Once Every Never (23 page)

“How does Llassar know?”

“We Druiddyn are trained in the art of healing—a consequence of which is that we are also trained in the darker arts of harming. We must know the one to effectively bring about the other, sometimes.” Connal’s eyes were cold as he returned the poisonous fungi to his pouch. “This poison is subtle, effective … and leaves only a slight discolouration at the back of the victim’s throat. Llassar discovered it as he was preparing the king’s body for the pyre.” His handsome features clouded at the memory. “But that is what this war is all about, Clarinet. The Empire would take that which does not belong to them and they will do it by any means necessary. War, treachery, politicking, it does not matter to them. There is no honour in that, and no honour in them, and
no honour in us
if we let them! Even though I know well that we will lose in the end.”

“Why do you think that?”

Connal shrugged, staring off at where the tribe had gathered and the torches burned. “The Iceni are a warrior people. Rome is a war machine. We fight with all the passion in our souls. They fight with none. What Boudicca doesn’t understand is …
that
is why they will win.”

“And when the queen loses …”

“She will die.” Connal was matter-of-fact.

“So over Boudicca’s dead body it is then, huh?” Clare said, her tone bitter.

Connal shrugged again. “And mine.”

“Wow. That’s thinking positive.”

He smiled sadly at her. “I know my fate, Clarinet. It is tied to the queen’s. I can no more escape my death than I could have escaped my birth. It is my destiny.”

Connal’s casual disregard of his own impending doom made her want to weep with frustration.

“Why does the thought of my death upset you so, Clarinet?”

“Because I … you’re …” Clare couldn’t exactly come right out and say that, among other things, his death would be a pointless waste of a total hottie, but she also couldn’t help thinking it.

His eyes narrowed, glinting with a subtle mirth. “It does upset you, doesn’t it?”

“Of course it does!” Clare protested, her cheeks growing hot. “I mean … death is just bad and stupid on principle. Especially if it’s pointless!”

“But you are one of the Fair Folk, Clarinet.” Connal leaned close to nudge her with his shoulder. “We have always been told that the dwellers of the Otherworld do not give much thought or care to the mere mortals of this realm.”

He was teasing her. It was
so
not fair. Clare began to feel a bit flushed.

“Yeah, well,” she muttered, “you’re not exactly the kind of mortal I would ever refer to as ‘mere’ …” The sparkle in his gaze seemed to have effectively shut down Clare’s internal editor function. She was still talking and couldn’t seem to stop. “In fact,” she heard herself say, “you’re probably the un-merest mortal I’ve met in a long time. See … uh … ‘mere’ as a word—uh—adjective, I think, doesn’t really quite cover it where you’re concerned. You know—you as a mortal. You have a lack of mereness. What’s the opposite of mere? Never mind. Not important.”

“Clarinet?”

“Yes?”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. And also, if it’s okay by you, I’d like to shut up now …”
Or possibly just go somewhere and swallow my own face
. She could feel her cheeks turning brighter and redder as Connal began to laugh. She was grateful for the darkness.

It took Clare a long moment of sustained embarrassment to figure out that he was laughing
with
her, not
at
her. She started to laugh then herself.

Connal leaned back on one elbow and regarded her. “Are you really from the Otherworld, Clarinet?” he asked.

Clare snorted, caught up in the moment. “No. I’m really from Toronto. Normally. I guess at the moment I’m from Londinium. Except now we call it London.”

“Now?”
Connal tilted his head quizzically.

“Uh—
then
. Never mind. Forget I said that. You probably wouldn’t believe where I come from even if I could somehow manage to explain it to you. Which I can’t. Or you’d just laugh at me. Because it’s complicated.
I’m
complicated. I’m a complicated girl.”

“I like complicated girls,” Connal said and smiled again.

It should be illegal to possess a smile that devastating
, Clare thought.

“And I promise not to laugh,” he said.

Clare sighed and hugged her knees. Was there any harm? Seriously. If Connal told anyone else her story they’d probably just label him the village idiot and ignore him. Besides, the Iceni were about to become far too preoccupied to worry about her. Time-stream monkey outrage notwithstanding, it would be nice to share her secret with him …

“Okay,” she said. “Here’s the deal: I’m not from the Otherworld, but I am from
an
other world. Strictly speaking. In space and time, at least. I’m from the distant future.” She paused and waited for his reaction.

“I see.” Connal smiled, pretty obviously trying not to be patronizing. “And what is that, exactly? The
‘diztan-fee-you-chur.’
I do not know that place. Is it an island?”

“You have got to be kidding me.” Clare blinked, mildly put out that her revelation hadn’t provoked a more dramatic response. “How come you can understand everything else I say?”

“I do not know. I understand the meaning of most of your words, even if the sounds are unfamiliar. But
that
word—it has no meaning for me. It is only a sound.”

“It’s two words,” Clare frowned. “Distant
and
future.”

“Ah!” Connal’s face lit with sudden comprehension. “But ‘distant’ pertains to space, Clarinet. ‘Future’ pertains to time.”

“Well then, what do you call two thousand years from now?”

“Irrelevant.” He shrugged. “A dream.”

Could it be?
Clare wondered. Could it actually be that these people had no actual concept of the far future? Of the progression of history beyond that which—as Connal said—pertained only to them?

“Well that certainly gives new meaning to
Carpe diem
…”

Connal cocked his head, his expression turning wary. “Do you speak in the tongue of the Roman?”

“What—Latin? Oh yeah. I guess.” Clare grimaced at the unintentional faux pas. “I mean … no. I took it for half a semester in grade ten and totally flunked out. That’s about the only thing I remember from that class, and it’s just an expression that managed to survive into my era. Sorry. No offence.”

“I have heard the words before—from the Roman traders that hawk their tawdry wares in the market stalls at Camulodunum—but I do not understand them. What does ‘carpe diem’ mean?”

“It means ‘seize the day.’ Live for the moment.” Clare smiled ruefully. “You know—tomorrow may be too late and you may never get another chance to do something that you really want to do.”

“A Roman concept I can understand,” Connal murmured. “And appreciate.”

And then he kissed her.

Clare felt her eyes go wide, but after a moment, she kissed him back.

“Carpe diem,” he whispered against her lips as his hands wrapped around her shoulders and he pulled her toward him, gently but with determination. Clare felt her own arms wrapping around his neck and then his hands were in her hair, tangling in her gold-brown curls and holding her face close to his as his lips pressed against hers. Connal smelled like fresh air and moonlight and woodsmoke and fresh green growing things. He tasted like brook water. Clare felt as though her skin was on fire everywhere he touched her.

It seemed, as kisses went, you really couldn’t beat a first-century Iceni Druid in a secluded, moonlit grove.

It would have been nice if they hadn’t had company.

But even with Connal’s hands cupping the sides of her head, Clare heard the sharp, hissing intake of breath from over her shoulder. She broke from the kiss and turned in time to see Comorra, bandaged and bloodied, swaying slightly on her feet. She drew her sword from her belt. There was a wild, dangerous look in her eyes.

Clare scrambled to her feet and dodged backward as Comorra lunged at her, the blade of her sword whistling through the air in a deadly arc.

“Hey!” Clare exclaimed. “What the hell?”

“He is not yours!” Comorra snarled, slashing once more with the blade.

“Comorra!” Connal cried out. “Stop!”

Clare ducked again, the blade narrowly missing her cheek. Comorra had her non-sword arm wrapped around her torso, as if trying to hold herself together. If she hadn’t been wounded, Clare had the suspicion that she’d probably already be missing a vital body part or two.

The princess came at her again, but this time Connal was able to get around her and wrap her in a tight bear hug, confining her arms to her sides. She struggled weakly against him, tears of rage and hurt streaming down her face.

“She cannot have you, too,” Comorra wailed weakly. “She has taken too much from me already.”

“What?” Clare shook her head. Suddenly the Iceni words weren’t making any sense to her. “What are you talking about?”

“I know,” Comorra said. “I know now. What you are … You are a thief of souls come to take those dearest to me.”

“Okay. You are delirious and suffering from blood loss. Obviously.”

“Thief!”

“Connal … what is she talking about?”

“I came to find you,” Comorra’s voice choked on a half-sob. “To
thank
you. I thought you were my friend. I truly did. But now I know.”

“Know
what
?”

“You were there the night my father burned.” Comorra spat the words as an accusation. “You are here now that my sister is dead. You watched as that Roman took me away on the riverbank and you did nothing.”

Clare had a sick feeling in her stomach. Really … how must that have looked to Comorra? “I couldn’t!” she protested. “I didn’t know how—”

“But you knew we were going to Londinium—you were there when Macon told me of it. Did you skulk there too, watching as they whipped the flesh from my mother’s back? My mother will go to her death soon and I will lose her.” She half-twisted in Connal’s grip, her expression wild and anguished. “I cannot lose you too, Connal.”

“You
won’t
,” Clare said emphatically.

“So say you. When you are here”—she strained against Connal’s hold on her—“trying to steal him from me even now. I told you. I
told
you I wanted him. And yet here you are with him. Will you take everyone from me who I love?”

A crushing weight of betrayal fell down on Clare as if from a great height. Comorra certainly had a point. She had known that the princess was smitten with the hot young Druid prince. She’d known that. And still she’d kissed him. Without a thought for the feelings of the girl that she’d come back in time with the express purpose of saving. How screwed up was that?

“I am tired of losing.” Comorra sagged back into Connal’s arms. The fight seemed to go out of her and he turned her gently around.

“Little bird,” Connal said gently. “You have not lost. You have not lost
me
. You are not well. Come, let me take you home.”

Comorra straightened, shrugging off his arm and lifting her chin. “I am well enough. Strong enough. Choose, Connal. And then come to me when you will. If you will.”

She turned and walked back toward the roundhouses of the town.

Clare took a few steps in her wake. “I should probably talk to her,” she said. “Explain things. Explain that she didn’t really see what she thought she saw …”

Oh?
said a dry voice in her head.
So what really did just happen here, then?
Clare wasn’t sure. She knew that her heart was still racing and that it wasn’t entirely because Comorra had attacked her. It was because Connal was standing there, close by her, in the moonlight. And she could still feel his kiss on her lips.

“I think maybe you should go,” Connal said. He shook his head, a weary expression on his face. “It was nice to think that, for a moment, I could forget what was to come. I could forget myself. It was foolish of me. My priorities are my people. My princess and my queen … and the fulfillment of my destiny.”

He turned and looked at her, and for a moment Clare was struck with a powerful sense, not of déjà vu, but of familiarity. With the planes of his face so sharply outlined in moonlight and the shadow of stubble on his cheeks and chin, he looked older. Sadder. He looked like—

Overhead a raven cawed harshly.

Like someone she’d seen before …

Somewhere.

Fireworks went off behind Clare’s eyes. She cried out the young Druid’s name, but that world was already gone. Faded back into shadows and mist.

“WHO ON EARTH
is Connal?” Stuart Morholt peered down at her as she rematerialized.

Clare felt faint. But it wasn’t just the effects of shimmering. Or having had a sword drawn on her. She’d suddenly realized exactly who on earth Connal was. And what, exactly, his sacrifice would be. Her mind flashed back to the image on the plaque beside the display case in the British Museum. Connal’s self-professed destiny was to become a Spectral Warrior of the Norfolk Broads.

Connal the Druid and Claxton Man were one and the same.

18

“I
can’t. I can’t go back there again. You don’t understand. It’s not a nice place. They don’t think like rational human beings! Connal’s chipper as hell about skipping off to his grim fate and Comorra drew a
sword
on me. After I helped her out of the forest and everything!”