A cheer rose up from the warriors as she neared the center of the grisly scene. Men and women, covered in their blood and the blood of others, waved their swords in victory and cheered her name. Power and pleasure surged through her. Some of her disciples said that her power went to her head.
T
hey were wrong. She, Druantia, caused victories such as this. Druids all over their great isle were revered for their power and wisdom. But she—she was their leader.
She stopped in front of King Suibhne, her gaze flashing over the victorious scene. He bowed to her, his eyes cast down, and a smile curved over her face. His second-in-command brought her the head of their bravest foe, slain not an hour past.
She nodded. “Take it to the altar.” It would sit there, to honor the warrior’s bravery and skill. For one day his people would be hers as well.
A woman handed her a torch and Druantia grasped it, thrusting it into the sky. She yelled, “It is I, Druantia, who have brought you this victory.”
They cheered, their cries filling her body with everything she craved. “Gather the heads of the greatest fallen. They will line the walls of my temple! We will take their strength into us.”
The crowd—warriors, their families, children—all had come to praise her for their victory. As they should. Their cheers rose on the air, first wordless, then coalescing to form her name. She raised the torch higher, pleasure surging through her at their adulation.
A crack of thunder broke through the night, so strong that it shook the ground beneath her feet. Before it had faded, a man appeared.
No, a god. Camulos stood before her, god of war, and rage lined his face. She stepped back instinctively, then caught herself, horrified by her weakness.
She was Druantia, High Priestess of the Druids. She didn’t cower from anyone. Not even a god.
“Cease,” Camulos roared, his gaze cutting across the people.
Their cries died as they caught sight of him, larger and more powerful than any mortal and with a gods’ rage all but vibrating from him. Whispers passed through the crowd that a god was among them. A rare occurrence, but not unheard of.
“I am Camulos, god of war! Your success on this battlefield was granted at my will. You fought fellow Celts. Yet I alone decreed that your kingdom should be victorious over theirs.” He swung his arm out, pointing at her. “Not this woman.”
She fell to her knees, propelled by his power until the wet ground soaked through her dress and the rocks bit into her flesh.
“She is but a priestess, bound to do my will as I see fit. Nothing more!” His arrogance cut through the night.
Rage such as Druantia had never experienced engulfed her, made all the worse by her impotence. She could do nothing. No matter how she struggled, she was pinned, kneeling in the mud. In front of her people. Their faces all turned to her, confusion turning to disdain. No!
“Your tributes are to me!” Thunder followed his bellow, the elements urged on by his fury. Rain poured from the sky, turning the mud and the blood of war into a foul swamp that soaked through Druantia’s clothes. “Gather the heads of your greatest foes and bring them here.”
Druantia, trembling in her rage and humiliation, watched as her people brought the heads forth and piled them in front of Camulos. Their faces were awed, glowing with admiration in the light of the torches.
The god of war watched, satisfaction and arrogance glowing from his face, until the heads were piled high, a gruesome tribute to his power and glory. The gods were known for their passions and jealousy, but never had it been turned against her. The heads were meant for her temple, so that she might benefit from the power of their souls. But no, they went to him. And such pleasure he took in it that it burned her.
From his outstretched hand, Camulos shot a blast of godly fire that immolated the tribute, the flames rising high despite the pouring rain. The souls of the fallen, what would have been her tribute, poured forth from the flame, rising to Otherworld in his name.
And worse, worst of all, the people cheered.
Camulos, they yelled. Over and over and over until Druantia was certain that the refrain would never leave her head. Did they not know that it was her, Druantia, who had bartered for their victory? Assured it?
The last of the flames died down until there was nothing but ash, and without hesitation, the god of war departed for Otherworld, disappearing before her eyes.
Finally, his hold on her disappeared. Trembling, she rose to her feet. Her people spared not a glance for her.
Something dark within her surged. Camulos might be a god, but she was the High Priestess of the Druids. And he treated her like a servant. She was but a tool to him, a thing to cast aside.
He would regret this night, she vowed. All the gods would regret this night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“You know, I really thought she’d live in a tree or something,” Ana said as they crossed the street toward Druantia’s shop, an ornate stone building that rose three stories above a bustling city street in the heart of Inverness.
“A tree?” He arched a brow.