old Ones from the beginning." Sirona settled herself on the animal pelts. Itzurra began, "Long, long ago, the gods came down from the sky. They taught us all about the realms of thought and being. They taught us magic. For a time, our people prospered. Then we began to fight among ourselves, to use the sacred knowledge and power to hurt each other. The gods grew angry and went away. All except one god named Dyeus. He'd fallen in love with a woman named Ane. He mated with her, and they had children. Their children had not only the knowledge of the gods, but some of their blood. Their female children were especially gifted and could do great magic.

"When Ane died, her children buried her in a great mound of earth. Dyeus came and took her with him, back to the sky. Their descendants are the Old Ones. At first, their descendants had great power and knew how to do great things. But gradually their magic dwindled. They became desperate to entice the gods back. They erected the standing stones and monuments, trying to convince them to return. When one of their number died, they buried them in mounds of earth, hoping that Dyeus would come and take the deceased back to the heavens, as he had Ane."

Itzurra raised her head and looked at Sirona sadly. "The fact is, the descendants of Dyeus and Ane became so obsessed with the realm of the gods, they squandered their magic. That's how most of it was lost. But the things they built still possess a little of their power. That's why this mound remains green and fertile even in the dead of winter. For someone like you, who possesses some of Dyeus's blood, these places call to you. You feel the power there. But like all who possess the blood of the Old Ones, the part of you that belongs to the gods is always yearning, longing to return to the stars. Always you are in turmoil. Your flesh is drawn by the earth, which represents Ane's blood. Your spirit, by the stars and the realm of Dyeus. And you also have the blood of the newcomers, those who call themselves the Pretani."

"No wonder I feel so confused, so torn in different directions," Sirona said.

Itzurra nodded. "It's the blood of the Pretani that makes you afraid. While the Pretani raise their children not to fear death or pain, they are still uneasy with the realm of the Other Side."

"I have another fear," Sirona said. "I fear I will end up like my mother. That I will have a horrible death and be trapped in the lonely realm of spirits who are unable to pass over to the Other Side."

"Your mother was nothing like you. She refused the training we tried to offer her and became caught up in the world of men. She never learned how to use the power she possessed. She was like a child who hurts itself as it unwisely struggles to have its own way."

"You knew my mother?"

"Aye."

"What was she like? I have only the tiniest memory of her and..." Sirona grimaced. "... what I've seen in my visions."

"She was beautiful, like you. But she didn't have your wisdom or your spirit. Her spirit was weak, and so, in her confusion, she sought out the power of the Pretani world rather than that of the Old Ones. She used her gifts to meddle in the world of men, of politics and power, and she died because of it. You won't make the same mistake. Already you know what true power is. It's not possessing great herds of sheep and cattle, or, in your mother's case, jewels and fine garments. It has nothing to do with how many people defer to you or heed your will. Power comes from your connection to the earth and the sky. To all life. To the energy of everything around us. To all we can see and all that we cannot see."

Sirona nodded. Old Ogimos had said these same things. She felt in her heart that it was true. "I understand," she said.

Itzurra smiled. She reached under her crys, which was made of some sort of animal fur, brown and soft and amazingly thick, and pulled out a narrow strip of leather with a large blue-green attached. Pulling the necklace over her head, she handed it to Sirona. "Put it on."

"What is it?"

"Something passed down through the women of our line. Although this is not the same one, it's said that Ane possessed an amulet made of this special stone. It's also said Dyeus gave it to her, and it came from the stars."

Carefully, reverently, Sirona looped the thong over her neck. When she touched the stone, cradling it in her fingers, it felt warm and alive.

"Ah," Itzurra said. "It knows you. Recognizes Ane's blood. Perhaps it would have done the same with your mother, but she refused it. She favored gold and silver, and shiny stones that caught the light."

Sirona looked up. "I can't imagine refusing such a gift."

"You would not. And because you know this stone and it knows you, it will protect you and aid you. As long as you wear it, you will be safe from the dangers of the world of men. You must never take it off. Or, if you do—perhaps to put on a new thong to carry it—you must still hold it close to your heart all the while."

Sirona nodded. "Thank you. It's a wonderful gift." She gazed at Itzurra. "How can I repay you for... all of this?"

"Merely to see you smile is repayment enough. I have waited many, many years to find someone to whom I might pass on my Goddess stone. Now, I can die content."

Itzurra's words alarmed Sirona. "Die? What do you mean? I thought you were going to teach me the magic of the Old Ones?"

Itzurra lay back on the animal pelts. Her breath seemed to come harsh and shallow. "You already know nearly as much as I do. And the rest, the rest you must learn for yourself."

"By the Goddess, what's happening?" Sirona knelt beside Itzurra. "You can't die now. We've barely met! I've only begun to learn."

"It's time." Itzurra's voice was barely audible. "One last thing, I ask you."

"What? Anything! I will do whatever you wish! Only... please don't die..." Sirona's words ended in a gasp of despair.

"Lean closer," Itzurra whispered. "Aye, like that. Please leave my body here, in this place. Perhaps..." Her voice grew fainter. "Perhaps Dyeus will come for me."

The fire, which had started to flicker, suddenly went out. Sirona was left in pitch black darkness. Even the smokehole in the top of the mound let in not the faintest light.

"Oh, no," Sirona moaned. "How can this be?" She clutched her head in her hands, wondering if it were all a dream. Then she touched the amulet. The feel of the warm stone provided some reassurance, but she still felt empty and despairing. "How could you leave me?" she whispered. She sniffed loudly, feeling the tears course down her cheeks. "But I must be strong. Itzurra said that as long as I wore the amulet, I would be safe." The words didn't alter her sense of loss. Sighing, she lay down next to Itzurra. The old woman's corpse felt tiny and frail, her bones like a bird's. Already her flesh was growing cold. Sirona moved her hand so she was touching Itzurra's garment. She kneaded her fingers in the soft luxuriance of the fur. It seemed warm and alive, as if the essence of the creature it had come from still lingered there.

* * *

She was woken by sunlight filtering down through the smokehole in the top of the mound. Looking around, she was startled to realize that Itzurra was gone. As she had the night before, Sirona reached for the amulet. It still hung between her breasts. That meant Itzurra had existed, that it wasn't all a dream. But where was the old woman now?

Sirona glanced around and was startled to find a gold necklace lying on the fur next to her. It was made up of disks of gold etched with strange symbols. She puzzled over it, wondering what it meant. Had Dyeus come and taken Itzurra away, leaving the necklace behind? She stroked the gold lovingly. If this was all that was left of Itzurra, then it was fitting it should remain here. But for her, it was time to leave. The sense that her destiny lay elsewhere was very strong. When she touched the amulet once more, it seemed that it spoke, telling her to go.

She thought of taking some of the food and a few jars of the tart beverage, then decided against it. Those things were meant to remain here, for the next traveler in need. After one last glance at the necklace, gleaming brilliantly in a shaft of sunlight filtering down through the opening in the top of the mound, she crawled out of the entrance. Outside, the wolf was waiting for her.

"Hello, wolf," she said, smiling. "Where will you lead me today?" She'd come to this place feeling overwhelmed and hopeless, but now that dark weight was gone, and her mood was expectant, almost joyful.

# Chapter 11

The wolf continued to lead her through the forest. They reached open pastureland, where there was a herd of cattle, tended by two youths with dark brown hair. She waved to them and approached. As she neared the youths, she decided they must be brothers. Their features were very similar and they both had freckles covering their faces and exposed skin.

"I am Sirona from the Tarisllwyth tribe. Can you give me directions to the dun where your people live?"

The youths stared at her. Then one of them said, "The settlement is that way." He pointed. "Down that ridge and over the hill."

"Thank you." Sirona looked back for the wolf, but the animal was gone. She made a gesture of farewell. "Thank you, wolf," she said. Then she started off the direction the boy had indicated.

A short while later, Sirona climbed to the top of the hill and looked down at the settlement below. There was no palisade or other defenses, only several dozen round dwellings made out of hides stretched over timber supports, and some sheds for storage. A few plots of land nearby had been recently harvested, with only brown stubble remaining.

She started down into the valley and soon met a group of women and young children coming back from berrying, their baskets overflowing with dark red and purple fruit. The women and children all had reddish or brown hair and were dressed in clothing with a dark green and crimson checked pattern. They stopped when they saw her, regarding her warily.

Sirona greeted them. "I am Sirona, a traveler from the sunset lands."

The tallest of the women responded, "I am Ciorstan, of the Cunogwerin branch of the Brigante tribe." The woman's speech had a different cadence than that of the southern tribes, a certain roughness around the edges of the words.

"In the name of the Great Mother Goddess, I greet you, Ciorstan," Sirona said, then hesitated. How did she proceed from here? The tribe name, the Cunogwerin, sounded familiar to her, but she couldn't remember where she'd heard it. Dare she ask these people for food and shelter, at least for a night or two? After a moment, she said, "Is there a Learned One or Drui among your tribe?"

"Aye, we have a healer who has much knowledge of Drui lore."

"Could I speak with them? I also trained in the grove for many years."

Ciorstan nodded. "Come with us."

Sirona followed the Cunogwerin as they made their way back to the settlement. The women talked quietly among themselves while the children shot her curious glances. Sirona felt apprehensive. Why should she expect this tribe, or any other tribe, to take her in? What did she have to offer? She reminded herself that she had been guided to this place by the wolf, who was surely a messenger of the gods. There must be some purpose for her being here. She had to trust that it was so.

As soon as they entered the camp, they were immediately greeted by a pack of enormous hounds, long-legged hairy beasts with pelts from gray to black. The racket the dogs made was earsplitting. The pack singled her out and surrounded her, sniffing eagerly. Sirona couldn't help laughing. Cunogwerin meant "dogfolk". It was obviously a fitting name. She patted the head of one animal and was soon besieged by the others, also begging for attention. As she struggled to satisfy them all, she looked up and saw Ciorstan watching her intently.

"They clearly approve of you," the woman said. "Usually I must give some sign indicating that a visitor is accepted before they will stop barking. But they behave as if they know you already."

Sirona wondered what Ciorstan would think if she told the woman that her closest companion for the past sennight had been a wolf.

Ciorstan finally shooed the dogs away and led Sirona into the settlement. While the women and children who had accompanied her drifted off, other people stopped to watch Sirona pass. In the center of the encampment they reached a large structure, which Sirona presumed was the chieftain's hall. A little further on, Ciorstan paused before a dwelling. Leaning near to the hide doorway, she called, "Dysri, there's someone here who wishes to speak with you."

At the mention of her friend from the sacred isle, a smile spread across Sirona's face. That's why she recalled the name of this tribe. The gods had indeed guided her to this place.

Dysri came out of the hut. As soon as she saw Sirona, she embraced her. "Ah, little one, it's so good to see you," she exclaimed. "I've been worried about you ever since the gathering."

"It's been an interesting journey here," Sirona answered. She couldn't stop smiling. It felt so good to see a familiar face, to realize she was in the company of someone who might understand what she'd been through.

"Come in, come in," Dysri said. "We've much to talk about."

"Perhaps I should wash first." Sirona indicated her soiled appearance.

"Aye," said Dysri, laughing. "You do look a bit worse for wear."

The older woman took Sirona to a cistern near the center of the camp. To Sirona's surprise, the cistern was made of stone. "I wouldn't have thought you would have a permanent water-collection system here," she said. "This appears to be only a temporary settlement."

"We come here every summer. There's plenty of good pasture and land for growing crops."

"But then you move to another location as the weather changes?"

Dysri nodded as she filled a pottery basin from the cistern. "By the time the Acorn Moon has waxed and waned, we'll be gone."

"Where will you go?'

"Farther north where the forests are denser. There's forage for the herds and plenty of game to see us through the winter."

"I notice you have no wall or earthworks," Sirona said as she splashed water from a basin onto her face and neck. "Does that mean you don't fear other tribes making war on you?"

"Sometimes there are cattle raids, but not often. We've been fortunate to know several years of peace."

"Is there an overking of all the Brigante tribes?" Sirona asked.

"Not a king, but a queen. Her name is Cartimandua."

Sirona gazed at Dysri in surprise. "And all of the tribes of the Brigantes accept her as their leader?"

Dysri nodded.

"Is it because of her that your people are at peace?"

"In a way. She has allied herself with the Romans, and with their support, she's been able to keep the various chieftains from making war against each other."

Sirona shook her head, remembering what had happened to Einion and Culhwch, as well as Bryn's warnings. "I don't trust the Romans. I think they are using Cartimandua, and she will someday regret this alliance."

"Perhaps. But for now, it's good not to have tribe set against tribe. To be able to travel from our summer lands to our winter ones and not worry about attack." As they started back to the hut, Dysri said, "But that's enough talk of politics and war. Tell me what has happened since we last saw each other on the sacred isle. How do you come to be here, arriving with no escort and few supplies?" She motioned to Sirona's pack, hanging limply from her shoulder.

"It's a tale such as the bards tell," Sirona answered. "Full of twists and turns, secrets and..." She smiled. "... even a little magic."

"You must tell me everything.

They went inside the hut and sat down by the hearth. Sirona told Dysri what had happened after she returned to Mordarach from the sacred isle. She recounted the first part of her journey north and the attack by Romans. Finally, she mentioned the wolf who had led her on the journey, and her experience in the burial mound with Itzurra. Dysri's hazel eyes grew wide, her expression more and more wondering.

"... and so, I left the mound and journeyed north until I arrived here," Sirona finished.

For a time, Dysri said nothing. Then she rose and fetched Sirona some milk from the stone container at the back of the dwelling. There was a small opening on the side of the hide structure. Through it, Sirona observed the light was beginning to fade. It had taken a long time to tell everything that had happened to her in the past fortnight.

When Dysri brought her the milk in a pottery cup, Sirona asked, "So, what do you think of my tale?"

Dysri sat down next to Sirona. Her face appeared distant and intent. "When I first met you, I thought were special. I believed you would have great influence on the future."

"And now?"

"And now..." Dysri smiled. "Now I am certain of it."

"But what am I supposed to _do_?" Sirona asked. "There are times when I feel the hand of the gods upon me, guiding me. But then when I reach the place I've been led to, I discover more mysteries. Questions rather than answers. On the sacred isle, I knew I must go to the mound with Cruthin. I felt something important was going to happen there. But, looking back, I'm not certain what any of it meant. Our actions brought down the wrath of the Learned Ones upon us, and I've come to think that my being banished from my tribe was meant to be. And now I've been guided here, but I still don't know why."

"I wish I could advise you, but you've already moved far past me."

"But you must have some thoughts on why I'm here."

"You must be patient. You've barely even had your woman-making. Give yourself time to mature. Time to get used to having visions. Perhaps you've been guided here because I'm a healer and you need a respite from your burdens. For now, if you can, stop seeking answers. Forget the future, and the past. Feel your heart beating at this moment. Savor the rhythms of life. The change of day to night. The turn of the seasons."

"It's true. I am weary. So much has happened since the golden wheel of summer first filled the sky."

"For now, my advice is to do nothing," Dysri said. "Let your spirit rest. Soon the plants will begin to die back, and the earth turn to the darkness. In the bellies of ewes and cattle and deer, the spark of life will be sown. As the winter winds blow and the world turns cold and harsh and gloomy, that life will grow and swell. Come spring, it will burst forth, restless and eager. This is the winter of your spirit, for as long as you need it to be. Rest as the fallow earth rests. Wait, as the beasts do, sluggish and slow, for the sun to return and make the grass green."

Sirona nodded. There was wisdom in what Dysri told her. Not magic, but quiet truth. "Your tribe will accept me?"

"I'll tell them that you are some kin of mine come to serve as my apprentice."

"I fear I have no gift for healing."

"It won't matter," said Dysri. "No one will question my choice." She rose. "Now I must make you known to the chieftain, Ruadan, and to the rest of the elders. They'll be in the hall waiting for us."

* * *

Beneath Sirona's feet the bracken and cane brake was a dull bronze, and as she passed a blackthorn bush, she saw that the plant's bluish fruits were almost gone, picked clean by birds and squirrels. Above her, only a few lonely leaves fluttered from the branches of the oak boughs. She bent down and began to scoop up acorns, filling another basket. Tedious work, and yet she was pleased to be able to contribute to the Cunogwerin's winter foodstores. As Dysri promised, the tribe had taken her in, offering a place to spend the snowseason, or longer if she needed it.

As soon as the hazelnuts and acorns began to fall and gold and copper leaves covered the ground, the Cunogwerin had headed north, packing up their hide and timber dwellings and other possessions and loading them on carts drawn by sturdy black oxen. It was a long, slow journey with the carts, but Sirona had enjoyed observing the gradual changes in the landscape. As the deep green of pine trees replaced the brighter foliage of oak and elm, it struck her that the midnight lands were a darker and more somber world. The mists, creeping over the valleys, felt heavier and more chilling. They encountered still, mirror-like lakes and dark, murky boglands, rather than the swift streams, runlets and waterfalls of her home territory. This was an ancient place, where the spirits were wise and solemn, rather than fierce and wild.

When her gathering basket was full, Sirona sought out Dysri. The older woman helped Sirona place a stick over her shoulders to carry her two full baskets, then devised a similar arrangement for herself. Then they started back to the tribe's winter camp.

"What will you do with all these acorns?" Sirona asked. "Our tribe never gathered them. Instead, we turned the pigs out to forage among the mast."

"It's possible to make a kind of flour out of ground acorns," Dysri told her. "If we are fortunate, our stores of oats and barley will last all winter, and we won't need to resort to acorn meal. But it's good to be prepared. If the snows are too deep for the men to hunt, we'll have to survive on the food in our storage pits."

Sirona nodded. The Cunogwerin had culled their herds only a few days ago, butchering all but the main breeding stock, and salting and smoking the meat. They stored the meat, along with grain, dried berries, beans, and some roots and tubers, in stone pits in the ground at the edge of their camp.

"What about the Old Ones?" Sirona asked. "If it's a difficult winter, how do they survive?"

Dysri shook her head. "No one knows how the Croenglas manage." Croenglas, which meant "blue-skinned", was what the Brigante tribe called the Old Ones. "Perhaps they go into some secret underground place and sleep away the winter like bears," Dysri said, smiling. "Although I think it more likely that they move to areas along the coast and survive by fishing."

"So, you think it's unlikely I'll encounter any of them until spring?"

Dysri shrugged. "And maybe not even then." Her smile faded. "I'm sorry to disappoint you. But you must understand that the relationship between the Croenglas and our people is an uneasy one. In times past, there have been strange incidents involving them. Some tribes claim that when the Croenglas are around, their livestock fall ill, and there have been tales of children and babies who sickened and died after the Old Ones were seen in the area. Magic often inspires fear as well as awe. It is thus with my people and the Croenglas. The two races usually avoid each other."

"What about Lovarn?" Sirona asked. "That was an incident where an individual of their race approached one of your people."

Dysri nodded, her eyes far away with memory. "I was alone that day, out gathering herbs in the forest. There was no sound or warning and then, suddenly, two men were in the clearing, with Lovarn on a kind of sledge between them. I went over to see to Lovarn, who was obviously wounded. When I looked up, the two men were gone." Dysri shuddered. "I still feel strange when I think about it."

"And you told Lovarn that the only way you could save his leg was to cut it off?"

Dysri nodded. "It was a grave wound, down to the bone and already rank with poison."

"And then what happened?"

"He told me that if that if he must lose his leg to save his life, he would die. Then he thanked me. A while later, the two men came back and carried him off, dragging the sledge between them. They returned two days later, when I was in the forest, and told me he was dead."

"And that's the only contact you've ever had with the Croenglas?"

Dysri nodded.

Sirona felt the familiar frustration. She'd hoped that here in the north she might find answers, about the Old Ones, about her visions, about the purpose and meaning of her life. Over a cycle of the moon had passed and she hadn't yet discovered any of the things she sought.

A loud bellow sounded in the distance. A few heartbeats later, there was an answering bugle. Both women halted a moment to listen. "Ah," Dysri said. "The stags are in rut. Soon the hunters will bring home fresh meat. This is the best time of year to track the forest king, when he is distracted by the does in season."

The image of a great antlered stag reminded Sirona of what had happened at the mound on the sacred isle. A pang of grief went through her. She'd had a chance to mate with the lord of the forest, the stag king, Cernunnos. And like a yearling doe, she'd reacted with dread and fear. _Cruthin, where are you? Will I ever see you again?_

She started walking again, tears stinging her eyes. Dysri observed her distress. "Don't grieve so," she said, catching up to her. "Here in the north, you have a chance for a new beginning."

Sirona nodded. She must be patient and wait for the gods to reveal her pathway. Still, she couldn't help mourning the world of her childhood she'd left behind. She thought of her grandmother, imagining Nesta in the autumn woods, collecting herbs for her medicines, small and frail, her skin and hair near as pale as silver, like the mist flowing along the forest floor. And like the mist, the image of Nesta gradually faded, until she was no more than a breeze riffling the leaves, a white owl floating silently overhead.

The ache inside Sirona deepened. She told herself she was being foolish. Although she might never again see Nesta alive, her living, breathing fleshly form, her grandmother's spirit would always be with her. And it was that spirit, the essence of a loved one, that mattered.

* * *

The next night, Sirona pushed aside the hide door of the dwelling she shared with Dysri and went out into the cold stillness. She moved quickly through the camp, stopping only to pat one of the hounds, stretched out, guarding the doorway of a dwelling. She rubbed the huge, fawn-colored animal behind its ears, and it gave a shuddering sigh. After giving the dog a final pat, she straightened and moved on.

She walked to the edge of the settlement and sought out a herding path that led up into the hills. The ground crunched with frost as she walked, and overhead the stars hung in the blue black sky like sparkling ice crystals. On the western horizon, the crescent moon gleamed like the blade of a curved ceremonial knife. The going was rough, the trackway rocky and edged with furze. As she picked her way along, a wolf howled in the distance. But her heart didn't race, nor did she tense with dread. It was a wolf that had led her to this place of sanctuary.

The brisk air pierced her clothing. She pulled her mantle more tightly around her body and quickened her pace. The pathway crossed two hills, gleaming faintly in the moonlight, then led down into a ravine thick with thorn and bramble bushes.

She pushed her way through the brush and dodged the stones littering the pathway. At last she came to a clearing where a handful of knee-high, lichen-splashed boulders were arranged in a circle. She took a deep breath and then entered the circle. After pausing a moment to gather her thoughts, she lifted her hands to the sky. "Arianrhod, lady of the moon, the face of the Goddess who rules the sky and shines her bright light upon the land, show me the way. Tell me what I must do."

She waited, but heard nothing except a faint whisper of breeze stirring the leaves of the nearby bushes. A sigh escaped her lips. She understood that she was meant to go to the sacred isle, to share what she'd shared with Cruthin, even if their mating had fallen short of completion. She was meant to be banished from her tribe and to travel north. But after that, her destiny, her purpose, grew blurry and vague. Bits and pieces of knowledge had come to her, but so much else eluded her. It seemed the answers lay in the future, a future that she could not see, no matter how hard she tried.

_Please, Great Mother_ , she begged silently, _give me a sign._ Once again, she raised her arms to the heavens and repeated her exhortation. But no tingling started along her spine and her inner vision remained empty. Above her the stars shone, cold and brilliant, and the face of the Lady gazed down upon her with silence.

She sighed again, thinking she should return to the settlement. There were no answers here.

She thought then of Old Ogimos, the ancient, solemn Drui who hadn't lectured on the movement of the stars, nor made them recite endless tales and genealogies, or demanded that they learn the proper way of performing a ceremony. Instead, Ogimos had taught them things of the spirit, awakening in them a sense of the pattern all around, the way everything was connected. Now his words came back to her. _You must not be impatient with the gods, but let them reveal their purpose for you in their own time. You must remain quiet and still and listen. Listen with your heart and your spirit. The answers will come to you on the whispering wind, or the voice of a stream splashing over the rocks. Secrets await you in the dark shadows of the woods, in the perfection of a flower hidden among the fallen leaves and dried grass. The flower waits for the right moment to bloom, to come forth in all its glory. And so, someday, the answers will be revealed to you and you will understand at last._

His words made her look down at the ground. Her gaze fell upon the dried bracken at her feet, the curling mosses that would be green in summer, but which now looked dead and brown. The earth and most of the plants and trees would sleep through the coming season of cold and snow. They would reawaken in the spring, but for now they were dormant. Perhaps that was what she was meant to do also, here in the land of the north. Perhaps as Dysri had suggested, she wasn't supposed to take action or to pursue her destiny. Perhaps, like the brown, lifeless vegetation all around her, she was meant to enter a time of waiting, to draw close within herself and absorb the life force all around, to gather it in, so when the time came to act, she could be strong... and powerful... like the Goddess.

The thought made her impatient. She didn't want to wait. She wanted knowledge and answers. And yet, the earth told her that this was the way of all things. The rhythm of life, of the seasons, couldn't be rushed. Her own body told her this as well. She was still very young. Her moontimes had begun only a turn of the seasons ago. She had scarcely crossed the threshold of womanhood. Perhaps that was why things had gone wrong with Cruthin. They were both too immature, too unfinished, to complete the ceremony as it should be completed. More children playing a game than adults performing a sacred rite.

But someday... She thought of her first vision. That time would come. She knew it, could feel it with every breath she took. But first she would be tested, tested cruelly.

Even as she had the thought, the visions came. She began to shiver violently as her mind was filled with images: Nesta lying dead on the ground. A terrified woman fleeing a warrior with a sword. The red-haired queen, her face a mask of triumphant cruelty. Chariots and warriors. Fire and blood. Death and destruction. She gasped and slumped to her knees, covering her face with her hands.

If this was what was to come, then she had no desire to hurry to meet the future. She was not ready yet. Not ready...

The images vanished and Sirona got slowly to her feet. The Goddess had answered after all, telling her that she should enjoy this time of quiet and peace, this season—or seasons—of her spirit lying fallow.

She gazed up again at the sky, silently thanking the lady of the moon for her soft, beneficent light.

* * * * * * * * *

Lady of the Moon is part one of the historical saga The Silver Wheel. The following is a preview of part 2, The Raven of Death. Please follow me online at http://marygillgannon.com for updates on this saga as well as my other books.

# Preview

The Raven of Death, Part 2 of _The Silver Wheel Saga_

_A.D. 61_

_The settlement was crowded with many wooden buildings, although they didn't look like the round dwellings of a Pretani settlement. The air was full of the haze of smoke. Ahead of her, Sirona saw a woman with long, reddish gold braids. The woman moved cautiously, a bundle clutched her to her chest. Her eyes darted around, wide with fear and dread._

_The tall form of a man loomed out of the murk. He wore a long warrior's mustache and carried a club and a round shield. With his club, he knocked the woman down. The woman struggled to rise, but her attacker swung the club once more, striking her on the side of the head. As the woman fell, the bundle she carried went flying. The babe inside the wrapping tumbled out and lay squalling on the ground._

_The warrior crouched over the woman, as if to make certain she was dead, then straightened. He started to move on, and then spied the baby lying there, screaming, tiny fists flailing. With a swift kick, he sent the infant sailing into the wall of a nearby building._

Sirona awoke, pulse pounding, stomach churning. She sat up and took a deep breath as she sought to shake off the horror of the dream. Dysri, lying nearby in the leather-walled shelter, also roused. "Sirona, what is it?"

"A Seeing, I think." Sirona swallowed, struggling against a wave of nausea. "This one was awful."

"Do you want me to brew some mint and thyme to help calm you?"

Sirona touched the blue-green stone hanging between her breasts, seeking comfort from the warmth of the object. "I'll be all right. I didn't mean to disturb you."

Dysri sat up on her bedplace. "You've had several troubling dreams lately. What do you think it means?"

Sirona shook her head, unwilling to discuss the matter. "Go back to sleep, and I'll try to do the same."

Long after Dysri's breathing had grown deep and even, Sirona lay there, wide awake. She kept seeing the dream in her mind. Both the woman and the warrior had appeared to be Pretani. So, why had the man killed her? And why did these visions come to her now, when she had lived in the north for four untroubled years?

Her sense of foreboding grew until it felt like a rock lodged in her belly. She could feel her destiny reaching out for her... a claw-like hand groping in the darkness. Shuddering, she once more shifted position on the bedplace.

* * *

"Sirona, wake up." Dysri nudged her. "There's a visitor in camp."

Sirona's stomach still felt unsettled from the vision of the night before, and her eyes were gritty from lack of sleep. But once awake, she hurried to dress and comb her hair. She felt certain this visitor and her visions were connected.

Although he appeared fairly young, the man talking to Ruadan in the chieftain's hall wore the garb of a Learned One. As soon as he saw her, the man's blue eyes widened. Gradually, she recognized him. It was the young Drui who had come to Mordarach the spring before the gathering on the sacred isle.

He smiled and beckoned her near. "It's a pleasure to find another Learned One here in the north. I am Kellach of the Silure tribe."

Sirona cleared her throat and responded, "And I am—"

"Sirona of the Tarisllwyth," he finished for her. "I remember you from when I visited your home dun."

Sirona stared at him, not knowing what to say. Kellach's blue eyes focused on her keenly. "I recently went back to Mordarach. When I asked about you, I was told you were dead. They said you went north to find your father's tribe. When your escort didn't return, they sent out a search party but found nothing. They thought all of you had been killed by Romans."

"I wasn't there when the Romans attacked," Sirona explained. "I had gone off to fetch some water. When I came back, my escort was dead. I attempted to bury the two men, then wandered on my own for days until I made my way here. Tell me, how did Tarbelinus's search party know we were attacked by Romans?"

"Of course it was Romans," Kellach responded. He glanced at Ruadan. "Who else would have done such a thing?" He looked back at Sirona. "Apparently, you haven't been in contact with Tarisllwyth these past years. It would seem I have much news to share with you."

Ruadan, a florid-faced, burly man who got his name from his bright red hair, gestured broadly. "Let us seat ourselves before the fire and you can share your tale with all of us."

Once settled on some furs with a cup of heather beer in his hand, Kellach began, "This is the story of Sirona's home tribe. Three years ago, Romans came to their settlement. At first, they demanded tribute and their chieftain, Tarbelinus, gave it to them. But he eventually grew angered by the contempt they showed your people and plotted his revenge. This previous sunseason, when a Roman envoy came to collect the tribute, Tarbelinus had them killed. That brought the wrath of the Romans down upon them. A large force was sent to the settlement." He shook his sadly. "They tried to fight, but they were easily defeated. There were simply too many of the enemy. The Romans took Tarbelinus away in chains. Later it was reported that he died on the journey across the sea."

Sirona felt sick to her stomach. Her mother had predicted this. Thank the gods Nesta had not been alive to see it happen.

Then Sirona thought of Bryn. Her mother had also said he would die in the first battle he fought in. Had that prophecy also come true? The thought deepened her turmoil. Had she made a mistake when she encouraged him to go off and become a warrior? "What about Tarbelinus's son?" she asked Kellach breathlessly. "Have you heard anything of him?"

"As I understand it, he left the settlement many years ago, soon after you did. No one knows where he is."

Sirona's mind raced. Bryn might still be alive... but his father was dead. She could scarce believe it. Tarbelinus had always seemed as strong and enduring as the timber walls of Mordarach itself. She raised her gaze to Kellach's, dreading his response. "When the Romans attacked Mordarach and took Tarbelinus prisoner, what happened to the rest of the tribe?"

"The Romans didn't kill them, but made them a subject people. That way they can continue to produce wealth for the Romans to steal."

"What of the Tarisllwyth Learned Ones?" she asked.

Kellach shrugged. "Fiach and the others were allowed to remain with the tribe. But it's not the same. The tribe's connection to the gods has clearly been disrupted."

Kellach turned to Ruadan and began to detail more of the abuses of the enemy. Gradually, through her own grief and shock, Sirona started to understand. This man had come here to convince the Cunogwerin chieftain to join in the fight against the Romans. He was using the tale of what had happened to her people as a warning of what might happen to the northern tribes if they didn't take action.

Sirona felt a touch on her hand and turned to look into Dysri's sympathetic gaze. Sirona nodded, feeling very glum. When her mother predicted Tarbelinus's fate, she'd said the Tarisllwyth would be destroyed. At least that part of the prophecy hadn't come true... yet.

She turned her attention back to what Kellach was saying.

"I'm traveling the whole width and breadth of Albion, warning our people that the time to stop the Romans is now. If we all band together, we can defeat them and drive them out of our territories. An uprising is being planned by Boudica, queen of the Iceni. She intends to attack the Roman settlements in the eastern territories. She's asking all the Pretani tribes to send warriors to aid her." Kellach's voice grew imploring. "What say you, Ruadan? Will you send men to fight the Romans? Will you consider joining this uprising?"

"Life is difficult here in the north," Ruadan said. "I can't commit warriors to fighting an enemy we haven't even seen."

"But you _will_ see them, I vow it! The highland peoples thought the same as you, that there was safety in their isolation. But they were wrong, and now they are paying for their blindness." Kellach shot a fierce glance at Sirona, as if asking her to confirm his words.

After a moment, she nodded, and Kellach continued, his voice taut with conviction. "We _must_ fight the Romans, all of us, everyone who bears a drop of Pretani blood. If we don't, there will be no future for our people."

Ruadan still appeared dubious. "I can't believe the Romans would ever come this far north. If they did, what would they steal from us? Our cattle? By the time they drove the animals into their territories, the beasts would be naught but skin and bones, worthless except for their hides." He shook his head. "There's nothing for the Romans here. They won't trouble us."

Kellach made a sound of disgust. Then he seemed to realize such an attitude wouldn't help sway Ruadan. He turned to Sirona. "What of you? Your home has been destroyed by the Romans. Your people killed or subjugated. Doesn't that distress you? Have you no desire to seek vengeance against the enemy?"

Sirona had to admit she hated the Romans. She would never forget what they had done to Einion and Culhwch. But what did Kellach expect her to do? She wasn't a warrior. How could she fight the enemy?

Kellach rose abruptly. "I hope you will think on these things, Ruadan. Perhaps talk to your warriors about what I've said." He motioned to Sirona. "Come, Sirona, walk with me."

She got to her feet. As they left the chieftain's hut and moved through the settlement, she felt as if she were in a daze, her mind struggling to take in all that Kellach had told her.

"Ruadan's stubborn." Kellach's voice was bitter. "Like so many chieftains. They won't listen until it's too late." He turned to Sirona. "Will you help me? Will you try to convince him to send warriors to fight the Romans?"

"I have no influence with Ruadan."

"But these people respect you. No one questioned that you should be included in the discussion."

"The Learned Ones here don't perform the same functions as the Drui of the southern tribes. When there is a ceremony to mark one of the important events in the wheel of the seasons, it's led by Ruadan, not Dysri or myself. Life for these people is harsh and demanding, and their religious rites have become simpler and more straight-forward. And yet, they are very devout," she added, hoping she hadn't given Kellach the wrong idea. "For every aspect of their lives, they give thanks to the gods, offering a sacrifice each time they slaughter one of the herd or kill a wild animal. They will not pass a spring or pool without whispering a blessing to the spirit that dwells there. In the ceremonies, they mostly honor Cernunnos, and Bran, a war god."

Kellach grunted. "If I were you, I would be angry not to be accorded more authority."

"I may not have much authority, but I've been treated very well. I'm not charged with the responsibilities most Brigante women have. I'm not required to spin or weave, to grind grain or work in the fields in the summer."

"And no man has asked to handfast with you, has he?" Kellach asked, his blue eyes shrewd.

"Nay. But there's no man here I desire."

They walked in silence for a time, then Kellach said, "Then there's nothing keeping you here. No reason you couldn't leave." He stopped and turned to look at her. "Do you still have visions, Sirona?"

She hesitated, uneasy. How did he know this? Had Fiach told him?

His gaze continued to pierce her. "Aye, I've heard the tale of what you did on the sacred isle. It doesn't trouble me, but makes me think that my first impression of you was right—you're very gifted." Kellach drew nearer, his eyes seeming to burn with blue light. "Tell me. What do you see for our people? Will we defeat the Romans?"

"I don't know," she said. "Things come to me only in glimpses."

Kellach started walking again. Sirona followed. His questions haunted her, reminding her how little she knew about her abilities and what she was meant to do with them. They reached the edge of the Brigante camp. Ahead of them stretched hills covered with the reddish glow of blooming bell heather and edged with dark forests. "Come with me," Kellach said.

Sirona looked at him in surprise. "When you travel north?"

He shook his head. "I've decided to turn back. There's no point going deeper into the midnight lands. If I can't convince Ruadan of the Roman threat, I'll fare no better with the other Brigante chieftains. I'll go west instead. The people of your homeland are not so stupid and stubborn. They will realize we must join together against this common threat."

"But why do you want me to go with you?" she asked. "If you think the Silure and Ordovice chieftains will heed you, why do you need me to come with you?"

"Because you're trained as a Learned One."

"But my training is incomplete," she pointed out.

"Yet it's better than nothing." Kellach gestured. "Why shouldn't you leave here? This isn't your tribe, your people. They accept you, but you're not really one of them. You spoke of Bryn, Tarbelinus's son. Perhaps if you came with me, you might find him. Or, the young man with whom you got into trouble on the sacred isle."

Kellach was clever. Astute enough to realize she might be convinced to go with him in order to search for the companions of her youth. Reluctantly, she thought of Cruthin and the magic they had shared at the mound on the sacred isle. Then she pushed the memory away. "Tell me about this Iceni queen," she said.

Kellach's mouth quirked, as if he were amused she'd changed the subject. "Her name is Boudica. She and her family suffered terribly at the hands of the Romans, and she's vowed revenge. She plans to lead a large army—as many men as I can bring to her cause—and attack the enemy's eastern settlements."

Sirona thought of the red-haired, regal woman in one of her first visions. The look of cruel satisfaction on the woman's face was burned into her mind. "Have you met this woman, Boudica? Can you describe her?"

Kellach's expression grew intent. "Why do you ask? Have you seen a vision involving her?"

"Perhaps."

"Tell me, in your vision, does it appear that Boudica and her forces are victorious?" Kellach's voice was tense and breathless. His blue eyes bored into her as if he could will the Seeing from her mind to his own.

"In my vision, I saw a tall, strong-looking red-haired woman. There was smoke and fire behind her, and I could hear the screams of the dying."

Kellach smiled. "So, it's truly going to happen. This time we will prevail over the Romans."

Remembering her recent dream, Sirona wasn't so certain. A destiny of death and destruction awaited someone, but she didn't know if it was the Romans or the Pretani.

Kellach seemed to sense her unease. "Consider this, Sirona. Even if the Tarisllwyth banished you, you still have a duty to your tribe. Now that Tarbelinus is dead, his son, Bryn, is needed at Mordarach. You also have responsibilities as a Learned One. The Romans are a threat to all we stand for. Surely you must see that now."

"I'm no longer a Learned One," she repeated.

"And yet, you continue to look at the world as a Learned One would. That's something that's sorely needed."

Kellach was giving her another chance. He knew what had happened on the sacred isle, yet didn't reject her because of it. She thought about the sense of isolation and loneliness that had gnawed at her since coming north. At one time she'd believed this was where she would find the answers she sought, but it hadn't happened.

Kellach continued his coaxing. "You could be a great help to me, Sirona. The number of Learned Ones has dwindled greatly. Your knowledge and insight are desperately needed. And then there is the fact that you're a seer. I believe you've been sent these visions because you're meant to use them to alter the future. Our future. The destiny of our people."

Kellach's words tantalized her. To imagine there was a purpose behind the awful images. To believe that she might use her Seeings to help those she cared about. And yet she remembered Itzurra saying that involvement in the realm of men was what had destroyed her mother. How could she prevent the same thing from happening to her?

"I'll have to think on it," she told Kellach. "When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow. Now that I know Ruadan won't listen, I'm impatient to leave."

Five turns of the seasons she had dwelled in the north, and nothing much happened. Now, in the span of a day, everything in her life seemed to have changed.

"We should return to the settlement," she told Kellach. "Ruadan may not listen to your pleas to join in fighting the Romans, but he will still hold a feast in your honor. The traditions of hospitality are strong here."

Kellach smiled at her. "I must admit I grow weary of traveling food. That's one of the difficulties of the life I've chosen. But there are many rewards. I've met many different people on my journeys, and learned a great deal, more than I would have if I had stayed in the grove. I sense you are also searching for knowledge, Sirona. Which is another reason you should come with me."

Sirona didn't answer, but started walking back to the Brigante camp. Kellach's arguments were compelling. There were times in the last few seasons she felt as if she were merely existing, like a tree that appears black and barren in the midst of winter. Now the sap again ran in her veins.

* * * * * *

# Books by Mary Gillgannon

Dragon of the Island

Dragon's Dream

The Dragon Prince

The Dragon Bard

Beyond the Sea Mist

Storm Maiden

Devil's Own Bargain

Earl of Scandal

The Silver Wheel Saga:

Lady of the Moon

The Raven of Death

The Silver Wheel

# Mary Gillgannon

Mary Gillgannon writes romance novels set in the dark ages, medieval and English Regency time periods and fantasy and historical novels with Celtic influences. Her print books have been published in Russia, China, the Netherlands and Germany. Raised in the Midwest, she now lives in Cheyenne, Wyoming where she works full-time at the Laramie County Library.

She is married and has two grown children. When not working or writing she enjoys gardening, traveling and reading, of course!

She always enjoys hearing from readers. You can write her at P.O. Box 2052, Cheyenne, WY 82003, or contact her through her website: http://marygillgannon.com.
