Celtic Fire(83)

Aulus looked up, surprise evident on his bruised features. He flickered like a lamp flame in a breeze. Lucius sprang to his feet as his brother vanished in a puff of mist.

Demetrius looked up, startled. “Lucius, what—”

Lucius strode to the chamber door and flung it wide. Rhiannon stood before him, one hand lifted and poised to knock. Her face was streaked with grime, her tunic torn and muddy. Her hair blazed about her shoulders like a fire gone wild. She clutched a tangled clump of leaves and roots to her heaving chest.

Her eyes widened at the sight of him. No doubt he looked worse than she did. He’d neither slept nor shaved in two days. But now that she had returned, he felt his desperation fade.

“Lucius,” Rhiannon breathed and swayed on her feet.

He caught her by the arm, holding her steady until she regained her balance. Then he drew his hand back, unsure if his touch was welcome. “You came back.”

“Yes.” She looked past him. “Marcus. Is he—”

“He lives still.” Lucius stepped aside and allowed her to pass.

She bent low over Marcus’s bed and smoothed one hand over his forehead. “I am sorry, Magister. It was necessary I gather the herb alone. The sacred grove lies close to my village.”

“You might have trusted me to understand,” Demetrius said.

“I couldn’t take that chance.”

Lucius understood only too well. Rhiannon dared not reveal the location of her village and risk the lives of Aulus’s murderers.

Demetrius set his hands on the bed and pushed himself to his feet. “Do not speak of it further.” He touched the knot of roots she’d laid on the blankets. “What will you need? Mortar and pestle?”

“Yes. And hot water,” she said, not looking up from her examination of the boy.

Demetrius left them alone. Lucius told himself to keep his distance, but the siren call of Rhiannon’s presence proved impossible to resist. Yes, she’d protected her murdering kinsmen, but she’d sacrificed her sudden freedom to return to the fort, for Marcus’s sake if not for his own.

He moved to stand behind her, close but not touching. When she straightened and looked up at him, her face was flushed. She spoke, her voice so low he had to dip his head to make out the words. “Lucius, I must warn you. Marcus is weak and this cure is dangerous in itself. It may only hasten his death.”

“Yet it has cured some?”

“Many.”

Lucius paced around the bed, halting at the table upon which Demetrius’s instruments had been set out. His hand closed on the goblet he’d overturned earlier. He righted the cup and busied himself mopping the spilt wine with a cloth. Twilight gloom was gathering swiftly. He relit the hand lamp, gathered the soiled rags, and placed them in a heap by the door.

When at last he turned back to Rhiannon, his surge of helplessness was, if not vanquished, then tightly under control. “Do what you must. Marcus has little time left as it is.”

She moved toward him and cupped his cheek with her palm. “Thank you for your trust. I know I’ve done little to deserve it.”

His jaw worked to force a swallow past the burning lump in his throat. He looked toward the newly lit lamp. The flame stung his eyes.

Rhiannon’s hand dropped away and the loss of her touch brought an ache to Lucius’s chest. As she peeled away the swath of blankets shrouding Marcus’s upper body, he found himself wishing for Aulus’s presence, however gruesome, at his side.

If he needed final proof of his insanity, the fact that he missed his brother’s ghost was surely it.

Rhiannon wet a clean length of linen and began to sponge Marcus’s face and torso. Lucius wondered at her actions—Demetrius had insisted the boy remain warm. Yet he didn’t question her method. He had placed his son’s life—and his own heart—in Rhiannon’s hands. He could do no less than to trust her.

Marcus stirred and his eyelids fluttered open. “Rhiannon.” The word was little more than a hoarse croak.

“I’m here, Marcus.” She brushed a kiss on his forehead.

Lucius’s heart clenched. She loved his son. He could see it in her eyes, in her touch. How Lucius wished he could earn even a half measure of that emotion.

Demetrius returned, followed by a slave woman carrying a steaming bowl of water.

“Both leaves and roots,” Rhiannon said. Demetrius took up a pestle and crushed the first bit of root. Rhiannon leaned low, her lips grazing Marcus’s ear. “I need you to take a draught. A potion.”

Marcus’s eyes were two wide pools. “A witch’s brew?”

Rhiannon’s lips curved, even as her tears welled. “Yes. It will be horrid, but it will make you better.”