Celtic Fire(14)

Owein trudged just to the fore of his uncle, Bryan. The sooner home, the better. Rhiannon would be sick with worry until he returned. He allowed himself a small smile. When his sister saw him, she would run her fingers through his hair as she’d done since before he could remember. He would protest, of course, but in truth her touch would chase away the horror of yesterday’s battle, if only for a moment.

A slight figure dropped into step beside him. Reese, Bryan’s youngest son. Born two winters after Owein, he was the youngest member of the raiding party. The lad’s boots thudded on the sodden cushion of last year’s leaves, the crook of his bow slung over his shoulder as he walked. Reese hadn’t been allowed in the thick of the battle, but had used his weapon to cover the older warriors.

Owein slid a glance sideways and nodded. “I’m much obliged to ye, cousin. If not for your arrows, I’d be riding yon pony, or worse.”

Reese squinted up at him. “I dinna understand ye, Owein.”

“Ye shot when I dropped from the trees onto the Roman commander.” Owein’s heart pounded at the memory. A reckless move it had been, but the hot urge to show up Rhiannon’s loutish mate had gripped him like a fever. “Your arrows distracted him. Had your hand not been quick on the bow, the foreign dog would have surely gutted me.”

His cousin’s gaze remained puzzled. “But I shot nowhere near ye. I was hidden on the opposite side of the road.”

Owein frowned. None of the older warriors carried a bow—he’d been sure Reese’s arrows had saved him. He set his stick in the mud and hoisted himself over the jumble of rocks blocking the trail. Someone had been concealed in the willows during his mad skirmish. The unknown archer had harassed the commander and saved Owein’s life. But who—

A soft whinny came from the brush, followed by a crackle of twigs. Owein whipped his head around as Bryan gave a low whistle. Another nicker, and then a snow-white mare crashed through the branches. The pony didn’t stop until she reached Owein’s side.

“Derwa,” he whispered. Rhiannon’s pony. A horrible suspicion formed in Owein’s mind. His sister had a steady hand on the bow—she’d often shot targets with him when he was a lad. His gut contracted on a stab of nausea more painful than the slice of a Roman sword.

Reese grabbed Derwa’s reins. “This be Rhiannon’s pony.”

“Aye,” replied Owein. “How did the beast come to be so far from the village?”

The mare nudged Owein’s shoulder with her nose. Then she tossed her head and turned, as if expecting him to follow.

“No,” Owein croaked. Dear Briga, don’t let it be true. Did Rhiannon think so little of his battle skills that she would follow him to war?

He grabbed the pouch tied at Derwa’s neck and tore it open. The bitter scent of coltsfoot and silverweed, herbs Rhiannon had brewed for him just two days before, assaulted his senses. She’d come after him, but where was she now? She would never have let her pony wander without a rider.

His sister was dead or taken prisoner.

Owein’s nausea surged anew. He doubled over and emptied his stomach on the trail.





Chapter Three


The Roman bedchamber was at once wondrous and terrifying.

Sunlight streamed through the shuttered windows, casting bright stripes across a floor paved with bits of colored stone. Beyond, a smooth wall rose to a ceiling ribbed with square-hewn timbers. Exquisite paintings danced across the flat walls, images of tiny men and women so breathtakingly real that Rhiannon half expected them to move.

She marveled at the floor. The shining stone fragments wove a fearsome beast from the colors of the rainbow. The enormous catlike monster bared long, sharp teeth as it swatted at its prey, its mane of golden fur glittering with the reflected light of the sun. Did such a monster truly exist? Or had it been conjured from the artist’s nightmares?

A shiver ran the length of Rhiannon’s spine. She shifted on her raised pallet. Her wounded leg throbbed, but the pain was not unbearable. The soft wool of her blanket warmed her naked skin. The women who had bathed her had taken her ruined tunic and left no replacement. Had the oversight been deliberate? The thought brought a rush of dread.

She pushed herself upright, one hand gripping the curved end of the bed that rose a handsbreadth above the mattress. Intricate carvings etched the wood, twining vines painted so realistically she could almost smell the clusters of small, round fruits nestled among the leaves. A matching terminal rose at the foot of the mattress, giving the bed the aspect of a boat. And indeed Rhiannon had never felt quite so adrift as at that moment.