An image bloomed unbidden in my mind—her, naked beneath me. I gritted my teeth, jerking my head to dispel the image. She is forbidden, I reminded myself grimly.
Not wanting to test my reserve any longer, I spied the suitcase at the foot of her bed. Grabbing it in hand, I exited the villa, firmly pulling the door shut behind me before striding purposefully toward the Land Cruiser. Wrenching the driver’s door open, I hefted her suitcase onto the passenger seat. Refusing to look in the rear-view mirror, I fired up the vehicle and turned on the navigation system.
“Name and destination,” the voice intoned.
“Auckland International Airport.”
20
Tritus
3rd Century BC, Ancient Scotland
As he considered the thirteen ceremonial daggers he’d just completed, Tritus knew that this was his best work to date. The blades were all uniform, honed to a fine edge, and the hilts were beautiful, decorated in symbols familiar to the blue men.
Every piece he’d made was an extension of himself, an expression of his art. Which is why Tritus always hated parting with his pieces. But tomorrow they would leave his hands. Tomorrow he would give them to the Wise Ones, and then—then he would learn to hunt.
Birds were beginning to awaken as rose fingers slowly streaked across the lightening sky. Rising from his bedroll, Tritus breathed in deeply, capturing the scent of the bright, fresh dawn. He turned his head and immediately spotted Drust to his left, leaning against a tree trunk.
“Morning,” Tritus murmured. “Nothing overt last night?”
Drust shook his head. “Only a few curious foxes.” He pushed himself to his feet and swung his arms briskly, crossing and uncrossing them against his back. “And of course, the cold. Samhain is on our doorstep; today will be our last day to hunt.”
Tritus nodded, yawning widely as he stretched his limbs under his heavy wolf pelt. He felt the stirrings of a headache crack against his brow and knew he’d stayed up too late last night, talking well into the night with Drust. Thankfully, Talorgan had gone to bed early on, retreating to the furthest edge of the campfire.
Thinking of Drust’s brother made Tritus glance behind him, but Talorgan was gone, his bedroll placed neatly by his satchel. Going by the time of day, he was most likely in worship to his gods. Tritus was relieved he didn’t need to deal with Talorgan’s weighted silences just yet.
This expedition had meant to be only the two of them. However, for some reason, Talorgan had insisted upon coming. He had been silent for most of the trek, but Drust remained open and friendly, showing him what type of roots and berries to forage for, and where best to lay his traps. Tritus found many similarities with the plants foraged from his own homeland, but across the salty sea they didn’t have the wiry brambles that clung to the mountain tops here in this wild, rugged landscape. Drust called the plant ‘bullace’. The flowers were bitter to the taste, but Drust showed him that when cooked and steeped, they were sweet, like nectar.
He’d also had time to practice with the bow and arrow Drust had acquired for him, creating targets when they stopped to eat or sleep. With Drust’s careful tuition, he’d improved over the last five days but was still to take down a sizable prey. The rabbits and birds he’d captured had merely supplemented the preserved food they carried, and Tritus looked forward to hunting a larger animal.
He quit procrastinating, pushing his pelt down and rising to his feet. He shivered in the brisk morning air. The discussion last night was a heavy shadow in the light of the new dawn, and he swore he could still feel a chill sense of foreboding along his spine.
Drust had satisfied his curiosity about their gods. Especially this Cailleach—the Goddess of Winter. Drust had shared she was one of many deities who walked among them, not content to reside in spiritual form. He’d said she was as ancient as the earth itself; her origins unknown. Some called her the Mother Goddess. This term was familiar, and what Tritus’s people would refer to as the All-Mother.
Drust’s tales about her had been unbelievable, hard to stomach as truth. With the onslaught of winter, Drust said that she brought death and destruction to the land with a strike of her hammer—a hammer that was apparently made of human flesh! He shuddered, wondering at the extent of power this goddess wielded, the fear she endowed.
Remembering those stories and the loose plans they’d made last night, Tritus asked, “Are we still heading up her mountain today?”
Drust kicked earth over the smoldering embers of the campfire. “We’ve come this far; there is no point turning back now. We are taking a risk hunting in her domain so close to Samhain, but if you want to hunt deer, you’ll find them there with a surety.”
His friend gestured at the highest mountain peak behind them, glinting in the early morning sunrise. Tritus noticed that snow now capped the breadth of those mountain peaks, a trumpet heralding that winter was upon them.
“But we’re going to have to be quick,” Drust continued. “Samhain is the day of Cailleach’s reckoning, and we need to leave her domain before nightfall.”
Drust had said that the highest peak in this mountain range, known as Ben Macdui, was one of her resting places. It was abundant in wildlife, a treasure trove for the hunter and his winter larder. The timing was too close for Tritus’s liking, and they would be tempting fate hunting in the goddess’s domain, but how could he pass up the opportunity? This land to the west was rich and plentiful, more so than his homeland over the salty sea. He ached to revel in the speed of the chase, the thrill of the hunt that he’d heard these blue men boast about. Besides, the reason he’d agreed to craft the ceremonial daggers was just for this purpose.
Tritus looked to Drust, his decision firm. “I’m in.”
Drust grinned, a flash of teeth amongst blue ink. “I knew you’d see reason. Our people wouldn’t affiliate themselves with cowards. Besides, we have nothing to worry about—no one has seen her for years.”
To Tritus, Drust’s confidence felt over-done. Or was it his own sixth sense warning him? Tritus couldn’t deny that he’d felt slightly off these last few days, distracted by the cues his body was giving him. He wasn’t touched by Druidic power as many of his and Drust’s people were, but he wasn’t completely Dormant either. He was finely attuned to people’s emotions and the environment around him, able to craft objects into works of art, feel the metal as he manipulated it between his fingers, understand where the weaknesses were in the blade—but that was the extent of his abilities.
His skin prickled again, a reminder to be cognizant of other things at play. But then he remembered how close they were to Samhain. This is normal around Samhain, he reminded himself. For when the veils between the worlds became thin, his premonitions were stronger than ever.
Tritus released a breath as he reminded himself that in a few days these feelings would pass. They have nothing to do with today’s hunt.
Bending down, he rolled up his wolf pelt, sending a fervent prayer to the All-Father that his hunt would be successful.
The brown spotted deer was alone, just below the canopy of the tree line. Warm sunlight dappled the ground, creating shadows and light amongst the foliage. A gentle breeze flowed downwind, masking their scent.
Drust was crouched behind a bush, on Tritus’s left.
Talorgan had opted to stay further back down the mountain and gather herbs today. Tritus welcomed his decision, for Talorgan had been in a black mood all morning. Every move, every question, every comment had been snapped at, picked to pieces, or derisively ignored. Nor had Talorgan held back on his prejudice against his people’s gods, scorning their belief in only two—the All-Father and the All-Mother. The discussion had been exhausting and not one that Tritus wished to continue. So, when Talorgan announced that he was done trailing behind them for the day and stalked off to forage for supplies, Tritus had sighed with relief, and with Talorgan’s departure, had finally begun to enjoy the day.