everything now.
Everything . . . For a single eternal moment Boudica was one with
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the world around her, her daughters, the land, the people who wept for
their king. Prasutagos had loved them all. For a moment she felt his
presence enfold her once more.
She lifted her head, a sudden tingling awareness shocking through
her. Had the heat of the pyre set that shimmer in the air, or was the
world only a veil of light that concealed a more enduring reality?
L ys Deru seemed smaller than Lhiannon remembered. Or perhaps
it appeared so because so many more people were now crowded within.
She should not be surprised—the influx of refugees had begun even
before she went to Eriu—but it was strange.
“Thank you for sending out the horses,” she said as she followed
Coventa down the path to the council hall.
“After my other recent visions, that one was very welcome.” Cov-
enta looked back with a sad smile.
It seemed strange to see Coventa in the dark blue robes of a senior
priestess, but she must be past thirty by now. Well, Lhiannon thought
sadly, we all grow older.
“Did you return because of Boudica? Her husband has died, they
say. Rianor left to see if he could be of service to her. If he had known
you were coming perhaps he would have stayed . . .”
Lhiannon stopped short in the path. “I felt . . . that she was in some
trouble,” she murmured. “Thank you for telling me.”
“I’m not surprised. You two were always close. They say he was a
good man.”
That was true, but after so many years the bond that had been
forged between Prasutagos and Boudica at his kingmaking might have
faded to the habitual affection most married couples knew. And yet Lhi-
annon had felt Boudica’s anguish. She would be devastated, but . . . the
king was gone. Where now would his queen look for comfort?
From the hall ahead she could hear the mutter of conversation—of
argument—she realized as they drew near.
The wicker walls had been removed to let in air, and the benches
beneath the thatched roof were full. Helve sat in the great chair at the
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head of the fire pit, her eyes bright as those of some predatory bird. But
her hair was liberally streaked with gray. And the man beside her—
Lhiannon missed a step as she realized it was Ardanos.
Even in Eriu she had heard that Ardanos had been chosen Arch-
Druid when Lugovalos died. But she had not expected him to change. He
sat like an image in the white robes, even his hair set in stiff curls. But
perhaps his heart was not so armored as it appeared, for it was he who
turned first, and as their eyes met, something kindled in his glance.
Whatever she thought she had seen was almost immediately veiled.
He bowed his head in greeting and Helve looked around, her expression
an odd mixture of exasperation and relief as she saw Lhiannon standing
there.
“Our sister Lhiannon has returned from Eriu,” she said pleasantly.
“I am sure she will have much to tell us when our present deliberations
are concluded. In the meantime, let us make her welcome.” Her gaze
swept the assembled Druids, male and female, and an appropriate mur-
mur rose from among them. Lhiannon recognized Belina and Cunitor
and some of the others, and was that stalwart young man with the
brown beard little Bendeigid? But many of those sitting there were
older priests and priestesses whom she did not know.
She followed Coventa to a seat on one of the back benches.
“This is the situation.” Ardanos’s voice was even and controlled.
“The governor Paulinus has spent the winter in his fortress at Deva,
building boats and gathering supplies. The supplies might take him any-
where, but boats—fl at-bottomed boats that can run up on mudfl ats or a
sandy shore—can only be intended to bring soldiers here. And now the
season of storms is over . . .” At the murmur of protest he lifted a hand.
“We have long known that it might come to this. We should be grateful
that the gods have protected us so long.”
“This island is full of Silure and Ordovice and Deceangli warriors
who escaped when the Romans conquered their tribes,” said Helve.
“On the mainland, there is no British king with the force to defend us.
We have called you here together to decide whether to disperse, to resist
with all our powers, or to surrender to the mercy of Rome.”
“The latter is no choice, surely,” said someone. “They have none for
our kind.”
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“They hate what they fear—then let us prove them right to do so!”
This was an imposing old fellow with a long white beard who had
clearly been the chief Druid to some tribal king. “For the warriors who
have come here there is nowhere else to run, and when have there ever
been so many Druids of our stature gathered in one place? Let us call
down the wrath of the gods on Rome!”
Sweet Goddess, thought Lhiannon, what have I returned to? It will be like
the campaign with Caratac all over again. In nightmares she still wandered
across that fi nal battlefield, though the memories had faded while she
was in Eriu.
“First, surely, we should seek their favor,” said one of the priestesses.
“When we fled to this place we brought our treasures. Swords and
chariots are not a Druid’s weapons. Let us give them to the gods!”
“Better sunk than displayed in a Roman triumph,” muttered some-
one behind her.
“The warrior prepares for battle by practicing his skills,” Ardanos
said sternly. “You who served in dun and village had more need for
the rites of growth and healing than for high magic. And our purpose
here at Lys Deru has been to nurture spirits. If we are to stand against
the Romans, every one of you must spend the time we have left in
prayer and purification, disciplining the mind and preparing the
soul.”
Lhiannon wondered how much use that would be. She had seen
enough warfare to know that the farmer whose hands were more accus-
tomed to wielding a hoe than a spear was useful mostly to fill out the
battle line. To use a sword effectively required constant practice. In Eriu,
the Druids were often called upon to raise storms or spirits against the
armies on whom their kings made war, but only a few of the Druids
here— like Ardanos . . . and me, she thought
grimly—had actually seen
fi ghting.
Lost in thought, she was taken by surprise when the meeting ended.
Before she could protest, Coventa was pulling her into the circle that
had formed around Ardanos and Helve.
“Is your family here?” she asked politely as the Arch-Druid turned
to her. “I trust that they are well.”
Ardanos’s features relaxed. “They are indeed, but not here. They are
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safe, thank the gods, with Sciovana’s family in the Durotrige lands. My
little Rheis was married to Bendeigid just last year, and is expecting a
child.”
Lhiannon blinked, mentally tallying the years, for it seemed only
yesterday that she had returned to Mona to find Ardanos married with
a little child. But the world had not stood still while she was in Eriu. By
this time, Boudica’s daughters must be husband-high as well.
At the sound of his name Bendeigid looked up. Lhiannon realized
that inside that muscular body still lived the lad who used to climb trees
to look at birds’ nests, just as somewhere within her was a girl who had
loved Ardanos. And despite that shell he has built for protection, there is some-
thing in Ardanos that still cares for me . . .
She felt no surprise when he came to her after supper was done.
“Walk with me, Lhiannon.”
She looked at him dubiously, remembering the last time they had
been alone. Reading her expression, Ardanos looked away.
“You need not be afraid,” he said in a constricted voice. “I shall say
nothing to you that could not be said in full view of the entire Druid
community, nothing of a personal nature, that is. But as I also wish to
speak frankly of matters that concern the others, I would as soon they
did not hear.”
“Very well, my lord,” she replied. “I will come with you.”
This time he led her down the road toward the shore. The cliff s on
the other side were thickly wooded. On the height beyond, a point of
light marked some shepherd’s fire. The dark waters of the strait lay quiet
beneath the young moon, belying the strength of the current below, but
the tide was coming in and the wavelets, each one a little closer, lapped
gently at the sand. It was hard to believe that soon those waters might
run with blood.
“You were right to address me as ‘lord’ a little while ago,” Ardanos
said presently. “The heart of the man who loves you tells me to send you
away while I can, but the Arch-Druid answers to other imperatives.
You have seen my ‘army,’ ” he added bitterly. “Good priests and priest-
esses, most of them, but these are not adepts. Helve, little as you may
like her, does have power. So does Coventa, if there is someone to direct
it. Most of those who were young enough to remember their training
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went off to help the warriors and died. But you, Lhiannon, were the
most powerful priestess of your generation. We will need you badly. For
the sake of our Order, I ask you to stay.”
“What chance do we have?” she asked.
Ardanos sighed. “This governor Paulinus worries me. I fear he is
another Roman of the breed of Caesar. His gods must love him. He
takes risks and wins. He should have died a hundred times when he was
in those mountains—” he gestured toward the dark shapes that brooded
beyond the water, “—but he always came through.”
Lhiannon nodded. The fact that Paulinus had been able to fi nally
subdue the Ordovices, who had kept on fighting even after Caratac was
gone, bore witness to that.
How could she weigh the need of one
woman—even one she
loved—against that of the community that guarded the traditions of an
entire people? It was the old argument all over again. What good did it
do to preserve the body if you lost your soul? And if this enemy was
indeed too strong, if all the war gods of the tribes together could not
contend against Jupiter and Mars Ultor, could she bear to live in safety
with Boudica, knowing that she had not even tried?
We are gathered here to take counsel for the future of the Iceni
tribe,” Morigenos said with the kind of sober grandeur that he adopted
even on less momentous occasions. As the eldest of the clan leaders, he
had become the spokesman for the men who were gathered around the
great fire before the house of the king.
The cluster of buildings within the palisade had not changed much
since she had come here for her wedding, thought Boudica wistfully.
Except for the little temple just outside the dun, even in his passion for
building Prasutagos had not ventured to alter the ancient home of his
line. Once more the elders of the Iceni clans had assembled at Dun Garo
to choose a king.
“We have buried a noble lord, Prasutagos son of Domarotagos, son
through many fathers of Brannos, who led us to this land. There is now
no male remaining of the blood of our kings.” Morigenos pulled at his
brindled beard.
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Boudica sighed, remembering her lost son. If he had survived he
would be nearly the age of the young emperor.
“It was the will of our lord that his daughters inherit with the emperor.”
Morigenos’s lip curled at that, but he said no word that could be reported
against him. It was the other chieftains who glared at Cloto, who had ar-
rived the day after the funeral, unheralded, uninvited, and unwelcome.
At least it was only Cloto, thought Boudica. She had feared that Pol-
lio might come to the funeral. She herself was here only for the sake of
the living children who sat to either side. Her moment of exaltation at
the funeral had gone as swiftly as it came. Without Prasutagos it was a
barren world, but for their sakes she must learn to live in it.
where he likes—” and where it is politic, came the unspoken addendum.
“But it is for us to choose who shall lead the tribe.”
“On both counts you are wrong.” Cloto’s voice overrode his. “Pra-
sutagos was a client of the emperor. That relationship dies with him. It
is for the emperor to choose another man to rule these lands as client-
king or to administer them directly as a conquered territory.”
“We were never conquered!”
“We are Rome’s allies!”
The meeting erupted in a babble of protest.
“And who are you to speak for the emperor, toad?” roared Bituitos.
“One who is trusted by Nero’s procurator. While the governor is in
the west it is Decianus Catus whose word you must obey. Neither your
will nor that of Prasutagos has any meaning until confirmed by the real
rulers of Britannia.”
“If they do not do so, they betray that Roman Law they praise so
highly!” snapped Drostac, his mustache bristling.
“And they show themselves without honor and unworthy of our
obedience,” added Morigenos.
Cloto shrugged. “I tell you this for your sake, not for mine.”
Boudica surged to her feet. “How dare you say such things while
my husband’s ashes are still warm? He trusted Rome. Go back to your
masters and let them teach you the meaning of honor, if they can!”
“Do you think yourself another Cartimandua?” he sneered. “They
do not trust her, and they will place even less faith in you—”
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From the throats of the men around the fire came a deep growl, like
that of dogs when they scent an enemy. For the first time, Cloto seemed
to realize that he might be in danger. Standing, he draped his cloak over
his shoulders with what dignity he could muster.
“On your heads be it,” he repeated. “You have been warned.”
“We have heard you.” Boudica drew herself up. The men laughed as
he wilted beneath her glare. “Now be gone!”
When Cloto had departed, she resumed her seat and nodded to
Morigenos. “I apologize for interfering. Continue.”
“We thank you for ridding us of that cur—” For a moment he con-
sidered her, then turned to the others once more. “Not that I believe
him. The Romans have been strong in their support of the Brigante
queen. Why should they not accept a queen in the Iceni lands? There is
no male of the old blood, but Boudica and her daughters are of that line,
and she has ruled at her husband’s side. I propose that we acclaim her
now. When her daughters have husbands it will be time enough to con-
sider the election of a king.”
“This is what I hoped for!” Rigana squeezed her hand. “Mother,
why do you look so surprised? It was the obvious thing.”
Boudica had not expected it. But as the tribesmen began to cheer
she heard once more the voice of Prasutagos asking her to guard his
people. For you I will do it . . . she said silently. For you . . .
Boudica stood in the Earth-ring where she and Prasutagos had
been bound. The body to which the marriage rite had linked her was
no more, but he was still a part of her soul. Standing here, with the
green fields rolling away on every side, she could almost sense him be-
side her. He had loved this land, and she had loved him. If she followed
in his footsteps perhaps he would walk with her, and she might dare to
feel once more.
The Druids who had conducted Prasutagos’s rite were long gone,
frightened into exile or hiding when the Romans had begun to enforce
the ban on their Order. Brangenos, with the surprising assistance of Ri-
anor, who had turned up unexpectedly at their gates a few days after the
council, was conducting the ceremony.
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“Boudica, daughter of Dubrac, of the line of Brannos, son of the White
Mare, will you stand as queen for the people and Lady of the Land?”