With a final ting, ting, ting the smith laid down the hammer and lifted his gaze.
Clare briefly contemplated heart failure.
She dared not even blink, hoping that—as before, with the girl on the riverbank—he wouldn’t see her. She thought she’d faint when his eyes narrowed and he stared pointedly in her direction. She started to stammer a greeting or an apology or an explanation or something … but clamped her mouth shut as the smith heaved his considerable bulk off the stool and came around to her side of the table. He reached for the leather curtain covering a little window set in the wall right behind her and Clare dove out of the way, crouching behind a basket of logs near the forge. She exhaled a silent breath—he pretty obviously couldn’t see her. He stood at the window, cocking his head this way and that as though listening intently. Clare wondered if he’d heard her.
He reached up, leaning on the windowsill with his brawny arms, and suddenly Clare was struck by a sensation of familiarity. She knew him. She’d seen him before … on the riverbank! That was it. His had been the massive, shadowy form that had held the Battersea Shield above his head, ready to heave it into the depths of the river.
Clare crouched there, silent, until finally the smith dropped the window curtain, stretched mightily, and circled back to perch on his stool and return to his work. After a few cautious minutes, Clare’s curiosity got the better of her. She crept on silent sneakers back to the workbench and took up her position opposite the smith, craning her neck to see what it was he worked on with such focused purpose. Just then he lifted the thing up between his square, blunt fingertips, admiring it in the ruddy light of the glowing coals. Clare felt her eyes go wide when she recognized what it was.
The brooch.
Only it was missing something: the “eye” of the bird, as Clare had begun to think of it. Instead of a wine-red jewel set at the top of the brooch there was just a round empty space. The smith murmured to himself, too low for Clare to hear, and reached for a leather pouch sitting on the workbench. He opened it and withdrew five little square packets made of sueded leather, folding each one open on the table.
Clare whispered a silent “Oooh …” as she saw the piles of sparkling stones contained in each tiny package: amethysts and polished pink coral beads; shiny, faceted black jet; winking, deep-blue sapphires; and a glittering pile of garnets that shone a deeper, richer red than rubies. The smith rested his thrusting jaw on the knuckles of one fist and poked at the gems with the tip of a finger, contemplating them by the light of a tallow candle in a clay dish. Clare moved closer and closer until she was barely inches away, resting her elbows on the workbench and gazing down at the pretty things.
She waved a hand cautiously between the smith’s face and the stones. He didn’t even flinch—just went on muttering to himself, pushing the gems around and separating out a few from each pile.
Clare observed the process minutely.
Now he was toying with just two stones—a creamy pink coral bead and a sapphire. He placed first one and then the other in the empty space in the brooch, considering each for a long moment before tapping it out onto its suede square. He left the sapphire in for a long time.
What about the garnets? Clare thought. Why isn’t he looking at them?
The man frowned, contemplating the blue stone in the setting. He hunched his shoulders and rubbed his hands over his face, scrubbing at the corners of his eyes. Clare looked at the curled and blackened length of the candlewick and thought, He’s been at this a long time … he looks really tired. Which, of course, must be why he was missing the obvious choice.
When he stood to stretch again and went to the door, opening it to inhale great lungfuls of evening air, Clare took the opportunity to nudge the weary craftsman’s inspiration. A flawless, wine-dark garnet that looked to be just the right size was nestled in the pile. Scarcely daring to breathe, Clare reached for the brooch and tipped the sapphire out onto the workbench. Clumsy in her haste, she pricked herself on the sharp end of the clasp pin and hissed in pain. A single bright bead of blood welled up and fell from her fingertip into the empty setting. Clare gasped and glanced back to where the smith still stood by the door. He was still staring out into the night, lost in thought. And so, quick as a wink, Clare plucked up the red gem and placed it in the sapphire’s stead, leaving the brooch in the exact same spot. She snatched back her hand, sucking on her fingertip, and retreated from the table just as the smith returned to his work. He stared for a moment at the brooch with unseeing eyes … and then the shadow of a frown creased his broad, sooty brow. He lifted the brooch with its red stone toward the candle flame and peered at it, a light growing in his eyes, dousing the confusion there. Finally, he put the brooch down and gazed around the room.
Clare stood like a statue against the wall, her pulse pounding loudly in her ears as the man’s unblinking stare seemed to pause and sharpen as it swept over her. A long, tense moment later, he shrugged slightly and began folding up the other precious gems into the little suede squares. Clare moved closer again to watch as he fixed the stone—the stone she had chosen—into its setting, tapping down a collar of bronze with a tiny hammer to hold it in place. He had just finished the job and was polishing the finished piece with a soft cloth when the door swung inward.
Clare caught her breath when a familiar figure stepped over the threshold. Up close, in the confines of the tiny, stuffy hut, the young charioteer was even more handsome than when Clare had first seen him. Maybe it helped that his features weren’t pulled tight with rage and grief. Or maybe it was the way the light of the glowing forge played along the planes of his face and the contours of his muscled arms. The way it gleamed in the auburn waves of his hair.
“Connal,” the smith said and the two men clasped each other by the wrist.
Connal. Clare silently rolled the name around in her mind, savouring the sound of it. His name is Connal …
The young man raised an inquiring eyebrow at the smith, who stepped aside and nodded at the worktable. In the light cast by the fires of the forge, the finely wrought metal of the brooch gave off a deep rosy sheen. Clare waited impatiently to hear the charioteer’s—Connal’s—assessment. He stared at it closely, not touching it, for a long moment. Finally he straightened and lifted his gaze to the smith’s face.
“Mae hwn yn brydferth, Llassar …” His voice floated over to Clare, and again her mind translated so that she understood the words: “This is beautiful, Llassar …”
The smith inclined his head slightly, a quiet, steady pride evident in the gesture.
Clare felt herself smiling a bit at the compliment. She knew the red stone had been the right one to choose.
“It is perfect,” Connal said in a voice of low, smoky music. “Do you remember the one you made for Princess Tasca? Was it only two years ago …”
“I do, lad,” the metal smith answered, his voice deep and booming like ocean surf pounding against distant cliffs. “Her brooch bore the shape of the Lark.”
Tasca! Clare thought. That’s the name that girl said in my other … uh—vision? Visitation? What do I call these things, anyway?
“Aye. That was a fine and lovely piece. But Llassar …” Connal looked up at him again, his gaze sparking with obvious excitement. “This …”
The burly smith stood silently, his unblinking stare fastened on the brooch.
“The Raven.” Connal’s voice was full of reverence and a kind of savage excitement.
Aha! thought Clare. I was right—it is a bird!
“Ah, Comorra …” His voice dropped to a wondering murmur. “The Goddess Andrasta has touched the princess, Llassar.”
Comorra, Clare thought. The girl on the riverbank—if the brooch was made for her, her name must be Comorra.
“She has.”
“There is strong magic in this, Llassar,” Connal said, gently picking up the brooch and holding it in the palm of his calloused hand.
“Aye.” Llassar nodded, one corner of his wide mo
uth quirking up beneath the red tangle of his beard. “There is.”
Connal’s eyes snapped up. “Blood magic?”
Clare looked at the red dot on her fingertip and shivered. Blood?
Llassar nodded, but his expression was troubled. “The queen would have it so. She worries about the girl. She wanted a strong talisman for her. For my part, I do not wish for her to need such protection. But she has a point—Andrasta’s path is not an easy one to tread.”
“No, Llassar, it isn’t. But it is a good one.” Clare heard uncertainty in his voice. But then he smiled and handed back the brooch. “Your skills as both a master smith and a master Druid are beyond compare.”
He’s a Druid? Clare thought. What’s a Druid? Wait. Al said something about mystical visions and Druids … Clare had always thought of Druids as sorcerers or ancient holy men. Wizards. Okay—who was she kidding—she’d never thought of Druids in her life before. She had no concept of them beyond a vague, Gandalf from Lord of the Rings sort of mental picture. Or maybe Merlin. Old dudes with beards and pointy hats. Llassar the smith wasn’t that old, but he certainly had the beard happening. She couldn’t see hats of any description anywhere, though.
From under the shadows of his heavy brow, Llassar’s eyes gleamed. “Well, from one Druid to another, let me tell you this: I heard Andrasta’s voice in the fire, Connal.”
Wait. What? The young hot guy is a wizard, too? Clare drastically reconsidered her stereotype.
Connal’s dark eyes glinted in the light of the forge. “She spoke to you?”
“And more. Just now I felt a presence … guiding me …” Clare felt herself blushing, thoroughly embarrassed that Llassar should think so. She really hoped she hadn’t pissed off some kind of higher power with her goddess impersonation. “Just trying to help,” she whispered.
Connal’s head snapped up.
Clare held her breath as he turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as his gaze swung in her direction.
No way, Clare thought, panicked. Dude—you couldn’t hear me when I was yelling like a maniac on the riverbank!
He drew his sword so quickly that Clare jumped, jamming her shoulder painfully up against a wooden shelf holding hammers of assorted sizes. Llassar’s eyes went wide at the sight of the rattling tools. Clare stiffened in alarm as Connal moved cautiously around from the other side of the workbench, sword held at the ready, firelight gleaming on the blade.
The warrior moved like a panther, mesmerizing and deadly. He was barely six feet away now and Clare had nowhere else to go. Connal’s eyes scanned what to him was empty space as if trying to peer through heavy fog.
Another step.
Behind him, the big Druid smith had gone uncannily still, watching Connal as he swept the air in front of him with his blade. Clare tried desperately to reach inside of herself for that tingling, sparking sensation that told her she was on her way back to her own world. Nothing. She didn’t even know what it was, exactly, that caused her to shift back and forth, but she knew now with a sinking feeling that it wasn’t anything she had control over. She’d been so stupid to try this again. What had she been thinking? She was cornered and about to have her invisible self run through by a very visible sword.
This has got to be a nightmare, she thought wildly. But she knew it wasn’t. As Connal took another step forward she closed her eyes tightly and wondered what that cold iron blade would feel like when it sliced into her.
Then she heard a great, flapping, shrieking commotion. Clare’s eyes flew open as an enormous, screeching raven suddenly burst through the leather curtain covering the window and beat its wings against the hot, thick air of the hut. Llassar and Connal dove for cover as the creature skreeled in fury and swooped in tight circles above their heads, firelight gleaming in its red eyes.
Clare threw herself back against the wall, away from the slashing talons and great black beak, and felt her insides turn to fireworks. As a rack of iron tongs came crashing down around her, Connal’s gaze fixed again on where she stood, invisible to his eye. He snarled and dove forward, evading the angry black bird and thrusting his sword straight at Clare’s heart.
She gasped as the point of the blade struck sparks off the stone wall behind her—and felt herself shimmer away to nothing, as if she were campfire embers and smoke on a breeze. Clare Reid found herself once more falling through space. And time.
THE SOUND OF HER PHONE screeching brought Clare halfway back to her senses.
That’s annoying, she thought dully. I should change my ring tone …
It seemed as though it had been going on for a long time, and that it was all tangled up somehow with the sound of the raven’s high-pitched shrieks. Eventually the phone stopped ringing and then, a few moments later, started up again. Clare groped groggily for the thing and hit the answer button. “H … hello?”
“I knew it!” Al’s voice was accusatory. “I knew you’d try again.”
“Uhn …”
“Tell me something—should we have a special classroom designated next semester for raging idiots or should we just lock you by yourself in the closet?”
“Uh … hi, Al …” Clare blinked at her phone for a second, unable to form a coherent thought. She looked down into her open palm and saw that it was empty. An instant of panicked searching was all it took, though, to find the bronze bird-shaped brooch beneath a fold of the crumpled scarf on her bed. She breathed a sigh of relief and draped the scarf over it again, careful not to touch the brooch itself.
“You touched the brooch, didn’t you?” Al scolded. “Didn’t you?”
“Uh …” Clare winced sheepishly. “Maybe. A little.”
“Well, what happened?” Al was almost sputtering.
“Al …” Clare took a deep breath. “I didn’t just touch it.”
“What?”
“I saw it.”
She could almost hear Al blinking with confusion. “You saw what?”
“Al … I saw the brooch. Back then. Hell—I saw the guy who made it! I helped him pick out the stone and everything!”
“You what …?”
“Uh.”
“Clare?”
Clare took a deep breath and told Al the whole story. When she was done all she could hear was the odd static blip from her cell. “Al?”
“There are only two words for this situation.” Al’s voice was a little breathless. “In. Sane.”
“Ya think?”
“What actually possessed you to switch the stones?”
“Well, uh, he was looking at the wrong ones.”
“How do you know that?”
“Duh—I have the damn thing sitting on my bed. Besides, the sapphire just didn’t have the same punch. And I do know how to accessorize, do I not?” she added dryly.
“You know something?” Al mused. “I’m not sure if you just screwed with history or if history just screwed with you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean, you might’ve just thrown a monkey wrench into the whole space–time continuum!”
“The who?”
Clare could almost hear Al shaking her head. “The space– time continuum—do you watch any TV? You could have already sent the entire universe careening out of whack. I mean, sure. It’s all theoretical. But even the smallest alteration in the past could potentially cause the universe to split into alternate realities. Or collapse in on itself. Or alter the course of history dramatically. It’s like a domino effect. You might’ve changed history, Clare—”
“I did not!”
“We might not even be in the same universe anymore.” Al was on a roll. “This could already be a parallel existence we’re in now!”
“Oh, come on!” Clare protested. “It was one itty bitty gem-stone! No wrenches, no monkeys, and I seriously think Mr. Blacksmith would have figured it out himself. And anyway, the brooch had a red stone in it when I found it in my pocket and that was before—well, y’know, after—I switched it so doesn’t
that prove the universe remains unaltered?”
There was only the soft hiss of static for a long moment as Al went silent; either contemplating Clare’s hypothesis or—more likely—staring at her phone in bemusement.
“Besides,” Clare continued, “the dude just thought it was a flash of inspiration from whatsername.”
“Whatsername?”
“Yeah. Another one of those Celtic names I have a hard time remembering.”
“You seemed to remember this Connal dude’s name just fine,” Al noted.
“Oh, shut up,” Clare muttered. She frowned, trying to conjure up the sound of the name in her head. Andrasta … the name whispered across her mind. She blinked. Andrasta …
“Uh … Al? Do you have internet access?” Her voice sounded a little hollow in her own ears. Andrasta …
“Uh-huh,” Al said. “Why? Don’t you?”
“Maggie doesn’t have wireless and I’m not gonna start using her computer—she knows I don’t do the research thing. Just Google the name ‘Andrasta’ for me, will you?”
“Okay. Why?”
“That’s whatsername’s name,” Clare explained. “I just remembered it. From the way they were talking about her, I think she was a goddess.” Or something …
While she waited, Clare jammed the phone between her ear and shoulder and folded the scarf around the brooch. Then she dug around in her luggage, which she still hadn’t unpacked, and found a lone pink pompom sock—why did I pack a lone sock?—and stuffed the wrapped brooch into it, folding the entire neat little bundle into the inside pocket of her shoulder bag.
The click of Al’s keyboard sounded over the line. “A-n-d-r … here it is … Andrasta. Oh you’re so right! Andrasta was a Celtic war deity—and the patron goddess of the Iceni tribe,” she read out in a scholarly tone. “Her name means the ‘Invincible One.’ She has the ability to travel the pathways between the worlds as both a messenger and a harbinger. She ‘ferries spirits to and fro’ between planes of existence—she sounds kinda like a Norse Valkyrie if you ask me—and she is closely identified with the raven as a totemic animal …”