Druids (30 page)

Obediently, I sat. And observed, as druids do.

Damona was simply a blacksmith’s wife, a plain woman with iron-gray hair and a face fissured by living. Her hands were chapped and calloused, but they knew instinctively how to make the sufferer more comfortable. A tug here, a pal there, a quick gesture to smooth the woman’s hair back from her forehead; a sip of water offered before Lakutu had to ask.

There I was with a head full of learning, yet I could not have done half so well.

As I watched Damona, I thought of my grandmother and of Lakutu herself, and the little kindnesses they had performed for me, the endless givings of everyday that I had hardly noticed at the time.

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They made me feel small, the women. Mine was the ministry of instructing me tribe, but theirs was the ministry of caring. I was beginning to suspect that theirs was more necessary than mine.

Humans can thrive even though they are ignorant. But they will wither if they are not cherished.

When Damona began dropping things, I insisted she go home.

Late in the day Crom Daral came to my door. Standing just outside, he said, “She wants to know how the woman is.”

“Still alive, tell her. And thank you, Crom,” I made myself add, knowing it had not been easy for him to come.

“Unh.” He went away.

To my relief, Sulis returned the next morning. With a distaste she did not try to hide, she examined Lakutu and confirmed my suspicion of poison. ‘ ‘Briga has done all for her that I could, and possibly more,” she said. “The woman will live. But she is damaged, her bowels pass blood. Whether or not she will ever regain her strength I cannot say. You must ask Keryth.”

“I already did. The portents were ambiguous.”

“They often are. That just means the outcome will be determined by choices humans have yet to make.”

“You do not need to instruct the chief druid, Sulis,” I told her frostily. Sometimes I suspected she still saw me as the lanky boy to whom she had introduced sex magic.

It had been a long time since Sulis and I practiced sex magic together. Yet I knew, from the inviting looks she occasionally gave me, that she wanted to do it with me again, to strengthen her ties to the man who was now chief druid.

I was beginning to recognize ambition in its many guises.

I remained fond of Sulis, however. I was still fond of Crom Daral on some level, though I knew he would cheerfully kill me

if he could.

For me, once such links were formed they were impossible to break.

Sulis told me, “Briga has an obvious sympathy with … this woman. It would be better for her to continue to care for her than for me to attempt to take over now.”

“Will you ask her to do it?”

“I’ll do what I can, Ainvar. But she’s stubborn.”

“I know,” I replied ruefully.

I summoned all druids living within a day’s walk of the grove and told them of the attempt made to poison me. The horror they

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felt rippled outward, reaching the trees around us, echoing back in shocked arboreal voices.

Like all living things, trees communicate. Their speech is not audible to human ears, but the trained senses of the druids were aware of a coldness emanating from the oaks, a sullen anger.

Then, with a nod to Suits and Keryth, I detailed what we had discovered about the incapacitation of Nantorus and the death of Menua.

The air in the grove suddenly crackled with a savage, biting frost. Even Aberth glanced nervously toward the trees, where the shadow of murder hung in the branches.

“Tell us what you want done!” several druids cried out.

Dian Cet cleared his throat. “We shall concur with whatever action the chief druid deems appropriate,” he announced formally.

“I have given this much thought,” I told them. “There must be a symmetry. What Tasgetius has given, he must receive. But we cannot deprive the tribe of a king until there is a worthy replacement for him, a fact which no one regrets more than I.”

Let them know that I too hungered for revenge.

Leaving Lakutu to be nursed by the women, I took the first step in the plan that had been growing in my head. With several of my druids and a select bodyguard of warriors, I set out for Cenabum to return Tasgetius’s formal visit.

In my hand was the ash staff signifying the office of chief druid. On my breast was the triskele Menua had given me. The hem of my hooded robe had already been embroidered by Damona with a design representing the mountains I had crossed on my journey to the Province.

Fleetingly I wondered if embroidery was one of the things

Damona was teaching Lakutu. Dancing girls are surely not trained to cook and sweep lodges and pound clothing with stones in the river. Yet Lakutu had mastered those skills … for me. Soon she might progress to doing fine embroidery.

I tore my thoughts from her and prepared to meet Tasgetius.

The king of the Camutes was plainly disconcerted by my arriving, in apparent health, at Cenabum. He recovered quickly, however. “We are happy to see you looking so well, Ainvar,” he said, holding out his arms and embracing me like a friend.

My face was impassive. “I’ve never felt better.”

“Ah? We heard rumors of a sickness.”

“Words shouted on the wind can be misunderstood.”

“Quite so. Quite so, eh? Now may we know the reason for

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your visit?” We bared our teeth at each other in grimaces meant for polite smiles. Wolf-smiles.

“To return the pleasure of yours,” I said blandly. “My purpose is, in truth, threefold—I have come to instruct couples planning to marry in the grove at Beltaine as to the preparations they must make ahead of time” (I tried not to think of Briga as I said this) “and I also felt it necessary to explain to you that we really do not have room for a trading outpost in the Fort of the Grove.”

A muscle jumped at the edge of the king’s eye. “So I’ve heard,” he said drily. Neither of us was giving anything away,

He invited me into his lodge and served me wine. Roman wine. When I took nothing to eat or drink he did not ask why, but I caught the faint flicker in his eyes.

My mind danced with his, testing his mental reflexes. While I kept him occupied, the most appropriate member of my retinue was visiting some of the other lodges in Cenabum.

Following my instruction, Aberth the sacrmcer told the kinsmen of Menua and of Nantorus just what had been done to them, and at whose instigation.

Tasgetius, shrewd though he was, was no druid. When he accompanied us to the gates of Cenabum to bid us farewell, he seemed unaware of me roiling, troubled atmosphere within me walls of the fortress.

But I felt it, and rejoiced. The spear was huried at his unsuspecting back.

On our homeward journey Aberth reported. “There was great anger at what I had to tell, but no real disbelief. Tasgetius has lost what popularity he had. It is common knowledge he accepts secret payments from the traders for letting them do business at Cenabum.”

“That custom,” I remaiked, “is not unheard of in the Province, either.”

We were walking across the plains of the Camutes beneath a warm spring sun. The earth’s sweet, soft brown flesh was warm beneath our feet. The land smelled fertile. We had poured sweat and blood into that earth to encourage it to produce.

Walking beside me, Aberth had a red gleam in his eye. “The kin of Menua and Nantorus want vengeance, Ainvar. Blood for blood. The two most outspoken are the princes Cotuatus and Conconnetodumnus, both men with many warriors pledged to them personally.”

“I know them; at least I know Cotuatus. He was fond of Menua.”

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“An intense loyalty develops among people who grow up together in a crowded lodge, as Cotuatus tells me he and Menua did,” said Aberth. “He would kill Tasgetius today, but I made him promise to wait until he heard from you that the time was right. Meanwhile, he and the others will watch the king and send word of his actions to you.”

I had acquired eyes and ears in Cenabum. Tasgetius would not take me by surprise again. I had no doubt he would make another attempt to kill me if I remained obdurate.

Let him try, I thought with dark joy. My father’s warrior blood howled in my veins, wanting to fight.

From the lap of the plains the ridge of the sacred grove rose in me distance like a lifted head. My own heart lifted at the sight of our living temple, inviolate and sacrosanct, standing free against the sky.

No sooner had we entered the fort than Sulis ran up to me, eager to impart good news. “That woman in your lodge is much better, Ainvar. The Sequanian has visited her several times and mere’s no doubt about it, the woman is improving.”

“Her name is Lakutu.”

“Ah. Yes. Anyway,”

“So is Briga with you now?”

“Not yet. She’s still unwilling to leave Crom Daral. But I’ve talked with her and she admits awareness of her gift. When she speaks of feeling it run through her the night she saved the … Lakutu … her whole face lights up. Sooner or later, she will stop fighting and come to us.”

Sooner or later would be too late. Already the young people were peeling and decorating the tree that would be the hub of the Beltaine dance, the symbol of fertility around which the pattern of new lives would grow.

And word came from the south that Vercmgetorix had, over the objections of his uncle Gobannitio, formally challenged Potomarus for the kingship of the Arverni.

• P ^\ EX MAGIC,” I muttered to myself.

S

\ ‘ ^^ “What?” Tarvos cocked his head. “Were you ^J speaking to me?”

“Thinking aloud,” I told him. “About ways of helping Vercmgetorix. He will need all the strength and vigor he can sum-mon if he is to win the support of the druids and elders over an established king.”

* ‘I never thought the Arvemian lacking in vigor,” Tarvos commented. “All those women in the Province …”

“You sound envious.”

“I had my share. You’re the only one who didn’t indulge, Ain-var.”

This was true, and surprising even to myself. The only woman I had enjoyed in more than a cycle of seasons was Lakutu. I was simply too busy.

Sex magic would be the appropriate ritual to help Rix, but I doubted if it would be effective over such a long distance. I also found myself unwilling to suggest it to Sulis, who would have been the obvious partner.

I had other ways of helping Rix; I was the Keeper of the Grove. At once I sent word through the druid network that I was in complete support of the challenge of the young Arvemian, and that the druids of his tribe were urged to give him the utmost consideration. Then I turned my thoughts to the needs of my own tribe.

I tried not to let myself dwell on the needs of Ainvar.

From throughout the land of the Camules, men were bringing women to the scared grove to celebrate Beltaine. Princes were accommodated in the guesthouse and assembly house of the fort;

the rest encamped within the walls, filling every available open space, or stayed with their clanfolk on local farmsteads.

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The warm sun of summerbirth rode high in the sky and blood ran hot in the veins.

On the day preceding the marriage rituals, I went to examine the site and conduct the final preparations. The attention of the

Source must be drawn to this particular place; fires must be lighted, water poured, a solemn pattern danced on the breast of the earth by the chief druid.

Staked in place with ropes, a peeled treetrunk stood upright in the center of the clearing set aside for the celebrations of Beltaine. The clearing was almost at the base of the ridge, far removed from the holy center where stood the stone of sacrifice-Beltaine festivities could become very rowdy.

The symbol of regeneration was painted throughout the tree’s length with the colors of the various Camutian clans, a riot of crimson and yellow and black, gold and blue and camelian, pur-ple and green and scarlet. Like a vividly tattooed phallus, me tree pointed nakedly to the sky, awaiting the celebrations of lifemak-ing, the dances of marriage and fertility.

When I had finished sprinkling the earth around the base of the tree with water from our sweetest, most sacred spring, I stood for a long time just looking at the living monolith. I was barefoot and the earth was warm beneath my feet.

In the silence life spoke to me, making its demands.

Thoughtfully, hidden within my hood, I returned to the fort. I made my way through the crowd already celebrating—and complaining about the shortage of wine. Ainvar’s feet carried me to me lodge of Crom Daral; the ash wand of the chief druid beat upon his door.

When it swung inward, Briga peered out at me. I said merely, “Come,” and caught her by the wrist.

I did not ask if Crom was there. As it happened, he was on the other side of the fort contesting at stone-throwing with some of the other warriors, but if he had confronted me just then, it would have made no difference. I would have taken her anyway.

When life commands we must obey.

I led Briga through the fort, out the gates, down the slope to the banks of the Autura, to a small, crescent-shaped strip of sand sheltered by willow and alder. A secure and sunwarmed haven, the sort of place a druid discovers when wandering alone with his thoughts.

Briga objected but I could not hear her, my ears were filled with the singing of my blood. She did not try to pull away from me, however.

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When at last we stood together on the sand, I realized I was trembling. She looked earnestly up into my face, then back along the way we had come.

“I am the chief druid,” I said in a thick voice. “No one will interfere.”

‘ ‘Even if you take a woman against her will? ” Lifting her chin,

she stared haughtily at me, magically reassembling her flesh and bones so that every line of her reminded me she was a prince’s daughter.

*‘I do not take women against their will,’* I said.

I released her wrist.

She rubbed the red mark left by my grip, and we stared at each other, born of us breathing harder than our walk required. “I’m dancing the marriage pattern with Crom Daral tomorrow,” she said.