shining from her beautiful face, with a smile to rival the sun. The girl’s yellow hair gleamed in the sunlight so brightly that Boudica sometimes had to shield her eyes for fear of being blinded. She would have made a fine queen, with a kind soul and a strong mind. But now…she was not so sure.
Lannosea walked through the camp like a wraith, eating little and drinking even less. When she spoke, it was in short, quiet sentences, and then only when someone spoke to her first. The Romans had made her weak. At first Boudica tolerated the change, knowing that Lannosea needed time to heal her tortured mind. But now she had a rebellion to lead and a kingdom to retake. She could not afford to appear weak in front of the messenger, who would doubtless take his impression of the Iceni camp back to his king. She would have to make sure Lannosea was nowhere near when she received the man.
Boudica finished dressing, then stepped out of the chamber. She paused in the doorway to look back at Lannosea, and found her sitting on a soft chair, staring vacantly at the floor and wringing her fingers. Her eyes gleamed with ever-present moisture, as they had since that fateful night when Nero’s dogs showed their true colors. Boudica felt a moment of pity. If only she could talk to her youngest daughter. To somehow ease her suffering. Perhaps she should try again…
But the messenger was waiting.
She steeled herself, drew in a deep breath, and left Lannosea in the chamber. She would deal with Lannie later. When this rebellion was over and she had taken back her kingdom from the wretched Romans, she would present it to Lannosea as a gift. Then she could hold her daughter in her arms and give her the comfort she so desperately needed.
Right now she had a war to win.
6
Taras stepped into the damp, moldy building he’d been using for shelter during the day. The smell of moist wood and fungus filled the room like a rotting cloud. The previous tenant’s body lay right where he left it. Not a drop of blood remained in it, of course, but even if some remained it would have done him no good. Dead blood is useless to Bachiyr. He found that out several years ago after trying to feed on a recently slain robber. The dead man’s blood tasted different, foul. It hadn’t harmed him, but the spoiled blood was inert, as though missing an ingredient. He had no idea what that might be, but it didn’t matter. He just made sure to take his fill from every single victim. He sidestepped the corpse and wandered deeper into the place, headed for the bed chamber and what few possessions he would take with him.
Taras didn’t own much. His fugitive lifestyle demanded that he travel light. He never knew when he would have to run. It seemed the time had come again. During his walk through the market district he’d felt a strange tingle on the back of his neck. It defied explanation, but his skin pricked and tickled as if a thousand tiny needles danced across its surface. He’d felt eyes on him, which was strange since most of Londinium’s people seemed to be on the way out of the city. But the oddest thing about it was the sense of familiarity. Of déjà vu. He’d felt it before, but couldn’t place it.
Whatever it was, it couldn’t possibly be good.
He stepped into the bedchamber—equally as moldy and damp as the outer room—and pulled his traveling bag from the hook in the wall. As he slipped it over his shoulder, a small scrap of pale blue cloth fell out and floated to the ground. A piece of the dress Mary died in. Taras eyed it for a moment, trying not to see the brown stain where her blood had dried. The blood had long ago vanished, leaving only the stain behind, but he could see it as if it were still wet and glistening in the moonlight next to Mary’s bleeding and broken body.
He reached down to pick up the strip, now dingy and dirty from years of being in his pack. The image of the blood brought a tinge of hunger to his belly, but he
Lannosea walked through the camp like a wraith, eating little and drinking even less. When she spoke, it was in short, quiet sentences, and then only when someone spoke to her first. The Romans had made her weak. At first Boudica tolerated the change, knowing that Lannosea needed time to heal her tortured mind. But now she had a rebellion to lead and a kingdom to retake. She could not afford to appear weak in front of the messenger, who would doubtless take his impression of the Iceni camp back to his king. She would have to make sure Lannosea was nowhere near when she received the man.
Boudica finished dressing, then stepped out of the chamber. She paused in the doorway to look back at Lannosea, and found her sitting on a soft chair, staring vacantly at the floor and wringing her fingers. Her eyes gleamed with ever-present moisture, as they had since that fateful night when Nero’s dogs showed their true colors. Boudica felt a moment of pity. If only she could talk to her youngest daughter. To somehow ease her suffering. Perhaps she should try again…
But the messenger was waiting.
She steeled herself, drew in a deep breath, and left Lannosea in the chamber. She would deal with Lannie later. When this rebellion was over and she had taken back her kingdom from the wretched Romans, she would present it to Lannosea as a gift. Then she could hold her daughter in her arms and give her the comfort she so desperately needed.
Right now she had a war to win.
6
Taras stepped into the damp, moldy building he’d been using for shelter during the day. The smell of moist wood and fungus filled the room like a rotting cloud. The previous tenant’s body lay right where he left it. Not a drop of blood remained in it, of course, but even if some remained it would have done him no good. Dead blood is useless to Bachiyr. He found that out several years ago after trying to feed on a recently slain robber. The dead man’s blood tasted different, foul. It hadn’t harmed him, but the spoiled blood was inert, as though missing an ingredient. He had no idea what that might be, but it didn’t matter. He just made sure to take his fill from every single victim. He sidestepped the corpse and wandered deeper into the place, headed for the bed chamber and what few possessions he would take with him.
Taras didn’t own much. His fugitive lifestyle demanded that he travel light. He never knew when he would have to run. It seemed the time had come again. During his walk through the market district he’d felt a strange tingle on the back of his neck. It defied explanation, but his skin pricked and tickled as if a thousand tiny needles danced across its surface. He’d felt eyes on him, which was strange since most of Londinium’s people seemed to be on the way out of the city. But the oddest thing about it was the sense of familiarity. Of déjà vu. He’d felt it before, but couldn’t place it.
Whatever it was, it couldn’t possibly be good.
He stepped into the bedchamber—equally as moldy and damp as the outer room—and pulled his traveling bag from the hook in the wall. As he slipped it over his shoulder, a small scrap of pale blue cloth fell out and floated to the ground. A piece of the dress Mary died in. Taras eyed it for a moment, trying not to see the brown stain where her blood had dried. The blood had long ago vanished, leaving only the stain behind, but he could see it as if it were still wet and glistening in the moonlight next to Mary’s bleeding and broken body.
He reached down to pick up the strip, now dingy and dirty from years of being in his pack. The image of the blood brought a tinge of hunger to his belly, but he
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