A presence touched her soul. Despairing. Desperate. Pleading. The breath squeezed from her lungs. She’d felt this soul before—where? When? It was vital that she recall. What had it asked of her?
Owein’s chant rose, then fell, in cadence with the wind. His face had gone pale. Sweat dripped from his brow. His body, crouched on the ground, shook.
As if sliced by an unseen blade, the wind died. Owein’s chant stopped at precisely the same instant. He lifted his head. “ ’Tis finished.”
Unbearable dread coiled in Rhiannon’s stomach. Dark power rose, consuming the night, blanketing the stars. The forest went black, still. The clan was silent save for the muffled cries of babes at their mothers’ breasts.
Those closest to the womb always knew when death was abroad.
Then, as suddenly as the wind had stopped, it returned with a vengeance in a gale so powerful Rhiannon thought the stones would fly from their ancient resting places. She clutched at her mantle as her hair worked its way from its braids and flew in wild strands into her eyes. A distant rumble sounded, then strengthened. A hundred—nay, a thousand—hooves pounded. Unearthly shrieks burst in the sky like spikes of lightning.
The skull pivoted on Madog’s staff. “The Wild Hunt is upon us,” the Druid cried. “Kernunnos rides at its fore. Our warriors canna fail.”
Edmyg unsheathed his sword and thrust it overhead. “In the name of Rhiannon, queen of the Brigantes, death to Rome!”
The cry echoed through the crowd. “Death to Rome!”
And Rhiannon remembered.
The night was far too quiet.
The silence pricked the back of Lucius’s neck like a swarm of ghost bees, driving him from his bed. He flung the shutters wide and frowned through the darkness at the torches on the battlements. He watched until he saw the night sentry pass by the first, then the second, flickering light.
Then he heard it.
Howling wind, like a pack of hounds. Or wolves. Thunder like a stampede of hooves. He leaned out over the sill and squinted up at the sky. A dark line of clouds advanced from the north, blotting the stars as it went, though the night was stiller than death.
The edge of his unease sharpened. He turned and squinted through the dim chamber at Aulus. His brother lay stretched on a cushioned bench. Asleep. His frown deepened. Did ghosts sleep? Aulus had never done so before.
He crossed the room and looked closer. Aulus’s bruised face was slack. His bloodied hands were clasped across his stomach. Lucius’s gut twisted. It was like looking at a dead man.
A dead man. A wild laugh escaped him, the sound of it echoing off the tiled floor and painted walls. Lucius braced one hand on the wall above Aulus and let the crazed mirth overtake him until it turned to something emptier. Tears burned his eyes. They fell, passing through Aulus to dampen the cushions beneath. His savage laughter swelled anew.
He’d gone well and truly insane. But with Rhiannon gone, he could no longer summon the energy to care.
The shutter banged against the wall. Lucius shook himself and went again to the window. A steady wind had begun to blow out of the north. The blanket of clouds swept overhead. The shriek of the wind rushed the gates.
Something was coming. A storm? Or something more?
Rhiannon’s voice sounded in his memory. Go back to Rome. You are in danger here.
And before, on the morning after her capture. My people will come.
Lucius froze, the truth rising above the chaos in his mind like an eagle atop a standard. The Celts were attacking, and Rhiannon had known of it. No wonder she’d been so desperate to leave the fort.
His senses cleared, leaving only the sharp sanity that had saved his life on the battlefield more times than he cared to count. He shrugged into his armor and belted on his sword and dagger even as he strode for the door.
“Father?” Marcus stood in the passageway outside the bedchambers. “What’s happening?”
“Marcus. Go back to bed.”
The boy didn’t move. “Are we under attack?”
Lucius drew a swift breath before answering. “Yes.”
Demetrius appeared beside him. The old man’s hair stuck out from his head in all directions, giving him the look of a grizzled Medusa. “It is but a storm rising.”
“No ordinary storm, old man.”
Marcus’s eyes registered his fear. “It’s the Celt forest god. Kernunnos. He rides a storm of death.”
Lucius shot him an odd look. “Did Rhiannon tell you that?”
“No. It was in one of Uncle Aulus’s stories.”
Lucius stared at the boy, then forced himself to gather his wits. “No god attacks us, Marcus. Only men. We will defeat them.” His gaze sliced through the open doorway to his bedchamber. Aulus still lay motionless on the bench.