Celtic Fire(43)

Owein jerked upright, his breath coming in gasps, his right temple pounding so violently that he thought it would burst. A dream image of Rhiannon’s face hovered before him, but Owein knew beyond a doubt that he was seeing his sister as she was, at that very moment.

The tears she cried were real. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing them to remain dry as he watched his sister sob. What abuse had her Roman captor visited upon her? When the vision faded, he threw off his blanket and crawled toward the door.

Once free of the hut Owein sucked in a clear breath of midnight air and let it out in a long stream. The cries of the night creatures throbbed about him. Above, a hazy gibbous moon tried to break free of the clouds.

Rhiannon’s absence ached like the ghost of a severed limb. No balm could hope to soothe it. He stifled a sob, longing to feel her arms come about him in a swift hug or her fingers, light as a breeze, ruffling his hair. To his shame, he’d begun protesting such attentions. He’d told Rhiannon that as a man he would no longer tolerate such an overt show of affection. Her response had been naught but lilting laughter.

Tears threatened again. If Rhiannon were here now, Owein would let her pet him to her heart’s content.

His throat burned with unvoiced grief. He found his feet moving toward Madog’s drinking spring, a bubbling pool of clear water sprung from the heart of the Great Mother.

Had the Druid master truly forgotten Briga in his eagerness to cultivate Kernunnos’s favor? Rhiannon had thought it. Owein knelt by the water and lifted a handful in his cupped fingers. Murmuring the prayer of thanks Rhiannon had taught him, he raised the earth’s most precious gift to his lips.

“Drink deep, my son.”

Owein lifted his head. Madog loomed over him, dark and forbidding, one hand anchored on the staff that bore the dead Roman’s skull. Owein wondered at the Druid’s stealth. He’d not heard even a whisper of his approach.

“Drink,” he said again.

Owein dipped his head and gulped the sweet, cool water, drinking until he’d had his fill.

“I’ve Seen a true vision,” he said. “Of Rhiannon. Not of the future, but as she is at this moment.”

Madog did not seem surprised at this revelation. He nodded at the water’s surface. “Look into the pool, lad. The past, the present, the future. All are there. What else do you see?”

A dim shaft of moonlight broke the clouds, casting a misty sheen on the black water. Owein drew a deep breath and cast his gaze on the pool, looking deep.

“Nothing,” he said after a moment.

“Clear yer mind and look again,” Madog instructed. He lifted his staff and set it in the mud at the water’s edge.

Owein obeyed. At first the water seemed as black as before. Then the fleeting glimpse of a spark flashed. Owein couldn’t tell if he’d seen the light with his eyes or his mind.

The pounding in his temple intensified. Rhiannon’s face swam into focus. Tears no longer stained her cheeks, but her eyes held sadness beyond bearing as she sat huddled on a high pallet. Behind her crouched a fearsome beast—a giant wildcat with tufts of savage hair bristling about its face. The monster stood with one enormous paw raised, poised to attack …

He cried out a warning as the vision vanished.

Madog’s hand clawed Owein’s arm. “What did ye see, lad?”

Owein drew a shaking breath and told him.

“Rhiannon draws the beast to her,” the Druid said thoughtfully. “Though she understands little of its danger.”

The tears Owein had vowed not to shed tracked down his cheeks. “Is the monster real, then? Has it been conjured by Roman magick? How can she fight it?”

Madog made no reply. Owein covered the fist of one hand with the palm of the other, well aware that he was trembling. After a long moment, the Druid stepped away from the pool. Owein followed. When the old man set foot on a steep descending trail, it was clear where the journey would end.

The stones ringing the Druid circle gleamed in somber majesty. Madog’s head dipped as he passed between them. The base of his staff sank into the mud and sucked free with each step. The skull riding it rattled against the twisted wood.

Owein halted at the edge of the stones, reluctant to enter. A faint, foul odor, the smell of death, rose from within. He remembered only too well the agony the Roman’s death had brought Rhiannon. Dark powers had been loosed that night.

From the moment Madog had lifted the doomed man’s severed head to the night sky, the Druid’s eyes had gleamed with an eager light Owein had come to fear.

“Come, lad. Do not tarry.” Madog’s voice held more than a note of impatience. Owein drew a deep breath and stepped into the circle.