“I dunno, Clare,” Al said in a strangled gurgle. “This … is not my definition of good. But these two chicks are definitely from the Dark Side.”
14
“Ow!” Allie yelped as the point of the spear prodded her forward, toward the striped canvas tent that sat in the middle of the ship’s deck, close to the stern and away from most of the heavy fighting. Away from Marcus, too, although there wasn’t a whole heck of a lot Allie could do about that.
She and Clare ducked under the tent flaps, and then Clare stopped so abruptly that Allie bumped into her. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw why Clare had balked. In the close confines of the tent, the only thing separating them from Mallora—Druid high priestess, sister to Boudicca, Force of Malevolent Darkness, Hurler of Flaming Projectiles—was a small wooden desk upon which rested the remains of a meagre repast, mostly fish bones and something in a shallow bowl that looked like watery gruel.
And lying beside that was an emergency-kit tin box—the one Clare had used to seal Morholt’s diary in back in the Roman camp after writing the coded message to herself.
Mallora herself sat in a low-backed chair, seemingly unconcerned by the fighting that raged on outside the tent. Her face was illuminated by only a small, glass-shaded oil lamp hanging from a chain above the desk and swaying with the motion of the ship. With her raven-feather cloak hung up on a peg in the corner, the Druiddyn high priestess looked a lot less intimidating, Allie thought. Okay … a little less intimidating. She was still tall and wild-haired, with the same strong-boned features as her sister Boudicca and with a similarly fierce— and fiercely intelligent—glittering gaze.
But her features were pinched with pain, or maybe exhaustion, and she moved slowly and stiffly as she rose from her chair. Allie was scared witless—not that she’d let the priestess know that, of course. If she’d learned one thing as a prisoner in a Roman army camp, it was this: never let them see you sweat. She swallowed the knot of fear in her throat, lifted her chin, and crossed her arms in front of her.
At her side, Clare had adopted a similar pose.
The Druidess came around the table and stood before them, her keen gaze flicking back and forth between Clare and Allie. She was silent for so long they were beginning to think she wouldn’t say anything at all. Then Mallora tilted her head and addressed Clare. She spoke in the same dialect as Llassar the smith, which meant they could understand her without having touched her first. And since she’d had all sorts of physical contact with Morholt (ew), she no doubt knew modern English.
Mallora’s voice was husky, as her sister’s had been—Allie remembered that voice coming from the mouth of Dr. Jenkins when Boudicca’s spirit had possessed her—but it was nowhere near as harsh. That surprised Allie.
“You,” she addressed Clare. “You are the one the Morholt spoke of. The traveller.”
Clare made a strange little sound in the back of her throat. Allie turned and gaped at her: Clare was choking back an incredulous laugh.
“The Morholt?” Clare said. “No way. That makes him sound way too cool.” She shook her head. “Now, if you mean am I the one Stu spoke of? Then … yes. I guess I am.”
Mallora didn’t rise to the bait. Her gaze just narrowed a bit as if she was contemplating Stu’s lack of coolness. Then she turned to Allie. “And you, little raven. You damaged his chariot.”
Taking a page from Clare’s show-no-fear approach, Allie lifted her chin even higher. “You bet I did.”
“Hm.” Mallora nodded appreciatively. “You struck at him where you knew it would hurt the most. It is a mark of a warrior.”
“Hey—I left him stranded here, you know,” Clare pointed out.
“That did not hurt him,” the priestess said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “That merely broke his mind, which was already showing rather large cracks, I think. What it also did was make him more dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” Clare raised an eyebrow. “You’re kidding. Mister Not-So-Cunning-Plan? He’s annoying, sure. An actual threat? I have my doubts.”
“Desperation and danger are often indistinguishable.” Mallora shrugged one shoulder. “Just ask my sister.”
The flinty glint that flashed in her eyes at the mention of Boudicca—who, of course, was dead and therefore not available for questioning—reminded the girls that they needed to tread carefully. Allie exchanged a glance with Clare, who tried a different tack.
“Right,” she said. “Hey, no need for hostilities here. We’re friends. Well, I’m a friend of your niece, at least. Comorra.”
Mallora was silent for a moment. Then she sighed heavily. “I know. Her mother—my sister—was not always as you knew her.”
“You mean perpetually simmering with rage?” Clare said. “Not that I really blame her.”
“The blood magic works a darkness in the one who calls it forth. After a time, that darkness becomes permanent. As it did with Boudicca.”
“Um … didn’t you … I mean …” Allie struggled for a polite way to ask the Druid priestess if she was likewise tainted. “Aren’t you a caller-forther too?”
“I am …” Mallora shrugged. “I was.”
“Was?”
“I am … drained,” she said. “I called upon the magic to bring this ship to this place so that the legacy of my people would not fall into Roman hands. But now I am far from my land. The source of my strength. And I must conserve what is left of my magic to protect the new soul I carry.” Mallora’s long-fingered hand drifted across her belly, which was still flat, her waist trim and athletic. “So that one day, my descendant—and you two girls—will work together to bring all of this to pass.”
“Oh. Right,” Clare said. “Um. I mean … congratulations to the mother-to-be.”
As she circled back around the table and lowered herself into her chair, Mallora’s expression was wry. “I can only hope my daughter will have the same kind of spirit I have seen in both you girls.”
“Wait. What?” Allie did a double take. “How on earth do you know it’s a girl?” It wasn’t like they had ultrasound machines in the first century.
Mallora shrugged again. “She speaks to me.”
“Okay.” Clare scrunched up her face. “That’s … creepy.”
Mallora’s expression turned inward. “She has my Sight and sees all that passes through my eyes.” Her gaze snapped back into focus and she grinned a bit. “I suspect she, like you, already thinks her father is a bit of an idiot.”
Clare and Allie positively gaped at her.
The Druid priestess, it seemed, had a sense of humour. Boudicca hadn’t exactly been a barrel of laughs, and so to hear her scary Druid sister cracking wise—about Morholt, no less—was refreshing. And made Allie think there might be a chance for them after all.
As Mallora fell silent, the girls’ attention was once more drawn to the clashing swords still ringing like brutal chimes outside the tent. The clamour seemed to make Mallora restless and she rose to her feet again, shooting a dark gaze out the tent flap at where the fighting raged.
“The Romans and their wars,” she muttered. “Despoilers.”
“Yeah,” Clare nodded. “They’re kind of ass-hats.”
Whether or not the vernacular translated, Mallora seemed to get the gist. “They think it will make them rich,” she continued. “But material wealth is not the only value of our treasure. It is, in fact, the least. Our artists are the soul of our people, and none more so than Llassar. His creations are objects of beauty and power, as you well know. That is why I have done everything I can to keep my people’s gold out of the grasping hands of the Roman governor, who will only hand it over to his slavering dog of an emperor. But I fear my Sight may have misled me. I fear that, in bringing the treasure of the Druiddyn across the water, I will have visited a plague upon others who do not deserve it.” Her gaze clouded with memory and regret. “The path I carved for us across the waves stayed open too long and the Romans’ ship managed to sail too close. It w
as pulled along in the wake of our passage and has followed us here, to this land.”
The drums, Allie thought. The beating of the drums they’d heard rumbling across the water. In leading the Romans to … wherever they’d led them, Mallora may have unwittingly visited war upon others.
“Things must be put to rights,” Mallora said. “All things. In both your world … and mine. This world.”
“You mean this time,” Clare said.
Mallora nodded. “I know that is what you have come to do, and you will find the help you need on that island. But they will need help, too. Help that—had I still the strength—I could have given.” She turned her disconcerting gaze on Allie. “You can, little raven.”
Allie frowned and shifted uncomfortably. “You keep calling me that.”
“Told you.” Clare shrugged. “Every time you’ve ever shown up to call me home, you were a bird. It’s weird, but I got used to it.”
“Even so,” Mallora said. “You are both touched by Andrasta, the Raven Goddess. You will lead the charge against the despoilers,” she nodded at Clare. “But you also have a gift, little raven. And you will take my place in what is to come.”
“What?” Allie felt the blood rush out of her head.
“No way!” Clare took a half-step in front of Allie. “You want to mystically pick on somebody, you can pick on me. Leave Al out of this.”
“Between the two of you, you are the traveller, but she is the summoner.” Mallora turned to Allie, her expression fierce. “A caller. As you are the traveller’s beacon, so can you be a beacon to the scathach. They will be needed. I have seen this. I first learned to call the raven warriors in this place. Long ago, when Llassar brought me here to learn the magic of its guardians. But this journey has exhausted me and my power has waned. I cannot call the scathach in my present state, and the time I would need to recover is a luxury we will not be afforded. The scathach that were with me when I met the Morholt—the ones even now defending this ship and us— are all that are left. And their magic is dwindling, if not their fighting skills …”
“I’m going to say that’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Clare said warily.
“It will be. If the Romans bring war to this fresh land.”
“Whose fault is that?” Clare muttered.
Allie frowned. She might not have Clare’s bias against the Romans, but she’d seen the covetous light blazing from Paulinus’s eyes when he gazed upon the unspoiled shores they’d sailed past earlier. Wherever they were, it was a place that had clearly escaped Rome’s radar.
Until we led them right to it.
A place that was green and lush … and ripe for plunder and conquest.
“Uh, okay,” Allie said. “So … how do we make sure that doesn’t happen? War, I mean.”
“You,” Mallora said to Clare, “already know your strengths. Your power.” She plucked the inky cloak of raven feathers off the peg where it hung and, walking back around the desk, dropped it over Allie’s shoulders. It settled there, heavy but comfortable. “And you will soon know yours.” She moved back to the little desk and rested her fingers on the emergency tin that held Morholt’s diary. “Together, you are a force to be reckoned with.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Clare shrugged.
Allie nervously plucked at the hem of the cloak and saw that it wasn’t made entirely of feathers. Rather, layers of black cloth were shredded into points to look like feathers, with actual ones sewn overtop in places. It made the whole thing flow and sweep and would have made the badass-est Halloween costume ever. Allie silently revelled in the way it felt hanging from her shoulders. But she was also terrified—right down to her black socks tucked inside her black boots—by what wearing it meant.
“I have no idea what it is you’re asking me to do. You know that, right?”
Mallora just looked at her. “You will.”
Allie was about to protest when Mallora’s head snapped up and she turned toward the tent flap. Then her features settled into a satisfied, knowing smile. “So. It is time to put a stop to this petty brawling. Our hosts have arrived to welcome us.”
“HOSTS?” CLARE MUTTERED as they were led from the tent by the same two super-scary scathach that had poked and prodded them there in the first place. “Why is cryptic-speak such a big thing in the first century? Seriously!”
Al just shrugged and continued to sweep her gaze from side to side like the beam of a searchlight programmed to seek out Marcus-based life forms.
The fighting had dwindled to a standoff. The two ships were still locked together like teenagers in a high school slow-song dance, starboard and port—at least, that’s what Clare thought they were called. They ground against each other with each wave that swept beneath the boats on its way to crash against the foreboding red cliffs that loomed up out of the sea under rolling green hills. The island from the picture. The place where Clare had told Milo to meet them in three days’ time.
In the distance, across the shimmering blue waves, Clare could make out the contours of the other islands. She also saw that Stuart Morholt had somehow wound up on the Roman-controlled vessel. And now he was yelling his fool head off, screaming something about “diplomatic immunity” and “Geneva Convention.” Junius the legionnaire had also made it back onto the Roman ship. He stood hunched near the rail with a ratty grey blanket around his shoulders, soaking wet and looking thoroughly uncomfortable in his saturated soldier gear. He stared across the gap between the two ships, watching the girls as they trailed behind the Druid priestess, his expression rather less murderous than usual. He seemed more … bemused than anything.
The grappling hooks and ropes lashing the two vessels together strained and groaned with tension. They weren’t the only tense things. The press-ganged sailors of Mallora’s commandeered ship cowered in bunches in the stern as the scathach stood ranged along the bow rails, weapons in hand. Pools of blood and a handful of Roman soldiers lay scattered across the deck. But the fighting had stopped. Clare and Al exchanged a confused glance, wondering what had happened to interrupt the hostilities.
As they approached the bow, a knot of scathach suddenly parted to let Marcus through. He rushed toward them—well, rushed toward Al, really. Clare stood by as he wrapped her in another crushing embrace and asked her if she was okay, was she hurt, did he need to have words with Mallora, should he kill Paulinus, and so on. Finally Clare tapped him on the shoulder. And kept tapping.
“Yo, Muscles,” she said when he finally noticed her. “What’s going on? Why aren’t you guys still fighting?”
“We have visitors,” he said tersely.
Clare glanced around but could see only soldiers, sailors, and scathach. The late-afternoon sunlight washed the verdant contours of the island in beams of pale golden light, making the green grass and the red and purple cliffs sparkle like mounds of precious gems. A little chunk of paradise in the middle of a sapphire-blue sea.
Clare nervously checked her watch, having synchronized it, super-spy style, with Piper’s own timepiece before they’d left the shop. A little over twelve hours, in Clare-Allie Standard Time—or CAST, as she decided to acronymize it—had passed since she and Allie had shimmered away from Glastonbury Tor. It would be the same for Milo and Piper, wherever they were. Clare wondered where that was.
On the way here, she thought. Have a little faith. This is Milo you’re talking about.
Truthfully, there was little doubt in Clare’s mind that Milo would get himself and Piper to the rendezvous on time. But could the same be said for her and Allie? Near the island and on the island weren’t the same thing.
“Close” only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, she thought. So Paulinus is going to have to stand down and back the hell off. And soon.
“Marcus,” Al said, “what did you mean by ‘visitors’?”
He turned to answer her, but just then it became obvious what he’d meant. A miniature shooting star suddenly arced over the bow of the Roman governor’s
ship, landing with a thwacking twang in front of his hobnail-sandalled feet.
A flaming arrow.
Clare and Al ran to the railing to see where it had come from. Riding so low in the water it was invisible until they looked straight down was another small ship. Well, more like a large boat—a rudimentary version of what Clare had always imagined Viking longships to look like. A mast stood, its sail reefed, in the centre of the craft, which was wide and low, with broadly curving sides and a rising prow and stern. A dozen men with hand-held drums crouched aft and another twenty or so figures, cloaked and hooded, stood in rows amidship. And they were surrounded by other, smaller boats. Lots of them. Each little vessel wasn’t much larger than a two-person kayak, only it sported small square sails fore and mid with a few cloaked and hooded figures standing in each, all utterly still. One of the hooded figures in the lead longship held a short, powerful-looking bow in one hand. The drums had stilled and the only sound was the lapping of waves against the sides of the boats.
It was eerie.
Clare wondered who in the world these guys were and where they’d come from. She still didn’t have the foggiest clue where they were, but she had the uneasy feeling that they’d trespassed into occupied territory.
Over on the Roman ship, soldiers and sailors alike rushed to stamp out the roiling, oily fire that was spreading rapidly across the deck. The smoke that billowed around them was thick and dark and smelled remarkably like turpentine—the archer must have soaked the missile in some kind of potent accelerant before setting it ablaze. The ship’s planking resembled a particularly hearty grease fire Clare had accidentally started once in her Home Arts class at school. Paulinus ignored it and stalked to the bow to look down on his attacker.
“What is this intrusion?” he shouted angrily. “Who are you? This is a matter that does not concern you. Go on your way!”
Clare wasn’t surprised at his offhand dismissal. After all, here was a guy who made a living invading far-flung lands and stomping out whoever happened to have been there first. She glanced over at Mallora, who gazed down on the longship with a serene, knowing look on her face. Clare wondered what the Druidess knew that the rest of them didn’t. Then a voice called out from the longship and the answer hit her like a bolt from the blue.