“But that was regarding deer!” roared Talorgan. “She mentioned nothing of a stag!”
Had Tritus already changed Drust that much? Talorgan turned to face the man who had caused his heart to harden and blacken. This man who also called himself Druid. He spat at the ground, fighting the urge to pick up his bow again and fire an arrow into the Gaul’s heart.
Talorgan growled. Tritus was poison, and in more ways than one. He ached to ax the spread of it, to see the man dead. Of his own accord, a hand crept inside his robe, seeking the short dagger that was hidden within its folds. As his heart’s desire echoed in his mind, Talorgan ignored the cool voice of reason. But when he glanced at his brother and saw the sadness in Drust’s eyes, he stuttered, hesitating as he wrapped his hand around the worn handle of his dagger. Feeling the dagger in his grasp was powerful. It gave him the confidence to carry through with his desire. But that look on his brother’s face was as effective as a hand on his arm.
That look on Drust’s face told him it was too soon to take this man’s life. Drust would never forgive him. His brother still didn’t see the treachery yet, nor what the man had planned. The last thing Talorgan wanted was dissension with his twin.
He reluctantly released the dagger’s handle. As he withdrew his hand, aware that his brother tracked the movement, Talorgan comforted himself with the knowledge that it wouldn’t be today.
Not today, but soon.
Shifting his eyes from Tritus, Talorgan said aloud, “That promise was for your benefit! The promise was not required of me, for I was not there. Therefore, I live outside of those restrictions!”
“And did Cailleach share this with you herself?” Tritus asked.
His voice was mild, but the insinuation was the last straw. Already on a thin edge, Talorgan’s control snapped. He charged, his head hitting Tritus squarely in the gut. Tritus grunted, and they toppled backward. Scrambling, Talorgan launched himself over his foe, pinning Tritus to the ground, and without pausing to think, acted on pure instinct and threw a series of swift punches at Tritus’s face. This time, he didn’t deny his urges; this time, he fed the dark desires that raged inside him.
As his fists connected with skin and bone, Talorgan reveled in the impact that trembled up his arm. His lips curled into a feral smile as he let loose all the animosity he held toward this man.
Tritus bucked wildly beneath him, swinging blindly with one arm while raising the other to shield himself from Talorgan’s blows.
“STOP!” a loud voice boomed.
26
Tritus
3rd Century BC, Ancient Scotland
The piercing shout reverberated like a huge drum. Tritus groaned and grabbed his head with both hands. The thumping pain that accompanied that voice was agonizing, worse than the blows Talorgan had rained down on him.
Talorgan had fallen to the side, legs scrambling underneath him as he erratically twisted his body into contorted positions on the forest floor, clutching at his head. Drust was similarly affected, kneeling on the ground, his upper body leaning over his knees as he cradled his skull, rocking backward and forward.
A keen wailing could be heard, and Tritus dimly registered through the pain that it was coming from them. Just when he thought he couldn’t take it any longer, a boom of thunder sucked the air from around them, and a blinding white light pierced the forest canopy.
The pain in his head was suddenly gone. Tritus raised an arm to cover his eyes, squinting against the bright light. He could just make out a blurred figure. At first, it appeared large and distorted.
He blinked and saw it clearly. It was the giant crone from before—the goddess Cailleach. And in a similar action to when they’d first met, she held Talorgan’s arrow in one hand. But this was different; it was as though her image wavered, half in this world, and half in the next.
A voice whispered in his head. This is just a mirage; she is more than just a hag.
Tritus blinked again, trying to focus his vision. He didn’t understand where that thought had come from, but his intuition told him there was truth in it. Willing his mind to clear, he closed his eyes, asking them to see what was really before him. And when he opened them, the vision had changed.
There was no longer an ugly crone there, but a woman.
She was tall and willow slim, clad in a virginal white dress with each of her slender arms encircled by a bronze arm torc. Her hair was pale as the moonlight and hung braided to her knees. On top of her head lay a crown of flowers in full bloom, securely fastened by thorny stems braided together.
Tritus made eye contact and immediately gasped. Her eyes were silver—a silver so bright they rivaled the twinkling of the stars at night. As he stared at her, he felt his eyes begin to burn, then well with tears. As though it was an effort to look upon such beauty. But it was more than that, he realized, for he could also feel his skin burning, as though he stood too close to a firepit.
There was a scent all around him, and it was all-encompassing: a hint of pine interlaced with the sharp bite of frost on a cold night. It was fresh and bright, as pure as she was. For she wasn’t just beautiful—she was exquisite, an ethereal beauty. In his bones, to the very depth of his being, Tritus understood that this woman held unimaginable power; it simmered just below the surface, an eternal flame that would never go out.
There was a disturbance to his right. The movement broke his trance, and he turned to see the brothers had dropped to their knees, heads bowed in supplication. He immediately followed suit, wondering if this beautiful woman was another goddess.
Her gaze lingered first on Drust, then Talorgan, before resting on his own. Tritus felt his chest squeeze violently as their gazes locked. Her eyes sparkled and spun, like a thousand droplets of water. They reminded Tritus of a whirlpool; the silver irises a vortex of speed, rotating dangerously around her black pupils.
“Rise.”
Her voice was like a melody, soft and musical. But as with Cailleach, he could feel his ears protesting, ringing with pain.
Tritus didn’t question her demand, pushing to his feet. He ignored the stiff joints and bruises already forming. Drust came to stand beside him, Talorgan falling on his other side.
The woman tilted her head, glancing first at the carcasses of the deer, then at them each in turn. “I see you have partaken of my gifts.”
Talorgan touched a hand to his brow, head bent in supplication as he answered, “Cailleach, we thank you for your blessing.”
Tritus froze. Cailleach? This was the crone from before? But why did she look so different? Where was the giant, grotesque hag from before?
“What do you think of my home?” she asked, raising her arms to encompass everything around her.
Tritus didn’t hesitate to respond. Looking her straight in the eye, he whispered, “It’s beautiful, just like you, my lady.”
“Tritus!” barked Drust.
Tritus heard the undercurrent of fear in his friend’s voice, as if afraid he’d insulted the goddess.
He glanced at Drust to find he was also staring at the woman, not with lust or admiration, but with deep-rooted fear. Looking to Talorgan, Tritus understood that he too was afraid, his features pinched and white as if disgusted at what he saw—as if she were still a crone!
Cailleach began to move toward him, and her voice was short as she asked, “Why are you not like the others, Tritus?”