someone like Comorra.
Comorra looked as though she desperately wanted to continue the conversation, but the distant sounds of howling—which Clare now recognized as coming from human throats and celebratory rather than meant to strike terror—were not so distant anymore. It sounded like the biggest, wildest party ever—and it seemed to be heading their way.
I have to get out of here , she thought.
Except she didn’t know how.
Right. Damn …
Clare knew that if this trip followed the same parameters as the last ones, Comorra would be the only one who’d be able to see her, probably because they’d come into physical contact. Still … she was a little worried by the young Druid, Connal, who’d been able to sense her presence in the blacksmith’s hut. Maybe he just had exceptional hearing. Heard her breathing. Or her heartbeat. Something …
The sound of the approaching revellers was now shaking the leaves on the trees, and Clare could see the orange glow of torches reflecting off the forest canopy.
“Thank you for the gift of your presence at my sword ceremony, Clare,” Comorra said.
“Oh, uh …” Clare struggled for something appropriately mystical and significant-sounding for a … a sword ceremony. She remembered Llassar and Connal saying something about how Comorra had been chosen by Andrasta. The Raven Goddess … goddesses and faeries hung out together in Celtic cosmology, right? She hoped so …
“The Raven sends her best,” Clare said. That ought to work . Comorra’s eyes sparkled fiercely and Clare suspected that it had, in fact, been exactly the right thing to say.
“But I’d really love it if we could keep my presence here our little secret. My … magic keeps me hidden from all but those to whom I choose to appear. And, tonight, that’s just you.” Clare glanced over her shoulder as the first of many cloaked figures appeared at the edge of the clearing, dark shapes picked out in shadow and flame. “Okay?” She put a finger to her lips.
Comorra mirrored the gesture with a conspiratorial smile. Then she twitched the hood of her cloak up and spun back around to resume her kneeling pose in front of the standing stone.
Clare ducked behind the stone, trying to melt into the shadows and slow her breathing. A dozen men and women carrying flaring torches stalked out from beneath the oaks and took up stations at points all around the standing stones. Some beat out complicated rhythms on drums played one-handed with short, flared sticks, and some sang. A handful of young children followed in their wake and began to dance in time to the drumming, weaving an intricate circle around the middle stone—and coming perilously close to where Clare stood frozen, scarcely daring to breathe. But none of them seemed to notice her there. It seemed that Comorra really was the only one who could see her. Still, she tried to make herself as small and flat as she could.
People continued to file out from under the trees, some pounding sword hilts on shields and stomping their feet in counterpoint to the drumming, and soon the whole clearing shook with the vibrations. The crowd was a visual riot of braided and styled hair, garishly patterned, finely woven cloaks, and the clash and jingle of beautifully crafted gold and silver jewellery. Clare couldn’t decide whether the combined effect of so much extravagant finery on display was barbaric or exuberantly rich and sophisticated. One thing was certain: the artistry involved in all the weaving and dying and smith-craft on display went far beyond anything she’d expected a bunch of hut-dwelling tribal yahoos to have mastered. Her ideas, if she’d had any to begin with, of what life must have been like in the ancient world were being radically rewritten. The people crowding all around her were … impressive. She hadn’t been expecting that.
As the great clamour rose to a tremendous crescendo Clare felt battered by waves of sound and had to cover her ears with
Comorra looked as though she desperately wanted to continue the conversation, but the distant sounds of howling—which Clare now recognized as coming from human throats and celebratory rather than meant to strike terror—were not so distant anymore. It sounded like the biggest, wildest party ever—and it seemed to be heading their way.
I have to get out of here , she thought.
Except she didn’t know how.
Right. Damn …
Clare knew that if this trip followed the same parameters as the last ones, Comorra would be the only one who’d be able to see her, probably because they’d come into physical contact. Still … she was a little worried by the young Druid, Connal, who’d been able to sense her presence in the blacksmith’s hut. Maybe he just had exceptional hearing. Heard her breathing. Or her heartbeat. Something …
The sound of the approaching revellers was now shaking the leaves on the trees, and Clare could see the orange glow of torches reflecting off the forest canopy.
“Thank you for the gift of your presence at my sword ceremony, Clare,” Comorra said.
“Oh, uh …” Clare struggled for something appropriately mystical and significant-sounding for a … a sword ceremony. She remembered Llassar and Connal saying something about how Comorra had been chosen by Andrasta. The Raven Goddess … goddesses and faeries hung out together in Celtic cosmology, right? She hoped so …
“The Raven sends her best,” Clare said. That ought to work . Comorra’s eyes sparkled fiercely and Clare suspected that it had, in fact, been exactly the right thing to say.
“But I’d really love it if we could keep my presence here our little secret. My … magic keeps me hidden from all but those to whom I choose to appear. And, tonight, that’s just you.” Clare glanced over her shoulder as the first of many cloaked figures appeared at the edge of the clearing, dark shapes picked out in shadow and flame. “Okay?” She put a finger to her lips.
Comorra mirrored the gesture with a conspiratorial smile. Then she twitched the hood of her cloak up and spun back around to resume her kneeling pose in front of the standing stone.
Clare ducked behind the stone, trying to melt into the shadows and slow her breathing. A dozen men and women carrying flaring torches stalked out from beneath the oaks and took up stations at points all around the standing stones. Some beat out complicated rhythms on drums played one-handed with short, flared sticks, and some sang. A handful of young children followed in their wake and began to dance in time to the drumming, weaving an intricate circle around the middle stone—and coming perilously close to where Clare stood frozen, scarcely daring to breathe. But none of them seemed to notice her there. It seemed that Comorra really was the only one who could see her. Still, she tried to make herself as small and flat as she could.
People continued to file out from under the trees, some pounding sword hilts on shields and stomping their feet in counterpoint to the drumming, and soon the whole clearing shook with the vibrations. The crowd was a visual riot of braided and styled hair, garishly patterned, finely woven cloaks, and the clash and jingle of beautifully crafted gold and silver jewellery. Clare couldn’t decide whether the combined effect of so much extravagant finery on display was barbaric or exuberantly rich and sophisticated. One thing was certain: the artistry involved in all the weaving and dying and smith-craft on display went far beyond anything she’d expected a bunch of hut-dwelling tribal yahoos to have mastered. Her ideas, if she’d had any to begin with, of what life must have been like in the ancient world were being radically rewritten. The people crowding all around her were … impressive. She hadn’t been expecting that.
As the great clamour rose to a tremendous crescendo Clare felt battered by waves of sound and had to cover her ears with
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