Celtic Fire(42)

Yet still he hesitated and, after another long moment, left her door untouched. He shoved open his own. The heavy wood thudded shut behind him, but not before Aulus had slipped into the room. Lucius lit the handlamp and watched the shadows retreat to the corners.

He told himself Rhiannon needed more time to accept the idea of becoming his concubine. He rationalized that patience would bring her to his bed far more quickly than heavy-handed persuasion.

Fine tales, but lies. In truth, he’d grown wary of the nymph and the power she seemed to wield over Aulus.

In the world he inhabited, logic ruled. As a senator’s son, he’d been born to a life of tradition and duty. Schooling in rhetoric and philosophy, a decade of military service, a political career that commenced by the thirtieth year—the age Lucius had currently attained. Lucius had never questioned the path mapped out for him until Aulus’s ghost had sprung from the sands of the Eastern desert.

His brother’s unrest had cracked the very foundation of Lucius’s ordered world view. If the dead did not stay safely within their graves, what prevented any part of life from violation? And if one beautiful nymph could command his brother’s soul …

He sent Aulus a piercing look. “What power does she wield over you?”

Aulus developed a sudden interest in the ceiling beams.

Lucius fought the urge to grasp his brother by his ghostly shoulders and shake some life into him. “Is she a witch?” He stepped closer. “Do you fear her?”

Aulus drifted toward the bed. The creation was another Egyptian monstrosity, gilded and garish, double the size of any bed Lucius had ever seen.

“Look at me when I speak to you, by Pollux!”

With an air of infinite weariness, Aulus sank to the cushions, still avoiding Lucius’s gaze.

“She’s hardly one of the hideous daughters of Diana described by Horace,” Lucius muttered. He strode to the side table and poured himself a cup of wine. “Still, who’s to say a beautiful woman cannot command witch’s powers as easily as a hag?”

He drained the cup and refilled it. “If she has the power to keep you from her presence, perhaps she can banish you from mine as well.”

Aulus’s head snapped up. Fear illuminated his pale eyes. His shoulders had gone rigid, giving him an eerie semblance of solidity. Lucius looked closer. His brother looked weary, haggard. Haunted, even, if such an irony were possible. Lucius set his cup on the table and moved as close as he dared.

Ice and despair enveloped him.



The smoldering veil of peat smoke skulked into Owein’s lungs, dragging at his breath like a wolf bitch hauling her kill to her young. He shifted on his lumpy pallet and drew his blanket over his head. The thick woolen fabric might have blocked the worst of the haze, but it did little to muffle the wet rasp of Madog’s snores.

Searing pain spread through Owein’s temple, a sensation by now so familiar that he could barely remember a time when agony had not been his companion. A vision of Glynis’s still body rose in the sight of Owein’s inner eye. The image of a newborn babe strangled by its birth cord joined it. The child was a lad, a son Edmyg should have planted in Rhiannon’s womb.

Owein’s face went hot with rage. He’d seen Edmyg and Glynis coupling in the forest on more than one occasion. He’d told Rhiannon, hoping she would renounce him. But she’d refused, despite Edmyg’s betrayal. Why?

Guilt that her own babe had died before its first breath had been drawn? Shame that a second child had refused to take root in her body? Or did Rhiannon believe that as the Brigantes’ strongest warrior and Niall’s brother, Edmyg deserved the title of king? Owein knew most of the clansmen thought as much, but he didn’t agree. To his mind, Edmyg’s arrogance, quick temper, and slow wit were poor traits for a ruler.

His fingers tested the taut muscles encased in his upper arm. For a man of fifteen winters, he was strong, but he was no match for a seasoned warrior who had seen nearly twice as many years.

If only he were older, stronger, he would challenge Edmyg for the right to lead the clan and hold the dun for Rhiannon. Then his sister could choose another mate. A man worthy to be called king.

The magnificent battle played out in Owein’s imagination. In the scene he was a giant of a warrior, broader and fiercer than any the Brigantes had ever known. He swaggered toward Edmyg, buoyed by the cheers of his kin. He unsheathed his sword like lightning. His thrust was swift and merciless. Edmyg crumpled, clutching his chest, blood streaming from the wound. Owein lowered his weapon and turned to Rhiannon. Her eyes were shining with tears.

Her eyes were shining with tears.