Celtic Fire(15)

There was but one door—had it been barred? One window on the opposite wall. The square chamber was small and sparsely furnished, but the few items it held were, like the bed, luxurious. A long wooden table, bearing a tall ewer, stood against the wall. A smaller bench was within reach of the bed, as was a wide stool with crossed legs. A metal tray, filled with glowing coals and supported on squat legs, lay on the floor. Languid heat rose from it into the air, without the haze and odor of smoke that accompanied a hearth fire.

The hairs on Rhiannon’s nape lifted despite the warmth. Never in her life had she been enclosed by flat walls. Her own dwelling was comprised of circular walls and capped by a high conical peak. She gazed at the shadowed corners of the chamber. Who knew what dread beings lurked in the unnatural angles of this place, untouched by the spirals of the Great Mother’s spirit?

Rhiannon forced a swallow past her dry tongue and gathered what courage she could. It would do her no good to worry about unseen demons. The all-too-real Roman commander provided the greater threat. She had to flee before he returned. Pulling the blanket about her, she pushed herself to a sitting position. She would try the door. Perhaps it would open.

She swung her legs over the edge of the cushions. The movement sent a hot poker of pain through her wounded leg. Dark patches clouded her vision. She leaned heavily on the raised end of the bed and waited for the blotches to clear.

A creak of hinges sounded behind her, then, “Ut vales?”

She wrenched her body toward the voice, gasping as another burst of brilliant pain enflamed her right thigh. A lad some years younger than Owein had slipped into the chamber and closed the door behind him. He stood now with his back pressed against the smooth wood, as if needing the strength of the oak to remain on his feet. One hand clasped something hung on a leather thong about his neck, the other gripped the door’s latch as if he were ready to flee should Rhiannon prove to be a threat.

She blinked at the thought. He stared back at her with the dark, bright eyes of a bird—frightened yet at the same time fascinated. Black curls tumbled about his face. He wore a plain white tunic, tied at the waist with a leather cord and edged at the hem and sleeves with stripes of crimson. Leather sandals clad his feet.

She drew the blanket more firmly across her breasts and sank back onto the cushions. She’d seen this lad. She frowned, trying to remember.

“Ut vales?” he asked again, hesitant. “Are you well?”

Rhiannon tried to answer, but her mouth felt dry and foul, like new-shorn wool, and she managed only a dull croak. She wet her lips with her tongue and tried again, forming the Roman words with care. “Parum bene.” Not well enough.

The lad’s face registered his surprise. “Do you speak Latin?” His hand dropped from the door latch. At Rhiannon’s nod, he took a tentative step in her direction.

She swallowed again, thickly. “Aqua?”

He frowned, then crossed to the table, where he grasped the high curving handle of the ewer and filled an accompanying cup, all the while keeping one hand clasped on the object strung at his neck. He approached her bed, halting a few steps away and offering the drink with one outstretched arm.

“Wine,” he said.

She anchored the blanket with one arm and leaned forward, ignoring the stab of pain in her leg. When her fingers closed on the cup, the lad snatched his hand away and retreated a few paces.

He watched as she drank. Rhiannon took a cautious sip, letting the cool, sweet liquid bathe her tongue before she swallowed. So this was wine. She’d heard of the drink. She had imagined its flavor to be similar to cervesia, the barley beer she brewed for Owein and Edmyg. In reality, the two drinks couldn’t have been more different.

She took another long draught. Roman wine tasted like the summer sun, bright and sparkling. Its scent teased her nose with enticing flavor and bubbling mirth. If cervesia were a drink of the earth, dark and vital, then wine was a drink of the sky, playful and capricious.

She drained the cup, catching every precious drop of moisture. Only when she had finished did she think to look more closely at the vessel that had held it.

Another wonder.

The cup was wrought of a clear material like ice, yet it was warm in her hand. Frozen ripples within it scattered the sunlight like faerie lights. Surely some goddess had crafted the cup in Annwyn, the magical land beyond the setting sun.

She raised her gaze to the lad. “What is this?” she asked, stroking the smooth rim of the cup with one finger.

“Glass. Have you never seen it?”

She shook her head and handed the treasure back to him. The lad returned it to the table; then, struck by sudden boldness, he edged closer to the bed. “I’m Marcus.”