Page 5 of Boudicca

As the fog continued to disperse and the light filtered through the boughs of the oak grove, I stopped long enough to tie my skirt up so that I was free to run. I increased my pace and at the same time heard my mother’s voice drifting like the lifting mist:Listen to the forest.

I relaxed my upper body, allowing my arms to move smoothly, rhythmically, with my legs, and let the forest guide me.

At a full run, I felt flush with energy. It seemed as if the matriarch oak had breathed power into my body. I was the swiftest of the Iceni women and was faster than most of the men. My legs were long and strong. My body was fit. Though I had never been in battle, I loved the way training and pushing myself to physical exhaustion made me feel. Warriors move with grace and confidence because they continually ask more and more of themselves. I was a peacetime queen of a prosperous tribe, but that did not mean I was weak or a coward. I fiercely shouted the Iceni war cry when I practiced hand-to-hand fighting with myguard. I stood taller than most men, something Prasutagus took great pride in—almost as great as the pride I took in myself.

I was queen of the Iceni, and the Iceni were not meek. Nor was their queen.

Like a creature of the forest, I leaped over fallen boughs and ferns that curled with new growth, dodged around the gnarled trunks of the trees that grew increasingly close together, and sprinted through the clearings that became farther and farther apart. My thick braid lifted whenever I leaped, allowing the back of my neck to briefly cool.

I didn’t slow until the distant music of a stream passing over stones came to me on the morning breeze. Though I was not winded, my stride shortened and I changed direction so that I headed directly toward the sound, as if the murmuring water called to me.

The oaks thinned and gave way to white willows. Surprise made me stumble to a walk. White willows were sacred and only grew on the banks of rivers. They needed more water than a small forest stream provided.

My well-trained eyes searched for landmarks—trees, rocks, deer paths—that should have been familiar.

Nothing was familiar.

I shook myself. It felt as if I had just awakened from yet another dream. I had raced through the forest without noticing that the mauve and violet of dawn had burned through the fog but never matured to morning-sunlight yellow. I peered overhead, and though the day was clear I could see no cornflower sky, but only more layers of pink and purple. Still, I was not afraid. The forest was as much my home as Tasceni. It had always fed, clothed, and comforted the Iceni. It was a good friend, though one that often kept secrets. I walked on more cautiously.

Through the willows, the reflection of the unusual light off a small but quickly moving stream caused specks of brightness to obscure my vision. I blinked to clear my eyes and then my breath caught in my throat.

A mighty hart stood before me, just outside the willow wall. His back was to me as he drank from the stream. His coat was aswhite as goat’s milk and glistened with colors like the inside of an oyster’s shell. His beauty stopped my breath. I made no sound, but the stag lifted his head and looked directly at me. I stared back at him in wonder. He was crowned by horns so massive I wondered how even his thick neck could carry them. The creature showed no fear but met my gaze steadily.

The hart’s eyes were as emerald green as my own and glistened as brilliantly as the pendant that lay between my breasts.

There was no birdsong in the trees, and even the music of the stream was muted. The stag turned and slowly began walking along the edge of the water. He’d only moved a few paces when he paused and glanced back at me.

I followed, though I did not try to move closer to the stag; instead, I walked beside him, parallel, but kept the willows between us. If I lagged he would pause and look back until I caught up with him.

I lost all sense of time. The strange light remained the same, so I had no way to judge whether a moment or a day had passed, but it seemed soon that the stream took an abrupt curve to the right. The hart stopped and then turned to face the stream. I halted as well. The willows had thinned, so I could clearly see that the stag was standing in front of two rowan trees. They were covered with white flowers the same color as the hart’s miraculous coat and grew so close together that their uppermost branches intertwined to form a living arch.

Once more the deer turned his head to look back at me. I saw a question in his eyes before he walked between the two trees and plunged into the crystal stream. On the far side of the stream he followed a slim path that led up and over what had become a steep bank and disappeared.

Face hot and flushed with anticipation, I followed the stag and stepped between the rowan trees, striding confidently to the stream, planning to cross it and climb the bank after the hart. At the edge of the water I paused to glance down to pick my way carefully over the slick, smooth stones.

“Are you lost, child?”

The creaking voice startled me. My gaze darted up to see an old woman on the opposite side of the stream—exactly in the middle of the path the stag had just taken. The crone sat on a stump beside an elaborately carved cauldron suspended over the remains of a cold fire by a rough tripod made of boughs. Around her feet, wild hares nibbled tender grasses, tame as puppies, and in the willow behind her dozens of ravens stared silently.

I blinked rapidly and cleared my throat to find my voice. “No, Grandmother,” I said respectfully. “This is my forest. I could not be lost here, but you do not look familiar to me. Could it beyouwho is lost?”

The old woman cackled and the ravens croaked delightedly, echoing her. “I am never lost but rarely found—and always exactly where I should be.”

I shifted from foot to foot. I knew the crone was more than what she appeared to be, though how much moreI was not yet sure.

“Well, Grandmother, do you need aid?” I reached into the folds of my hunting cloak and took out the carefully wrapped food. “I would gladly share my lunch with you. The village of my tribe is not far from here, and we welcome visitors. Might I guide you there?”

The old woman sat up straighter, her dark eyes alight with intelligence. “I do not need your aid, nor require your guidance, and I am well fed—but if freely given, I would accept an offering.”

An offering... an offering... an offering...

The crone’s words took form around me, swirling like fog, thick as the breath of the dragon.

As if Mother stood before me again, I heard her voice mix with the crone’s.I give this to you freely... to leave as an offering...

Realization shivered through me. The creature most closely associated with Arianell’s patron goddess, Brigantia, was the white hart. My body moved before I could form another thought. I splashed hastily through the stream, paying no heed to the icy water.

“I have an offering to give, and I do so freely.” I took the silver chain from around my neck and held it out to the old woman. The lovely silver hart was suspended, swaying gently.