Celtic Fire by Joy Nash Read Free Book Online

had harassed the commander and saved Owein’s life. But who—
    A soft whinny came from the brush, followed by a crackle of twigs. Owein whipped his head around as Bryan gave a low whistle. Another nicker, and then a snow-white mare crashed through the branches. The pony didn’t stop until she reached Owein’s side.
    “Derwa,” he whispered. Rhiannon’s pony. A horrible suspicion formed in Owein’s mind. His sister had a steady hand on the bow—she’d often shot targets with him when he was a lad. His gut contracted on a stab of nausea more painful than the slice of a Roman sword.
    Reese grabbed Derwa’s reins. “This be Rhiannon’s pony.”
    “Aye,” replied Owein. “How did the beast come to be so far from the village?”
    The mare nudged Owein’s shoulder with her nose. Then she tossed her head and turned, as if expecting him to follow.
    “No,” Owein croaked.
Dear Briga, don’t let it be true.
Did Rhiannon think so little of his battle skills that she would follow him to war?
    He grabbed the pouch tied at Derwa’s neck and tore it open. The bitter scent of coltsfoot and silverweed, herbs Rhiannon had brewed for him just two days before, assaulted his senses. She’d come after him, but where was she now? She would never have let her pony wander without a rider.
    His sister was dead or taken prisoner.
    Owein’s nausea surged anew. He doubled over and emptied his stomach on the trail.

Chapter Three
    The Roman bedchamber was at once wondrous and terrifying.
    Sunlight streamed through the shuttered windows, casting bright stripes across a floor paved with bits of colored stone. Beyond, a smooth wall rose to a ceiling ribbed with square-hewn timbers. Exquisite paintings danced across the flat walls, images of tiny men and women so breathtakingly real that Rhiannon half expected them to move.
    She marveled at the floor. The shining stone fragments wove a fearsome beast from the colors of the rainbow. The enormous catlike monster bared long, sharp teeth as it swatted at its prey, its mane of golden fur glittering with the reflected light of the sun. Did such a monster truly exist? Or had it been conjured from the artist’s nightmares?
    A shiver ran the length of Rhiannon’s spine. She shifted on her raised pallet. Her wounded leg throbbed, but the pain was not unbearable. The soft wool of her blanket warmed her naked skin. The women who had bathed her had taken her ruined tunic and left no replacement. Had the oversight been deliberate? The thought brought a rush of dread.
    She pushed herself upright, one hand gripping the curved end of the bed that rose a handsbreadth above the mattress. Intricate carvings etched the wood, twining vines painted so realistically she could almost smell the clusters of small, round fruits nestled among the leaves. A matching terminal rose at the foot of the mattress, giving the bed the aspect of a boat. And indeed Rhiannon had never felt quite so adrift as at that moment.
    There was but one door—had it been barred? One window on the opposite wall. The square chamber was small and sparsely furnished, but the few items it held were, like the bed, luxurious. A long wooden table, bearing a tall ewer, stood against the wall. A smaller bench was within reach of the bed, as was a wide stool with crossed legs. A metal tray, filled with glowing coals and supported on squat legs, lay on the floor. Languid heat rose from it into the air, without the haze and odor of smoke that accompanied a hearth fire.
    The hairs on Rhiannon’s nape lifted despite the warmth. Never in her life had she been enclosed by flat walls. Her own dwelling was comprised of circular walls and capped by a high conical peak. She gazed at the shadowed corners of the chamber. Who knew what dread beings lurked in the unnatural angles of this place, untouched by the spirals of the Great Mother’s spirit?
    Rhiannon forced a swallow past her dry tongue and gathered what courage she could. It would do her no good to