A ray of moonlight pierced the clouds, splashing through the oak canopy to pool in a bright puddle at Owein’s feet. A chant began, rising from Madog’s throat and fading, thin and distant, into the sky.
The Words were of a language long unspoken save within the circle of protection afforded by the stones. Words, Owein knew, that could bless or kill with a single, ancient sound. Their fearful power burned in his ears, thudded in his chest.
Madog paced to the center of the sacred ring, chanting, halting before each stone and dipping his staff. The Roman’s skull cracked against each rock as if in obeisance. He approached the eastern stone last. The sentinel that faced the rising sun did not match the height of its brethren. Deep, round gouges scored its squat girth, remnants of the Old Ones who had set their mark forever in this valley. Owein could only guess at what purpose the markings had once served.
His scalp tingled as the skull slapped against the weathered rock. Madog’s chant grew deeper and more vibrant, his tone expanding as if another’s voice had joined him. Moving to the center of the circle, he lifted his staff to the night sky. His call climbed to a shrieking crescendo.
The wind rose with it, circling the stones, whipping the old man’s pale cloak about his skeletal frame. “I summon the soul enslaved to the clan,” Madog shouted. “I bid ye return to the circle and hear the command of yer master.”
The wind gusted, whistling through the oaks with a ghastly wail.
“Come to me, lad.” The staff and its ghastly ornament dipped in Owein’s direction.
Owein tensed as if a lash had licked his skin. He didn’t dare disobey, though his every sense screamed to resist. On trembling legs, he crept forward.
Madog sank his staff into the mud in the very center of the circle and stepped away. The skull swung on the point of the wood, then stilled.
“Place your hands upon the shaft,” the Druid commanded.
Owein wrapped his palms around Madog’s staff. The twisted oak was warm to his touch, but when he raised his head and looked into the Roman’s hollow eyes, his breath froze in his lungs. A spark lit the shadow of the sunken orbs. The soul of the man enslaved by Madog’s killing sword had returned to the shattered vessel it had once claimed as its own.
A bolt of intense pain darted through Owein’s temple, forcing a cry from his lips and nearly dislodging his grip on the staff. Madog placed a steady hand on Owein’s shoulder.
“Look deep,” he said. “See.”
Owein’s world tilted. Violent tremors wracked his body and the roar of blood swept through his head. Before this night, he’d never sought a vision. The images had come unwanted, surging on agony. Yet if it were possible to See a path to Rhiannon’s safety, Owein would gladly suffer any pain.
Staring into the Roman’s dead eyes, he reached with his mind into the world of the spirits. Light exploded behind his eyes. Glittering sparks fell in a spiral pattern. Sweet music floated past, drowning the wind. His arms grew heavy, as if they’d suddenly been turned to stone, but somehow he kept his grip on Madog’s staff.
Color swirled about him, brighter than a rainbow, then coalesced into a shining road set with gems. Golden trees crowded the path; silver branches overhung it. A sweet aroma filled the air. In the distance, at the peak of a high bluff, a shining gate gleamed in the light of a thousand suns.
Annwyn.
The land of faeries and gods, the wondrous world where pain and suffering did not exist. Annwyn was a place for which men searched but seldom found. Owein shuddered at the beauty of it, and he’d caught but a glimpse.
A bolt of lightning flashed. The gate opened; a flicker of light passed through the portal and took an animal’s shape. Owein might have named the creature a buck, for it had the look of the proud lord of the forest, but to do so would have fallen woefully short of describing the beast’s grandeur. The stag was enormous, much bigger and more glorious than any Owein had ever glimpsed.
The beast pawed the ground and dipped its head with regal grace, inviting Owein to come closer. He swallowed his fear and inched forward.
“What do ye See?” Madog’s forgotten voice rumbled in Owein’s ear.
“A gate. To a shining land.”
“The Otherworld,” the Druid murmured. “What else?”
“A buck.”
“The Horned One,” Madog breathed. “ ’Tis a rare honor. Request a sign. Ask Kernunnos what we must do to gain his favor in the battle against Rome. Speak in the tongue of the Old Ones.”
Owen said the Words, surprised his voice did not falter.
The buck dipped its head as if in acknowledgment. The next instant, swirls of blackness seeped into the scene, obscuring the path, blotting the shining oaks. The music faltered and turned discordant. The foul scent of excrement filled Owein’s nostrils.