of time.”

  Lhiannon moved a little away, instinctively raising mental shields

  against the younger woman’s despair. “I have to believe there is hope,”

  she said in a low voice. “Even if I am wrong. I cannot betray the men I

  saw die at the Tamesa by giving up now.”

  “Ah, I am sorry! I did not mean to hurt you!” Boudica reached out

  to hug her. “When I first got here I despised my father for surrendering

  so easily. But now I think that he is right. To cooperate is the only way

  we can retain any inde pendence at all!”

  “And so you will stay, and marry Prasutagos, as you tell me your

  father desires?”

  “With Dubi a hostage, our family needs a firm alliance with the

  other Iceni royal line. At Mona, I would never be more than a minor

  priestess. I may be able to help our people as a queen.”

  They walked on in silence, and found that their steps had brought

  them onto the droveway that led to Camulodunon. The friendly dark-

  ness hid the worst of the destruction, but even at night the dun had

  never been so utterly still.

  “And will he love you?” Lhiannon asked softly after a time.

  “Does that matter?” Boudica snapped back. “Ardanos loves you, but

  it has not made either of you happier, that I can see!”

  Lhiannon stopped, desolation tightening her throat as she admitted

  that what Boudica had said was true. She stumbled forward and sat

  down on a broken wagon.

  “Ah, now I have hurt you again!” There were tears in Boudica’s voice

  as well. “But you have to understand—the last time I stood here, this was

  a great king’s home. I don’t want this to happen to my father’s dun!”

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  When Lhiannon said nothing, she eased down beside her. “I trust

  Prasutagos to work for our people. I am making an alliance. But it will

  be easier if I know that you still love me . . .”

  “I will pray to the Goddess that you find joy in your duty,” whis-

  pered Lhiannon. Even though She has given me little enough in mine . . .

  She could feel Boudica nodding as they wept in each other’s arms.

  N I N E

  L iving in the closed community of Lys Deru, Boudica had forgot-

  ten what it was like to gallop across the open heath beneath an endless

  sky. Just now she needed the escape as never before. Even Helve at her

  worst had not been as annoying as Anaveistl’s endless nattering about

  the astonishing array of goods and gear Boudica was expected to take

  with her to her new home. Tomorrow they would journey to Dun Garo

  on the River of Eels. King Antedios had claimed the honor of hosting

  the marriage between his most important subking and the daughter of

  his heir.

  Will Prasutagos let his wife gallop over the hills? His clan- hold was in the

  north near the sea. Going there would be like being a newcomer at the

  Druids’ Isle all over again, but this move would be lifelong.

  Boudica’s lips twisted wryly as she realized what was really bothering

  her. Her people bred horses, and she knew, more or less, what human

  breeding involved. A few exploratory fumblings with Rianor had even

  shown her why one might enjoy it. She realized then that it was not so

  much the act that she feared as the idea of submitting to a stranger.

  Her old dun pony tossed its head and juttered to a stop as a gray

  hare, startled from its form in the heather, dashed across the moor.

  Boudica caught her breath and made a sign of reverence as it disap-

  peared.

  For generations the Clan of the Hare had grazed sheep and horses on

  this undulating land where the sandy soil retained only enough water for

  grasses to fill in the spaces between the clumps of gorse and heather,

  though more recently her father had taken advantage of their position

  where the ancient trackway forded two rivers to set up a weavers’ center

  where the thread the women spun could be made into cloth.

  As the season of harvest drew to a close the heathlands glowed with

  the purple of heather and the gorse’s rich gold. The trees that fl ourished

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  along the rivers that drained westward into the fen country shaded from

  green to all the autumn colors. There lay the sacred grove that sheltered

  the shrine of Andraste, who had been honored here since before the

  Belgic princes came from across the sea.

  Boudica kneed her mount into motion again and they trotted down

  the path that wandered amid the old barrows. She slid down and tied

  the rein to a blackthorn bush where the horse could nose at the dry

  grass.

  The Turning of Autumn was just past. On one of the mounds a des-

  sicated bouquet of heather and asters lay. That would be old Nessa’s

  doing—she was the one who knew all the old tales. Boudica began

  to walk the pattern around the barrows as the old woman had taught

  her, finishing at the mound in the middle—the only one it was per-

  missable to climb.

  Four miles to the northwest she could see the roundhouses of Teu-

  todunon, overlooking the ford where the river was crossed by the an-

  cient track. Her mother’s garden lay behind the chieftain’s house, the

  pens for sheep and horses and the weaving shed beyond. It looked de-

  ceptively peaceful from here.

  Tomorrow they would set out for Antedios’s dun and her wedding,

  and when would she see her home again? She had agreed to the mar-

  riage, but just now she felt like the sacrificial hare that had struggled

  in Helve’s hands.

  She found a piece of oatcake in her bag and placed it in a crevice

  between two stones on top of the mound.

  “Old one, your earth and water built my blood and bones. Accept

  this offering. Guard this place as you have done for so many years, and

  though I must leave you, remember me . . .”

  Gradually, her panic eased. Coventa, she thought wistfully, would

  have heard an answer. For Boudica there was only a sense of peace, until

  the light began to fade and she knew it was time to go home.

  The mare shook her head, a shrill neigh expressing her disdain for

  the lad who clung to her leadrope. Her coat shone richly chestnut as the

  sun broke through the clouds, a shade deeper than Boudica’s hair. The

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  boy set his heels to hold her, but it had rained that morning, and he was

  pulled through the mud instead.

  “I don’t think that filly wants to be saddled,” said one of King An-

  tedios’s warriors.

  “Take a good man to ride her,” answered his companion.

  “Prasutagos has good hands for a horse, they say . . .”

  Boudica flushed as the men glanced at her and laughed. But it was

  indeed a beautiful horse, and it was hers, a wedding gift from her pro-

  spective husband.

  Her mother tugged at her elbow, and she allowed herself to be led

  toward the roundhouse. Draped and jeweled in the red gown and plaid

  cloak she had worn at Camulodunon, she moved carefully, afraid of dis-

  tur
bing the elaborate braids in which her mother’s maids had done her

  hair. A wreath of golden gorse and wheat heads crowned the arrange-

  ment over a gauzy crimson veil.

  Since waking she had been in a strange, suspended state, allowing

  the women to dress and adorn her as if she were the image of a god. And

  that, she thought distantly, was almost true. Today she was the Bride,

  not Boudica. This ceremony would celebrate the union of two royal

  kindreds that strengthened the tribe, the union of male and female that

  renewed the world. The symbolism was there in any wedding, but kings

  and queens carried the luck of the tribe. She had been caught up in the

  surge of emotion that flowed from people to the king when her father

  performed the rites at planting and harvest. The Druids had given her

  the background to understand what was happening. But now it was she

  who must carry that power. It felt diff erent from inside.

  A twitter of women’s voices from ahead told her that the women’s

  procession was forming. Boudica was surprised to see the Brigante

  queen Cartimandua among them. She wished that Lhiannon and Cov-

  enta could have been there.

  Her mother chivvied the others into some kind of order as a harper

  began to strike rhythmic chords. Anaveistl set a sheaf of grain in Boudi-

  ca’s arms and pushed her into place behind the chattering girls with

  their baskets of herbs and late flowers. The rest fell into place behind

  them as they started along the path through the fi elds.

  Somewhere a drum was beating, a deep vibration that she felt as

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  much as heard. Or perhaps it was her own heartbeat. Harp and drum

  fell silent as the men’s pro cession approached from the woods to the

  northeast, led by boys carrying green branches and a youth with a burn-

  ing torch. They circled an ancient earthen ring about the height of a

  man and defi ned by shallow ditches to meet the bride’s party at the en-

  trance.

  As her mother led Boudica forward, the boys began to sing—

  “You are the moon among the stars,

  You are the foam upon the wave,

  You are the lily among the flowers,

  You are the spark that starts the flame,

  You are the beloved.”

  Prasutagos, dressed in a splendid fringed cloak checkered in seven

  colors over a blue tunic and braes striped in blue and red, emerged from

  the crowd of men to stand beside her as the maidens who had escorted

  Boudica replied—

  “You are the sun above the clouds,

  You are the wave that strikes the shore,

  You are the oak within the wood,

  You are the torch that lights the hall,

  You are the beloved.”

  Inside the ring King Antedios and his queen, his Druid, and Boudica’s

  father were waiting. As she passed through the gap Boudica had the odd

  sense that the earth had shifted. Prasutagos steadied her as she stumbled

  and she took a deep breath, staring around her. Here were no ancient

  stones to bear witness to the past, but earth was older still. For how many

  lives of men had this earthen embankment defined sacred ground?

  Among the Druids she had thought herself head-blind, but moving

  around the fire that burned in the circle’s center, she knew that her

  time on the isle had changed her. She had sensed nothing diff erent

  about this place when she had visited as a child, but now, when she

  looked through the gap that framed the pointed roofs of the dun and a

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  low hill across the river beyond, she could feel the current of power

  that linked them. Everything outside the embankment seemed blurred,

  as if seen through the heated air above a fi re. She wondered if this was

  how Lhiannon had felt when she was in the Faerie world. For a mo-

  ment she had a sense that all times were simultaneous, as if by simply

  shifting her focus she could see.

  Did Prasutagos feel it, she wondered as they halted before the fi re.

  His usually pleasant features looked stern, his gaze a little inward. Or

  perhaps he was remembering his first wife and mourning the necessity

  that required him to marry Boudica.

  The Druid, robed in more colors than even Prasutagos wore, turned

  to the others. His white beard flowed down his chest like carded wool,

  stirring a little in the wind.

  “Of what blood do this man and this woman come?”

  “I stand for Prasutagos, since his father is no longer living,” said An-

  tedios. “Of the People of the Ram he is chieftain. Let him be married to

  this woman with the blessing of his kin.”

  “I stand for Boudica of the People of the Hare,” her father spoke

  then. “I release my daughter from clan-bond and clan- right that she

  may become part of her husband’s family. Let her be married to this

  man with the blessing of her kin.”

  The Druid moved around the fire, a length of braid in his hand.

  He was a small man, a little bent with age, but there was a light in his

  eye that reminded her of Lugovalos. “Prasutagos and Boudica, you

  have come here with the blessing of your families to be joined before

  the people, the ancestors, and the gods. In flesh and in spirit you shall

  be mated. Do you both consent to this binding?”

  What would happen if I said no? she thought wildly. She heard the

  man’s murmured assent joining her own as the priest draped the cord

  around their wrists. But she had committed herself already when she

  told Lhiannon she would not return to the Druids’ Isle.

  “By what vows will you be bound?”

  Prasutagos looked at her fully for the first time since they had en-

  tered the circle. His eyes were gray, but around the iris she saw fl ecks of

  gold. In time, she thought, I will know everything about this man, and then,

  with a tremor, and he will know everything about me . . .

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  “I, Prasutagos, do pledge you, Boudica, to live as your husband.”

  She took a deep breath and replied, “I, Boudica, do pledge you, Pra-

  sutagos, to live as your wife.”

  Together they continued the vows.

  “Your hearth shall be my hearth, your bed shall be my bed. For

  your loyalty I shall return love, and for your love grant you my loyalty.

  Upon the circle of life I swear it, by earth and fire, by wind and water,

  and before the holy gods.”

  “I am your staff and your sword,” said Prasutagos.

  And Boudica replied, “I am your shield and your cauldron.”

  The queen held out a loaf made from grain that had been grown at

  the House of the Hare mixed with some from Prasutagos’s lands.

  “From the earth that bore you this bread was made,” the Druid pro-

  claimed, “many seeds ground together to become one loaf. May your

  union be fruitful; and may that bounty extend to field and forest, to

  plowland and pasture, and all the land you rule.” Despite his age, his

  voice was full and strong.

  Boudica broke off a corner, dropped a few crumbs on the ground

  and into
the fire, and fed the rest to Prasutagos.

  “As I break this bread, so I off er my life to nourish you,” she said.

  “As I take it, my body shall become one with yours,” he replied.

  The bread was given to Prasutagos, who did the same. As Boudica

  swallowed the coarse grains she found herself suddenly aware of his

  physical presence.

  The Druid took the rest of the cake and crumbled it over their

  heads. It seemed to her that she could feel each grain.

  The king came forward with a bowl of carved jet filled with water.

  “This water is the blood of the earth, drawn from two sacred

  springs,” the Druid said then. “As these waters have become one, may

  your spirits blend, and may the springs that water your land run ever

  pure and clear.”

  The king offered the bowl to Prasutagos, who spilled a little on the

  earth and flicked a drop into the fire. Like the grain, it was a blending

  from both their homes.

  “As this water is poured, I pour out my spirit for you.”

  “As I drink it, my spirit mingles with yours,” she replied.

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  Prasutagos held it to Boudica’s lips and she drank. Then the Druid

  handed the bowl to her. As she repeated the words, she found her eyes

  filling with tears and tried to quell the surge of emotion that came with

  them as she blinked them away.

  When it was done, the Druid set the bowl aside and turned them to

  face each other. “The free air of heaven is the breath of the ancestors.

  Breathe deeply, let their spirit fill you, and give it back to each other

  again.”

  It was true, she thought as she drew the charged air into her lungs.

  If the earth was made from the dust of all that had lived, this air held

  their breath, generation after generation, changing, exchanging, inspir-

  ing, and expiring with each birth and death.

  Among women, Boudica was tall, but Prasutagos stood a span taller.

  With his free hand he tipped up her chin. She controlled her involun-

  tary fl inch, felt the tickle of his mustache as he set his lips to hers. They

  were dry and cool, fi rmly demanding. Soon enough he will have the right to

  take more than a kiss, she told herself, forcing herself to let her lips open

  beneath his.

  “By earth and water and air you have been joined together. Let