"Janice, I’m going out for a bit. I need to take care of a couple of things."

The archaeologist looked up from her coffee mug to Kaitlyn, who was standing in the hallway. "Out of smokes, are you?" she asked.

Kaitlyn nodded. "Dangerously close to it, anyway." Still horribly tense after their roadside encounter with Dobson and his friend two days ago, the girl from Harvard had almost doubled her daily cigarette intake. "You or Mel need anything?"

"Not that I can think of, but thanks." Janice leaned back in her chair, casting the linguist an appraising glance. "How you holding up, kid?"

"Oh, ‘bout as well as can be expected, I guess. Oh, hey!" Kaitlyn stepped through the doorway into the kitchen. "Here’s what I finished today. Gotta tell you, it was fun as all hell to translate; very eloquent stuff. Give it a look." She laid a small stack of paper down on the table in front of Janice, who whistled in surprise.

"All of this?" Janice asked.

"Uh huh. Well, I’m going to go buy me some cigarettes and a few things now. Happy reading. I’ll be back in an hour or so." Kaitlyn headed for the foyer.

Janice waved absently, already scanning over the translations. "You got it, kid."

In the foyer, Kaitlyn put on her coat and hat. It really was a bit warm out in the South Carolina weather for such accoutrements, but she always felt somewhat naked without them. A strange thing, too; both the Burberry trenchcoat and the black wool fedora held painful memories from her not-too-distant past.

The coat had been a Christmas present from her parents, the year she was nineteen. Two weeks later, though, they’d discovered a letter from Joni, her girlfriend at the time, and after the nasty yelling matches and sundry emotional scenes that ensued, the two senior members of the Velasquez family had left for England. The escalation of the war effectively eliminated most of the possibility of them coming back to the States, and so the only contact Kaitlyn had with her parents for the next year had come through the occasional, formal letter. Then, when she’d informed them of her decision to attend Harvard, the letters had ceased entirely. Now, she could only guess as to their whereabouts.

The hat had been a gift from Joni. Their relationship had been intense, passionate, and short-lived, swinging from one extreme of emotion to another with frightening regularity. In the aftermath of a particularly heated fight, Kaitlyn had come home to find Joni’s still body on the bed, several empty pill bottles lying on the floor near her. She’d fled the North End that night, coming back only long enough to pack up her things and move across town, no small feat in Boston. The memory still haunted her dreams.

The young linguist sighed and pulled the brim of the fedora low over her eyes. Gods above, I can’t keep any kind of relationship together to save my damn life. Putting one of her last two cigarettes between her lips, she shut the door behind her, lit the Dunhill, climbed into her jeep, and drove off.

Janice poured herself another cup of coffee and sat down with Kaitlyn’s translations. There were easily ten pages here, all written in the linguist’s exacting hand. At the top of the first page, Kaitlyn had scribbled a note: "Best I can tell, this would be considered ‘apocryphal’ at this point. It doesn’t seem to tie in with the rest of the Rift events, not that I can see. I’ll have to check it against whatever we translate later, and maybe against Rhonwyn’s lifesong if need be. For the meantime, though, take it with a grain of salt."

Kaitlyn was right, Janice decided. This truly was "eloquent stuff." Gabrielle’s own talent with words, combined with the bardic craft which Rhonwyn had carefully honed in the Celtic tradition, made for powerful storytelling even in translation, thanks to Kaitlyn’s skilled, faithful translation. The words came vividly to life for Janice, who felt more like she was seeing the account firsthand than reading it.

"Xena, it’s beautiful here," breathed the bard, hands gripping the warrior’s arm as she took in the scenery. They had just arrived in Britannia, and for the moment her resentment against their reasons for being here was forgotten, lost in the breathtaking sights of this land so different from Greece.

"Yes," Xena murmured absently. "Come on, let’s move. I want to find Boadicea." She gave Gabrielle a little pat on the back, and they set off, Xena’s instinct taking the place of an actual knowledge of the island’s geography. The truth was, she had no idea where to set about finding the warrior queen . . . not that it was about to stop her.

Gabrielle reached out and lightly caressed the trunk of a tree as she passed. "There’s an energy here, in this place," she murmured. "I can feel it."

"It’s an ancient land. Its people cling very strongly to that." The warrior tensed, ice-blue eyes narrowing in a way that Gabrielle recognized as a warning of potential danger. Her sword was drawn in a split second, and the warrior whirled, bringing it to bear in front of her.

Iron met iron in a loud, unexpected clang. To her surprise, Xena found herself facing a wiry young woman clad in leather breeches and a black-and-red checked tunic. A slender circlet of braided silver, two eagles’ heads meeting each other in the front, encircled her neck; a chain mail vest glittered in the sunlight that filtered through the branches overhead, and a flowing cloak of rich green completed the ensemble. The young woman’s benevolent demeanor contrasted weirdly with the single-edged, two-handed sword she grasped, parrying Xena’s blade.

The stranger spoke, in Greek, much to their surprise. "Peace, traveler," she said to Xena, taking her right hand from the hilt of her sword and placing the back of it against her forehead, palm outward in a gesture of greeting. "I intend you no harm."

"Yeah, that explains that sword you’re pointing at me real well, doesn’t it?" Xena spat.

The other woman smiled and brought the sword to rest with its point on the ground, short strands of dark brown hair falling into gold-flecked hazel eyes. "You drew on me first," she pointed out calmly. "A worthy instinct, to be sure, with these Romans about our land. All the same, I assure you, I had no intentions of attacking you."

Still, Xena gripped her sword, not quite trusting the stranger’s words. "Then who are you, and why did you sneak up on us?"

"My name is Rhonwyn," answered the young woman, "and I’m a traveler like yourself. I’ve only recently returned home—this land is my home, you see."

"A traveler?" Gabrielle repeated, coming to Xena’s side.

Rhonwyn nodded. "That’s right. I’m something of a wanderer, you see. Only I’ve wandered much further than some of my fellows."

"There are others like you?" Gabrielle asked.

"Absolutely." Rhonwyn smiled again. "I’m a Druid, though the Brotherhood no longer considers me one." She indicated her sword, as if in explanation. A hint of sarcasm touched her voice. "At the very least, they allowed me to keep my title as a bard."

"You’re a bard?" Gabrielle could barely contain her excitement.

"Gabrielle," warned Xena through clenched teeth, in that tone of voice that meant, "Stay out of this."

The young blonde woman continued, ignoring her partner. "You’re really a bard? I am, too! Well, okay, maybe not the same kind of bard as you, but back where I come from, you could consider me one. Is that how you know our language?"

"The Learned Brotherhood teaches us these things, yes," Rhonwyn confirmed. "And yes, I’m a bard." She fingered the edge of her green cloak. "My job is to travel, gather news and information, and to pass it on. And to keep alive the culture of my people through story and song."

"News and information?" Only now did Xena relax and sheathe her sword. "Do you know anything about Caesar and his whereabouts?"

Rhonwyn’s expression turned bitter. "I most certainly do. Is that what brings you here to Prydein?"

"It is," answered the warrior. "I’m also looking for Boadicea."

"Boadicea of the Iceni? I can take you to her." Rhonwyn looked intently at Xena. "Would you mind if I traveled with you for a while? I know the land, and I know the language. I can be your guide. If you don’t mind, that is. I can also swing a pretty mean sword, and lately that sort of skill comes in handy."

Gabrielle nudged Xena, who said, "Mind? I guess not. It’s important that I find Boadicea, and if you know this area well it would be a lot of help." The words were clipped, forceful.

"Then it’s settled?" Rhonwyn smiled again, her attention drawn more to the warrior’s blonde companion than to the warrior herself. At Xena’s curt nod of confirmation, she continued, "Well then, if we’re to be traveling together, I suppose I wouldn’t mind knowing your names. It’s only fair, don’t you think?"

Gabrielle giggled, and Xena allowed herself the briefest of smiles. "I’m Xena," she said, offering her hand to the young Druid, who clasped it in a warrior’s handshake.

"Gabrielle," the bard introduced herself.

"And as I said, I’m Rhonwyn." The Celt smiled. "Let’s get moving, shall we?" She picked up the long, smooth length of her rowan staff, which she’d dropped when Xena attacked, sheathed her sword, and led the way.

They would have to travel for more than two weeks to reach the territory of the Iceni. Rhonwyn’s knowledge of the land proved to be invaluable, not only in navigating through the area, but in earning them a night’s lodging when they came to various towns. A simple petition and a song or two were more than enough to get the three women good rooms and food in each village where they stopped. Gabrielle and Xena were both impressed by Rhonwyn’s skill with her voice and with the crwth, the small harp she carried with her. As they journeyed, Xena and Rhonwyn exchanged their knowledge of herbal properties, and Gabrielle prevailed upon the Druid to teach her elements of Celtic bardcraft, which Rhonwyn did gladly.

On their fourth day of traveling, they encountered a small band of rather scruffy-looking men headed in the direction of the village they had just left.

"Picti raiders," Rhonwyn whispered as the men drew close enough for her to make out their clothing. "From up north, beyond the Wall. How in Lleu’s name did they get this far south?" Quickly she drew Gabrielle and Xena into the bushes.

They waited in silence for a few minutes. Listening carefully to the rough dialect of their conversation, Rhonwyn said in alarm, "They’re going to attack the village. We’ve got to stop them!"

Xena smiled grimly and pulled her sword. "I thought you’d never ask."

Rhonwyn laid her rowan staff on the ground and drew her own sword. Gabrielle eyed the Druid curiously before taking her own staff into a combat grip. They lay in wait until the men approached. "Easily a dozen of them. Wonderful," Rhonwyn muttered.

Xena tensed. "Now," she murmured. Leaping from the bushes with her distinctive battle cry, she laid into the first three raiders with a wild-eyed glee, looking more in her element than she had since arriving.

Gabrielle followed her partner, ramming the butt end of her staff into the pit of a fourth man’s stomach before sweeping the other end up to catch him under the chin and dump him unceremoniously onto the ground. She pivoted hard, crunching another man’s kneecap.

Rhonwyn brought the dull edge of her two-handed sword up over her head in a parry, catching a Picti short sword in mid-swing. She kicked out, connecting solidly with the raider’s crotch. While he was doubled over in pain, she hooked the sword back down around him to catch him behind the knees. When he fell, she ran him through with a sigh of disgust, and whirled to engage another raider.

Xena swatted a thrown dagger from the air and somersaulted, landing solidly on top of the raider who’d thrown it, one foot on each of his kidneys. She swung her sword, neatly lopping off his head. Quicker than thought, the warrior reversed her grip on the sword, thrusting it out behind her to impale yet another raider.

Gabrielle planted the end of her staff on the ground and leaped, kicking out with both feet to knock one man, and the one behind him sprawling. She poked them both a few times to make sure they were out cold before running off to drop another raider who was going after Xena by conking him on the head.

Three dead, four unconscious; not bad at all, was Xena’s assessment of the battle. A few quick cuts of her sword upped the first tally to five. On her left, Gabrielle landed a glancing blow to a raider’s wrist, knocking the sword from his hand. Two more rapid strikes in succession, and the count was up to five and five.

Rhonwyn wielded her two-handed sword with astonishing grace and skill, strikes, parries, and thrusts flowing one to another with fluid ease. The blade sang in the air, cutting a shimmering pattern of deadly beauty that gutted one raider and left the last one with a slit throat.

In the chilling silence that followed the din of battle, Rhonwyn took a coil of rope from her pack and set about tying up the raiders who were still alive. When they regained consciousness, the warrior, the bard, and the Druid brought them back to the village and left them at the hands of the chieftain’s justice.

"You fight well," Rhonwyn told Xena once they were on their way again. "By Lleu himself, I’ve never seen such skill!"

"Years of experience," Xena replied, sadly recalling another Celt she’d once known. "I had . . . good teachers. You’re not bad yourself, you know. That’s quite an unusual fighting style you have—but effective. Where’d you learn to fight like that?"

"In my travels. No one among the Cymry—that’s the name of my people—would teach me because of my status in the Brotherhood, so I journeyed to Gaul and then beyond. In the lands well southeast of the Belgae, I encountered a slave from the far East who taught me some fighting skills and gave me the sword. The rest . . ." She shrugged. "It just comes to me."

The Druid reached inside her tunic and drew out an elaborate amulet that hung about her neck on a leather cord, just below her torc. "The shield of Cerridwen," she said reverently, caressing the interlocking strands of gold that made up the amulet’s design. "This type of artwork is the traditional design of my people. Each line flows into the next."

Xena nodded, remembering M’Lila again. "Yes, I’ve seen that sort of design before," she said. Understanding dawned on her. "And you incorporate it into your fighting style."

The Druid smiled. "Exactly. For me, fighting is as much a part of my existence as my music and my learning, so I strive to unify them in this way." She shook her head ruefully. "The Brotherhood could never understand that."

"This Brotherhood," interrupted Gabrielle, "is that the rest of the Druids?"

"That’s right, Gabrielle. You’re very intuitive." Rhonwyn fixed her eyes on the young bard’s face, and her eyes grew searching. "I believe . . . you have great power of some sort, it seems. I can feel that in you."

Gabrielle flushed, not sure what to make of the look and the comment. "Uh, thanks, I guess," she mumbled bashfully.

"And a reverence for life as well," Rhonwyn continued. She laid one hand on Gabrielle’s shoulder, the other gripping her rowan staff, as they walked. "You fight with a staff, I see. Not to kill, but to defend. That’s admirable."

Gabrielle looked over at Rhonwyn. "You carry a staff too," she observed. "But you don’t fight with it. What’s it for?"

The Druid laughed and hefted the length of wood in front of her. "Besides making an excellent walking stick?" Gabrielle’s laughter joined in with hers and she continued, "The rowan staff. All joking aside, it’s a symbol of my authority as a Druid. Makes an odd contrast with the sword, though. I’m not sure people know what to make of me."

"Catch ‘em by surprise that way," remarked Xena. "They’ll never know whether you’re going to whack them over the head or give them a blessing."

"Xena!" Gabrielle was shocked by her friend’s irreverence.

But Rhonwyn merely chuckled. "That’s about the essence of it."

Xena offered a tight smile. "Useful."

"It is that."

The days passed quickly, marked by the occasional skirmish with raiders or a few rogue Roman soldiers. In the peaceful times, though, Rhonwyn and Gabrielle traded stories of their respective countries and of their adventures; Xena, for her part, tried to rein in her young companion’s enthusiastic tales of their exploits together, and traveled in relative silence otherwise. The Druid seemed to be taking a particular liking to Gabrielle, which made the warrior a bit jealous. Things had been a bit uneasy between her and the bard as of late, but Xena was still fiercely possessive of her lover.

So it was with an uneasy sort of distant pride that Xena observed as Gabrielle’s bardic skills were honed a bit further under Rhonwyn’s tutelage. And as they neared the territory of the Iceni and its warrior queen, her impatience and lust for vengeance grew to quickly become the foremost thoughts in her mind.

"Well, my friends, I must be going, I’m afraid." Rhonwyn stood before them, her pack slung over her shoulders and her staff in hand.

The warrior, just returned from a meeting with Boadicea, asked, "Where are you off to? With what’s coming up soon, we could really use you."

The Druid shifted uneasily. "I must . . . well, with what I’ve learned here of the situation with Caesar, I think I’d better go spread the news. I’m sorry to leave so quickly. But I think I have to."

"We’ll miss you," said Gabrielle. "You’ve taught me so much. I can’t thank you enough."
"And I’ll miss you—both of you—as well," Rhonwyn replied, smiling sadly. "But don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll meet again. I’ve seen it." She clasped Xena’s arm firmly, then Gabrielle’s. "I’d best be on my way. Goodbye for now, Xena, Gabrielle." She turned to go, then halted. Eyes fixed on Gabrielle’s, she asked, "Would you mind terribly if I sent you off with a blessing?" She forced her gaze toward Xena. "Consider it a parting gift."

"I’d love it," Gabrielle assured her with a brilliant smile, which the Druid tried studiously to avoid. "Xena?" the bard asked her companion, knowing the warrior’s general aversion to the gods.

"No, I don’t think I’d mind," the warrior said slowly, observing the discomfort that Rhonwyn was trying so hard to hide. "We could probably use it."

"All right, then." Rhonwyn traced a design in the air to the north with the rowan staff, and repeated it to the south, east, and west. She raised her right hand above her head, holding the rowan staff parallel with the ground; her left hand she held palm outward in front of her at shoulder height. Turning to face her erstwhile traveling companions, she began to declaim:

"Power of wind be upon you; may it grant you strength unseen.

Power of fire be yours, that you burn with a passionate blaze.

Power of earth be with you; may you be grounded in your convictions.

Power of water be yours, that you flow with fluid grace.

A blessing go with you, my friends; may you walk in the light of love and goodness."

Both the warrior and the bard were silent a moment, awed by the authority of the Druid’s words.

"Thank you," Gabrielle murmured, coming up beside Rhonwyn and placing a hand lightly on the Celt’s own. Rhonwyn looked away a moment.

"Yes, thank you," Xena echoed, her voice tight. Then, with effort, "Be well, Rhonwyn."

Rhonwyn smiled warmly, a hint of sadness in her eyes. "The same to you. Farewell."

"Well, my."

Janice jumped. "Mel! Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me! How long have you been reading over my shoulder?"

The dark-haired Southerner kissed her lover’s earlobe. "Oh, since about the second paragraph. That’s quite a story."

"Yeah, tell me about it." The archaeologist ran her fingers through her hair. "Hell of a translation—I was totally engrossed in this thing. Kaitlyn really did good."

"Did well."

"Aw, hush up."

The front door clicked open, and Kaitlyn let herself in, three cartons of cigarettes under one arm. "I’m back," she announced breathlessly.

The linguist took off her coat and hat and walked into the kitchen. Her face was haggard, and she looked considerably roughed up. "Oh gods, what a fucking mess!" She tossed the cartons of Dunhills onto the table, fell into a chair, and pulled out her hip flask. "Jesus Christ." She took a healthy swig from the flask.

"Kaitlyn, you look terrible!" Mel exclaimed, alarmed. "What in the world happened?"

"Gee, thanks." Kaitlyn looked tiredly at her two friends. "Ran into a couple of guys in the city who thought they’d pick on me. I beat ‘em up good enough, but they got a few knocks in first."

"You all right?" Janice was concerned.

"Better than they’ll be. They’ll wake up feeling like they got kicked in the head by a Centaur, and I think I left a few cracked ribs, bloody noses, and maybe a broken arm behind me."

"That’s all? Ow!" Janice exclaimed when Mel swatted her lightly for the comment. "Well, shit, what did they want?"

"Damned if I know," Kaitlyn groaned. "One of ‘em said something about my not being able to take a hint, and then all four of ‘em laid into me."

Mel went to the sink and returned shortly with a wet cloth, which she handed to Kaitlyn, who thanked her and pressed it to her forehead. "This isn’t about the Scrolls, is it?" the translator asked worriedly.

Kaitlyn gave her a bleak look. "How much you wanna bet? Damned English language doesn’t let you know whether "you" is in the second-person plural or singular, unless the context supplies that."

"What?" Janice wondered if the four thugs had scrambled Kaitlyn’s brain any. "What the hell are you talking about?"

The graduate student tossed back another mouthful from the flask. "Slipped into linguist mode again, did I? I was just thinking about how they said ‘You just can’t take a hint, can you?’ I’m wondering if they meant just me, or all of us . . ."

Janice grimaced. "I’ll bet you half my salary they meant all of us. Shit, for someone who looks so clean-cut and harmless, this Dobson’s a nasty character. Figures. I bet those guys were in league with him." She watched Kaitlyn take another pull off the flask. "What have you got in there, anyway?"

The linguist managed a sardonic smile. "I’m a student of Celtic culture. It’s Scotch, for gods’ sakes."

I wonder if they realize why I left? Yes, it is true that I had to spread the news of Caesar’s latest designs on Prydein, but a few words to two or three fellow bards would soon have been on the lips of thirty others. I feared for myself and for my two companions. I know this power I have, and it frightens me. The ability to almost unconsciously will a situation involving my desires into being is by no means to be taken lightly, for it is a dangerous power if left unchecked, and requires all my fortitude to control. No, it was for the sake of the love between the warrior and the bard that I parted ways with them. But to give up my own heart in so doing . . .

The rest of the Druids, for all that they espouse the greater value of peaceful ways to resolve problems, do not seem to recognize that where I am concerned, at least, love can be a dangerous thing.

Like energy speaks to like; it enhances it and makes it stronger. That is what we have always understood, and that is why Cuall was so reluctant to induct me into the Brotherhood. We are very few, the women who know its mysteries. In his awen, Cuall saw that I would possess great power for the good of Prydein and our people, and that I must be taught to use it. For that reason alone, I was allowed to learn from him what I know today.

Like energy speaks to like; that is why, perhaps, I was drawn so powerfully to Xena of Amphipolis and Gabrielle of Poteidaia. I understood them both, the warrior and the bard. But the way of battle is not the way that dominates my existence, for despite the fact that I acknowledge its necessity, I have never gladly taken a life. I will uphold my people in battle, and fight for and alongside them as needed, but each killing blow from my sword cries as loudly in my ears as the person who meets that deadly edge.

Like energy speaks to like; I believe that it is the reason that my heart began to give itself over to the young Amazon bard. Because of that philosophy, it is accepted, though uncommon, that the love between one man and another, or one woman and another, among my people is a valid thing. I feel no shame for beginning to love Gabrielle, for it is that reverence for life, the art of story and song, that way of the bard which she follows, that dominates my existence. I am a bard first and foremost, not a warrior, though skilled in both paths. I was drawn more strongly to Gabrielle than to Xena, and that attraction grew to something I could not, for all my Druidic skill, control

And in light of the volatile power of my will and my desire, I could not stay.

Kaitlyn laid aside her notebook and whistled. "I’ll be damned," she muttered. This latest section of Rhonwyn’s lifesong seemed to confirm the "apocryphal" Rift Scroll she’d given Mel and Janice the day before. Her ancestor had been in love with Gabrielle! What kind of implications did this have?

She wanted to know more about this will-magick power that Rhonwyn seemed to possess. Rhonwyn had spoken of the power being extremely dangerous. It worried her. She couldn’t remember how often she herself had wanted something badly enough, and ended up getting it. Be careful what you wish for, she ruminated regretfully, or you just might wind up getting it. And how many times have I fucked someone else up in the process? More times than she cared to count, that was for sure. The thought of the innate magickal power she supposedly possessed only served to increase her worries. She couldn’t be sure how much of her fears were genuine and how much was due to the increased pressure from Dobson’s thinly-disguised threats. But still, the fears were there, and they nagged at her terribly.

The linguist was jarred from her troubling thoughts by the sound of Mel’s alarmed shout down the hall, calling her name. It caught her by surprise at first—why her, and not Janice? But instinct already had Kaitlyn tearing out of her bedroom with her gun in hand before she remembered that Janice and her many skills were up to the neck in the repair of some leaky pipes down in the basement.

She found Mel by the front door, peering anxiously out the window.

"What’s happening, Mel?"

The classicist pointed down the driveway. Kaitlyn looked, and proceeded to swear colorfully in several languages, both ancient and modern. "Dobson. That goddamned prick. How the hell did he get here?" She slipped the Colt .45 into the back of her waistband and opened the door, planting herself solidly in the center of the doorway. Her brown eyes were stormy as she surveyed the man; both she and Mel noted, to their satisfaction, that the left side of Dobson’s face still bore the marks of Janice’s fist.

Dobson, dressed as impeccably as before, stepped onto the front porch. Kaitlyn crossed her arms in front of her and squared her shoulders, bracing herself, but the man made no attempt to get past her. Instead, he simply stood on the steps and addressed them. "Miss Pappas. Miss Velasquez." Mel nodded curtly, and Kaitlyn growled. Their faces were twin masks of challenge.

Forcing herself to sound civil, Mel asked, "Is there anything I can do for you, sir?" She said the last word with a venom so completely foreign to her usual demeanor that Kaitlyn cringed.

"There is," Dobson answered. "You three can take the hint—"he smiled weirdly—"and stop all work on these Xena Scrolls of yours. All work on them."

Janice, alerted by Mel’s cry, emerged from the basement about then, her white undershirt and khakis soiled from her plumbing work. She stood behind Kaitlyn, next to Mel, and glared with undisguised hostility at Dobson. "What the hell is going on here?"

"I believe our friend here is trying to serve us with a cease-and-desist order," Kaitlyn said through clenched teeth. She addressed the man standing on the porch. "Do I have that right, Dobson? What’s the idea here?"

"Very simple," replied Dobson, his voice icy. "We want you to stop translating these Scrolls of yours."

"Yeah, yeah, you’ve said that twice already," Kaitlyn interrupted angrily. "You got anything else to say, or is that the only thing you can think of?"

There was disgust on Dobson’s face as he looked at Kaitlyn and Janice, and something vaguely approaching pity when his gaze landed on Mel. "At the moment, it is our biggest concern. The information in those Scrolls could have an extremely large impact on this world. It could be dangerous. We don’t want to see that come to pass."

Mel was incredulous. "You would stand in the way of the truth about history?"

Dobson ignored the question. "I warn you," he said, "don’t underestimate me. The contents of those Scrolls will not be made public." With that, he turned on his heel and walked away.

Janice stormed about the study. "I’m not going to stand by and let some damn bastard who wants to control history tell me what to do!" she raged. "There’s no way I’m going to let all of Dad’s work go to waste!"

Mel held her hands up in a placating gesture. "Janice, none of us want to see that happen!" She tried without success to calm the archaeologist, who continued to pace furiously. "I have no intentions of stopping our work."

"Me neither." Kaitlyn looked up from her guitar. "Hell, if anything, he made me more determined. I have really adverse reactions to people telling me what to do." She tried not to think of how badly she wanted to finish the work on the Scrolls, and how badly she wanted them to accomplish the ends they had planned with regard to the Scrolls. In light of Rhonwyn’s lifesong, the thoughts of what might happen worried the young linguist more than she felt she could afford.

"Well, we can’t stay here." Janice shook her head. "It’s costing us time, and the more he pesters us, the more nervous we’re going to get, until we won’t be able to do any work at all. I think we need to go somewhere that we can hide out and work in secret. Undisturbed."

"Hide?" Mel couldn’t believe she was hearing this. Her lover had never been one to hide.

"This is more important, Mel," the blonde woman said firmly. "The Scrolls mean too much for me to let the work on them be endangered. I don’t want to run away any more than you do, but for the sake of the Scrolls, and everything they could ever affect, we have to."

Mel considered this. "All right. So we find a safe place to hide. But where?"

They all fell silent for a moment, thinking. Then Kaitlyn played a few soft chords on her guitar and smiled. "I’ve got it. My family owns a place up in western Massachusetts, out in the Berkshire Hills. It’s pretty secluded there. Relaxing, too."

"But the house . . ." worried Mel.

"Give me a day or so to call in some favors," Kaitlyn told her. "The house will be fine while we’re gone." She jumped up, guitar in hand, and ran off to make a few calls.

They packed up a few personal belongings and the Scrolls and left in the jeep, leaving the estate in the hands of the grounds staff and a couple of Kaitlyn’s old army buddies, who’d agreed to keep an eye on the place. The drive was pleasant enough, and fast, thanks to the combined efforts of Kaitlyn and Janice. They arrived in the Berkshires in record time.

Kaitlyn jumped out of the jeep and grinned. Compared to the Pappas estate, the Velasquez summer house was tiny, but nestled as it was in the New England forest, it was certainly peaceful and secluded.

"It’s lovely here!" Mel had gone to Boston and the big cities of eastern New England before, but never to the more rural western half of the area, with all its small towns.

"Isn’t it though?" Kaitlyn took a breath of the fresh air and walked around the jeep to begin unloading. The closer they’d gotten to the town of Housatonic, the more eager and relaxed she’d become, and now she was practically bouncing with childlike glee. "Catch, Janice!" The young linguist tossed the keys to the archaeologist, who fielded them deftly and set about unlocking the front door. "I spent all my summers here as a kid. I love Boston, and the whole feel of the big city, but there’s just something about these woods that really makes me come alive. We have a little pond out back, and I’d go there for hours on end, with my guitar, or just to play in the water or sit and think. I still come here as often as I can; it seems to inspire a lot of my songwriting. Sometimes I think I know how Whitman and Thoreau and Emerson and all those writers felt." She hauled three suticases out of the back of the jeep and brought them into the house.

"Songwriting, huh?" Janice came back outside and took two bags from Mel, who went back to the jeep to get more.

"Oh yeah. There’s a lot of folk singers making the rounds up here, you know. What with Williams and Holyoke and Smith and all these college towns in the area. That’s how I got started. Maybe I’ll take you down into the town tonight and we’ll just hang out someplace and listen."

"That would be nice. Maybe they’ll ask you to play." Mel smiled and handed Kaitlyn her guitar case. The linguist had refused to leave her instrument behind.

"We’ll see."

They finished unloading the jeep, and Kaitlyn showed them to their room. All three of them, tired from the drive, spent the rest of the day resting, and after dinner, Kaitlyn took them into town, to the small café where she’d spent so many summer hours over the years.

Sure enough, there was a woman on the small corner stage singing when they arrived. They ordered cofee and settled in for the next couple of hours to relax. By the look on their friend’s face, Mel and Janice could see just how important music was to Kaitlyn; her eyes were closed, and the guarded expression she usually wore was gone, washed away by the songs.

"Velasquez!" A man was making his way toward their table through the smoky air of the cafe. Kaitlyn jumped up and greeted him enthusiastically.

"Hey! How are you? And what brings you up to this little neck of the woods?" she asked, shaking his hand vigorously. She recognized his face, but for the life of her, couldn’t remember his name. Then it came to her. "Pete, right? You still playing these little houses?"

The man rubbed his bearded chin. "Sometimes, yeah. But I’ve mostly moved on to bigger gigs now. I miss these small places, though. But you know what, that stuff you showed me helped a lot. Thanks."

Kaitlyn grinned. "Glad to hear it, Pete. Any time. We folkie types have to stick together, right? Isn’t that half the idea?"

"It sure is," agreed Pete. "What have you been up to lately? Still in school?"

"You bet. Master’s program now."

"Just as long as you haven’t given up on your music." His eyes twinkled.

The linguist laughed. "Pete, when I die, they’re going to have to pry my books out of one hand and my guitar out of the other."

Pete chuckled, then glanced at his watch. "Well, I’ve got to go. It was good seeing you again. Maybe next time I see you, you’ll be playing at a festival, or maybe giving a lecture, eh?" He shook Kaitlyn’s hand again, warmly. "Take care, Velasquez."

"Will do, Pete. You too."

They watched as he left. "Who was that guy, kid?" Janice asked, exhaling a cloud of cigar smoke.

"Oh, a guy I met over in Great Barrington a couple of years ago. We played together a few times, me and him and his pal Woody, and I taught him a couple of guitar tunings. He’s really good. I mean, really good. Getting into the big time." Kaitlyn took a gulp of her coffee. "Seeger, I think his last name is. Yeah, that’s right. Seeger."

The woman on stage finished her set. "Anyone else want a shot at the stage now?" she asked, smiling, over the applause. When nobody took her up on the offer, Mel nudged Kaitlyn.

"Get up there!" she encouraged.

"Yeah, go on, kid, I want to see you in action." Janice indicated Kaitlyn’s guitar case, which rested on the floor by their table. "Here’s one!" she called, waving to the woman and pointing at Kaitlyn.

"Oh gods . . . well, all right." The linguist got up with mock reluctance and headed for the stage. She hadn’t performed in a while, and after all, she did miss it. Bending down, she removed the guitar from its case and attached the leather strap, embroidered with its Celtic knot pattern, to the strap pegs. With a small smile to her friends, she stepped up onto the small platform.

Mel and Janice watched with pride and interest as Kaitlyn began to play; aside from a few fragments, muffled by the bedroom door, they had never seen this aspect of their friend before, never heard any of her original songs. They were curious to see if Rhonwyn’s bardic talent was strongly manifested in her descendant.

It was, they decided. Kaitlyn’s songs were simple, speaking of things like love and friendship and childhood memories, but she had a clear, evocative voice that infused the plain words with levels of meaning and emotion, connecting with her listeners in a way that felt personal. Five songs later, the patrons of the café were in an awed hush.

"That’s all I’ve got for tonight," she told them apologetically. "Sorry about that; I’m pretty tired. But thanks for being such a great audience." She waved and went back to the table amid a round of quiet applause, bashfully accepting a few tips from people as she passed.

"That was fantastic, kid!" Janice told Kaitlyn, who was putting her guitar away. Folk music really wasn’t the archaeologist’s style—she found she couldn’t get into it—but what she’d just heard had captivated her. "You ever going to stop surprising us with what you can do?"

The shaggy-haired girl smiled and lit up a cigarette. "I’ll think about it."

They spent another hour or two talking, and ended up in agreement that the apocryphal Scroll had most likely been authentic; what Kaitlyn had translated of Rhonwyn’s lifesong certainly seemed to confirm it. Kaitlyn decided not to tell her friends about the nagging fears that the lifesong had awakened in her. By the time they were ready to go home, those fears were more or less forgotten anyway, and all three women felt relaxed enough to go back to the house and resume work in earnest the next morning.

Kaitlyn sat atop a large rock behind the house with her notebook, a few books, and a scroll, hard at work translating in the warmth of the summer sun. The sounds of splashing water and laughter drifted over to her on the light breeze, from the nearby pond where Janice and Mel were going for a swim. With wistful sadness, the linguist watched Janice dive beneath the water and surface behind Mel, who caught onto the attempted sneak attack and merely turned to give the shorter woman a kiss. Look at them . . . they’re just like a couple of kids together. They’d be the perfect storybook couple . . . if the storybooks had anything but straight couples in them.

"You’re lucky as all hell, Melinda Pappas," she murmured softly. Kaitlyn was tired of being lonely; she hadn’t been with anyone since Joni two years ago. It wasn’t that she had any trouble meeting girls or getting dates, but somehow she found that she had no heart for the dating scene. Besides that, the lingering fear of yet another relationship getting shot to pieces was too strong, and kept her at bay.

Kaitlyn badly wanted someone to love, someone who would accept all the caring and devotion that was a part of her nature, hidden as it was behind her usual standoffishness. But her long history of relationships gone bad was certainly a discouraging factor. Living with Mel and Janice for the past month didn’t make it any easier; she was jealous of the love they shared, as much as she tried to deny it.

"Get over yourself, Velasquez," she scolded. "You’ve got work to do." With what felt like a colossal effort, she got back to work on the scroll that lay in front of her.

"She’s young. Poison will kill her if her powers aren’t mature."

How could I believe what I was hearing? Killing was nothing foreign to Xena, that was for sure. She was a warrior with a dark past, after all. There was an intensity to those words, one that I had not heard since the time we spent under threat from the Horde. I felt I did not know her then, and I was beginning to feel that way again.

"Poison? Xena, she is my child!" I had tried many times before to talk her out of making a kill, but this was now personal. How could she say this to me? She had been at my side when Hope was born, witnessed every moment of my pain . . . and of my joy. Despite my daughter’s origins, I loved her dearly, a fact Xena knew well.

And yet this was the second time she had tried to engineer Hope’s death. The first had come shortly after her birth, and was the cause of much anger and turmoil between the warrior and myself . . . anger and turmoil that we had thought was behind us now. I lied to her then; I took advantage of her trust in me and told her that I would kill Hope myself. But the truth is that I set Hope adrift in a basket and prayed that any gods listening would protect her. I loved my daughter, and could not stand for her death—I refused to believe that her soul and existence were forever bought by evil.

I lied to Xena. A lie for a lie—I didn’t know it at the time, but she had lied to me in Chin, letting me believe that she was not responsible for Ming T’ien’s death. And yet she’d promised me that she would not kill him. So now I had lied to her in return, letting her believe that I had done as she had said. But I’d honestly believed that I was doing the right thing in letting Hope live.

But now where had that brought us? Callisto was free once again, Kaleipus was dead, and the children of the Amazon village were in grave danger. And here we were, Xena and I, having the same argument about Hope, but this time with my lie exposed.

"She is not a child!" Xena cried, her voice terrible in the intensity of its quiet fury. "She is a body. A vessel. An instrument for evil. That is all!"

We argued on, the future of my daughter’s existence hanging in the balance. I firmly believed that Callisto was just using her, and that Hope was just as much in danger as the rest of the children. "That’s why I sent her to Kaleipus’s hut. So she would be safe from Callisto."

Xena’s expression changed drastically at those words, and a blend of fear and pain which I had never before seen on my warrior’s face replaced the look of fury. "You sent her to Kaleipus’s hut?" she repeated in anguish, and the tone of her voice struck me with profound pain. I felt a chill of apprehension steal through my body, and realized that I could have just made a serious mistake. The feeling lingered even as Xena raced past me out of the hut; it drove me to follow her, and her concern for Solan was so great that she, the warrior who could anticipate the silent approach of a trained assassin, never realized I was close behind her.

I stood outside Kaleipus’s hut in silence, listening to her tremulous voice. "Solan? Solan?" I could sense her growing hysteria, and finally unable to hold back any longer, stepped into the open doorway.

There Xena knelt, in the center of the hut, cradling Solan’s limp form in her arms. Her son. The one good thing to come from her years as a warlord. "No," I whispered softly, clenching my fists at my sides. "No!"

Had Hope been responsible for this? Had she really? She was nowhere in sight. All logic told me that this was indeed her doing, but I struggled against that logic, still not wanting to believe it.

Xena turned her head to look at me, hatred and accusation radiating from her in cold waves. "Get out." Her words were a feral growl. Now was not a time to defy her, I knew, and I complied, leaving the hut and hiding just outside. I lurked there, waiting for her to come out, and trying to let the sound of her grief convince me of my fault in the matter . . . after all, I had sent Hope here. But my love for my daughter interfered again, and I simply could not convince myself, despite what I heard coming from inside the hut.

"It’s all right, Solan, I’m here now . . . your mama’s here, just like you always wanted . . ." When her tormented scream arose from the hut, I could stand it no longer, and fled.

I returned to my own hut, and to my surprise, Hope came back, frightened. She told me that Solan had already been dead when she’d arrived at Kaleipus’s hut. That had to be it . . . of course it had to be Callisto! How could I have let myself believe—let Xena coerce me into believing—that Hope could have been responsible? Nevertheless, Solan was dead, and I knew that Xena would stop at nothing now until Hope was gone, so we made plans to leave.

Held tightly in my embrace, my daughter begged, "I don’t want to end up dead like Solan! Please, can we go?"

I don’t know if she felt my body tense at her words. She shouldn’t have known what his name was . . . "How did you know his name was Solan?"

"You told me, remember?" she said, in that desperate way children have when they realize that they’re about to be caught. "Now please, can we go?"

I held her tighter, more to keep her from seeing the look on my face than out of a desire to comfort her; in fact, I was beginning to feel the cold revulsion that one might feel when embracing a deadly snake. The awful truth of the situation had finally struck home for me, and, reeling from the shock, I was simply driving myself harder against the keen-edged dagger of that truth as I clutched Hope in my arms.

"Yes," I answered miserably, looking across the room at the empty poison vial that lay next to the waterskin on the table. I had no doubt in my mind now as to what I had to do, though I was still loath to do it, and I feared that it was too late to right my wrongs. The damage had already been done. "Yes . . . we’ll go."

She was thirsty, and I gave her the waterskin I had prepared, my mind protesting against the cruel necessity of this new deception. The poison took her quickly, and I was grateful that her death was painless, and that she had no realization of what I had just done. Silently I covered her little body and knelt next to her in the grass.

Her death was on my hands now—I had knowingly, and willingly, plotted to carry it out. Her death. This was now the second time that I had killed. The first time, in Britannia, had been due to Xena’s abandoning me to Khrafstar and his cult. It was more an accident than anything, perhaps, but Meridian’s blood was on my hands nonetheless. And it was because of that experience that Hope had been conceived, that the village was in danger, that Xena’s son was dead, and that I now had yet another death on my hands. The death of my own daughter. Waves of despair crashed in on me; this was a burden with which I felt I could not live. Facing up to Xena’s wrath was one thing, but to have taken two lives when I believed so strongly against it . . .

I took the waterskin. There was still enough poison left in it for me. I raised it to my lips to drink, and found that I couldn’t make myself drink from it. I don’t know why, but some strange glimmer of . . . hope, ironic as it was . . . kept me from ending my own life. Perhaps I could learn something from this, after all, and keep others from doing what I had done. Besides, I decided that Xena would need me, and in the state she was in now, how could I trust her not to become a monster if I died?

A movement in the bushes caught my eye. Xena was standing there, glaring at me through hard-set eyes full of undisguised hatred. I met her gaze, and in that moment I began to feel the first twinges of the same feeling toward her. But I buried those feelings deep inside, trying to forget them. I was alarmed by the remembrance of what Rhonwyn had told me, that like speaks to like and strengthens it. Thinking back, though, I realize that keeping the hatred within me was a mistake. I made many mistakes in those days . . .

Xena turned away, leaving me with the covered litter that held Hope’s body. I knelt there, my head bowed, allowing myself a few moments of grief. I mourned my daughter, the events leading to her birth, the tragedy that her survival had brought about, the destruction of my relationship with Xena . . . I mourned the death of everything I had known and held dear. Finally, when I had recovered myself enough, I stood, took hold of the litter, and set back to the village in the darkness.

We held the funerals for both Hope and Solan that night. It was Ephiny’s suggestion; she hoped that our mutual grief would heal the enmity that was growing between us. Perhaps it should have, but bringing us together then doubled the magnitude of that grief, as it did the resentment between us that had been growing since Britannia. So much of that like emotion, and so strong—such as the nature of hate and resentment is—overwhelmed us both. Rhonwyn was right. Like energy does in fact speak to like.

Ephiny’s voice echoed into the darkness in a keening, haunting song as we stood in the center of the village that night, two souls hurting seemingly beyond all human power to express, two hearts aching with losses so devastatingly alike that they repelled each other with ungodly force. Bathed in the flickering, sordid light of the fires leaping from twin funeral pyres, Xena and I stood, gazing into the flames, reaching so deeply into the cores of our own pains that we began to lose sight of each other.

Side by side we stood, so close together, and yet so vastly torn apart . . .

Kaitlyn whistled as she lay the scroll down. From then on, it was identical to the one Rift Scroll that had been written in Greek, the one Mel had first translated before her arrival. This tied it all together, answering many of the questions they’d had about the Rift so far. Many questions remained, though. They knew that Xena and Gabrielle had met Khrafstar in Greece; but it was still a mystery as to how Gabrielle had fallen in with him once they’d arrived in Britain. They knew that Xena and Gabrielle had gone off on their own to find Boadicea, and met up with Rhonwyn on the way; but they had no idea how the two had managed to find Khrafstar again. There were still more Scrolls left to translate, and Kaitlyn hoped they would find their answers there. Too much of the Rift made no sense; too many maddening gaps existed in what they knew of it.

Kaitlyn worried, too. Janice had never quite fully gotten over the fact that she was descended from Xena’s young companion and not from the warrior herself. Try as she might, the archaeologist could never really stop resenting that, and often gave Gabrielle a bit less credit than Mel felt the bard deserved. Lately, too, they’d all been speculating on how much of history could repeat itself, and the linguist couldn’t shake the thought that it might happen again, here, with the unfolding story of the Rift. Janice’s skepticism about her ancestor might come into play again, and the possibility was troubling.

"Oh, son of a bitch," Kaitlyn mumbled, watching Mel and Janice getting out of the pond. A sick feeling was starting deep in the pit of her stomach, just like it had on the night that Dobson had fired on them on their way home from the University. Troubled brown eyes studied her two friends. "When they read this scroll, the shit’s gonna hit the fan."

Chapter Twenty

Janice, her face grim, tossed the sheaf of papers down onto the desk in front of Kaitlyn. "So. This is what led to it all." Her hands gripped the sides of the desk with enough force to turn her knuckles white, and her eyes flashed dangerous fire. Her shoulders heaved with her deep, even breathing, its steady rhythm projecting ominous calm.

At the other end of the desk, Mel’s eyes darted nervously between Janice and the discarded papers. With her hands folded tightly in her lap to keep them from twitching with anxiety, she bit her lip, afraid to speak.

Kaitlyn, seated at the center of the desk, heaved a sigh and stared at the wooden surface in front of her. "Apparently so," she mumbled. Gritting her teeth, she kept her gaze fully on the desk, not daring to meet the eyes of either the archaeologist or the translator. Tension radiated from both of them in waves so palpable that the young linguist expected to be hit by the physical force of a storm front at any moment.

She fumbled for her cigarette case and put a Dunhill between her lips. Her hands were shaking, and it took several tries to ignite her lighter. Finally, she managed to spark the wick into flame and lit up, inhaling the acrid smoke from the cigarette deeply into her lungs, hoping that it would smother the nauseating feeling that was starting up again in her stomach, stronger this time than she’d felt in a while. Neither Mel nor Janice said a word, and the heavy silence only made Kaitlyn more nervous, as if she were only waiting for the inevitable.

Then, the inevitable happened. Janice’s temper broke, and the storm was on them in full. "Son of a bitch!" the archaeologist exploded, slamming both fists into the desktop so hard that everything on it jumped. Mel flinched and backed away, frightened by this display of aggression. She had seen Janice angry many times before, but she’d always been clearly provoked, those times. Now Janice was as furious as Mel had ever seen her, yet the dark-haired woman was at a loss as to why.

This latest Scroll had hit them both with a shock that numbed them with its impact. Ever since learning of the incident in which Xena had stormed into the Amazon village and dragged Gabrielle behind a horse for several miles, Mel had been appalled by the events of the Rift. Now that they apparently knew of all the events behind it, she felt even more strongly so. Janice, however, had voiced nothing of her reactions, and Mel had no idea how the archaeologist was taking all of this. She had a feeling, though, that she was about to find out.

She was right.

"Goddammit!" Janice howled again, kicking the desk. "Of all the stupid, blind, idiotic fucking things to do! How could she . . . what the hell was she thinking?"

"Whoa, whoa, Janice, hold on!" Kaitlyn jumped up from her chair, both hands reaching out to her friend, trying to calm her down. "What’s got you so ticked? Take it easy, Janice, come on!"

Janice whirled on Kaitlyn, sparks snapping in her green eyes. Her face was bright red and twisted into a mask of anger. "Take it easy? I find this out—"she pointed accusingly in the direction of the discarded translation—"and you want me to take it easy?"

I know you’re upset, and I am too, and I’m sure Mel’s upset!" Kaitlyn sputtered. "But there’s no reason to be this mad!"

"No reason? No reason? Dammit! She lied, Kaitlyn! She lied, and betrayed Xena, and people died because of it! She knew what she had to do, and she didn’t do it! How stupid could she be?"

Kaitlyn realized the cause of Janice’s anger with considerable alarm. Gabrielle. She’s mad at Gabrielle. I was afraid of this! Through her peripheral vision she caught sight of Mel’s face, and knew that the translator had come to the same conclusion. She sighed and took a step toward the irate blonde woman. "Janice, come on . . . Don’t tell me you haven’t lied before!"

But Janice ignored her and turned away to stare into the fireplace. "Kaleipus died, Solan died, those kids damn near got killed, and Amazons got hurt. All because she couldn’t see that her demon-spawn daughter was nothing but trouble. I can’t believe Xena went so far as to drag her behind a horse, but I’d say she probably fucking well deserved it for all of that."

Those poisonous words fanned the slow-burning fuse of Mel’s temper to its end, and it was the Southerner’s turn to explode. "Deserve it? Janice Covington, how dare you! Nobody deserves to be treated like that—nobody!" Mel spat out. "I never thought I would hear you say such a thing!" In disgust, she stormed away to the far side of the room, gazing out the window to hide the tears brimming in her eyes. As hurt as she was by these latest revelations, her true pain was the shock of witnessing this vindictive, condemning side of Janice, which she had never seen before.

"And what about Solan? And Kaleipus?" Janice tossed over her shoulder in return. "Did they deserve to die?" She leaned against the mantelpiece, closing her eyes against the oncoming tears, willing them away. She couldn’t understand how Mel could stand up for Gabrielle’s actions, when it was so obvious that the bard had been blind to the consequences of her decision. My ancestor, the irritating blonde, she thought angrily. Was she even thinking? I should have known it was all her fault.

"They—well . . ." Mel found, however, that she had no good answer for that question. "I don’t know," she admitted, shamefacedly.

They fell into silence once more. The small library of the Velasquez summer home was heavy with tension in the unspoken emotional backlash of the moment. Kaitlyn ran a hand through her rumpled hair and sat down woodenly in the desk chair, feeling positively nauseated. She felt herself stuck in the middle of the situation, a position she hated to be in.

While she could understand how Gabrielle had clung to the possibility of Hope’s redemption—Kaitlyn herself never had the heart to fully condemn someone—she, like Janice, couldn’t understand why Gabrielle had never apparently thought about the inherent potential for danger in her daughter’s continued existence. While she could understand the extremity of Xena’s reaction to her son’s death, she, like Mel, couldn’t understand how the warrior could fall so far as to avenge herself on Gabrielle, let alone in such a vicious manner.

Taking sides would be unfair to both Mel and Janice, and to their ancestors as well, Kaitlyn felt. Besides that, she found that she couldn’t fully agree with either of their viewpoints. Yet being impartial was difficult for her; the Rift was too complicated a situation for anyone to take easily, even with ambiguous feelings toward it. Kaitlyn felt as though she were almost obligated to take a stance on the issue, but saw no way to do so without alienating either of her friends and making their current argument worse. She wondered if Rhonwyn had felt the same way—after all, the Druid herself had been something of a middle ground between Xena and Gabrielle. She wondered briefly how the ancient Celt had felt, in the face of the Rift that had threatened her friends.

"You two," she said softly, "I know this is a hard thing to ask—it’s tough to be impersonal when your ancestors are involved—but can’t we try to be more objective about this? You both feel very strongly about the whole situation, I know, but until we get it all figured out, can you please . . ."

Not sure she was at all convincing them, Kaitlyn sighed. Yeah, you get jealous of them, and then this happens. Real good, Velasquez, real good. Just like clockwork, like every other time you’ve gotten jealous of someone. This is probably all your fault. She suppressed the troubling thought and her growing nausea, taking a last long pull from her cigarette and stubbing it out in the ashtray. A thick cloud of smoke dissipated above the linguist’s head as she eyed her two friends apprehensively. Neither of them spoke, and their reticence hung more thickly in the air than the smoke from Kaitlyn’s cigarette.

After what could have easily been two hours, two minutes, or two seconds—none of them could really tell—Janice broke the silence. "Aw, geez, Mel, I’m sorry," she stammered, half swallowing the words. "I didn’t mean to blow up like that." The sensation of being emotionally distant from her lover was, after the three years they had been together, utterly foreign to her; its presence robbed her of her sense of security, and reflexes born of that loss of security were what compelled her to speak. The archaeologist took a few tentative steps toward Mel, who came toward her, the hurt expression still evident on her face.

"It’s all right, Janice, it’s all right," murmured Mel, laying a hand on her lover’s arm. "I suppose I shouldn’t have lost my temper either."

They stood like that for a moment; Janice’s eyes bored through the floor, and Mel gazed absently into the empty air over the blonde woman’s head.

The muscles of Janice’s clenched jaw worked uncertainly beneath her taut skin. I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean it . . . nobody really deserves that, but I just can’t believe Gabrielle would do something so dumb . . . okay, so maybe it was dumb, but it was an honest mistake . . . Phrases raced through her head, but none of them rang true enough for her to voice. "Let’s just forget about it, huh?" she asked instead, awkwardly. If I said what I really felt, it’d hurt her so much . . . she’d never forgive me.

Mel nodded in silent agreement, not daring to express any of the thoughts churning about in her mind. I wish you’d tell me what’s really wrong . . . I can’t believe you’d be so unforgiving . . . if only you knew how much it hurts to see you acting this way . . . but how can I tell you? You’d just say I was being sentimental and . . . The slight, subtle jerk of Mel’s head was all but invisible, and in fact Janice felt more than saw the affirmative gesture. "Just forget about it," echoed Mel dully.

Kaitlyn sagged—not visibly, she hoped—with relief. Well, at least one of them won’t be sleeping on the couch tonight. The sudden explosion of anger between these two, who had always been so close ever since she’d met them—just those few loaded minutes had encompassed one of the most terrifying experiences of her life. Seeing Mel and Janice standing on opposite sides of the room, backs toward each other, Kaitlyn had seen, with a strange, surreal sort of second sight she’d never before experienced, the immeasurable depths of a gaping abyss. The vision left her gasping for breath, her body enclosed in the chill of what could only be described as a supernatural numbness. The Rift . . .

The two words echoed hollowly in her mind. Aw, come on, Velasquez, that’s stupid . . . it’s not going to happen again! But looking at her two friends, standing together in the middle of the room and yet never once looking at each other, she couldn’t convince herself of that. Side by side we stood, so close together, and yet so vastly torn apart . . . The voice in her head spoke again, and this time, she found, it was not so easy to dismiss.

"Look," she said simply, the unearthly chill in her body spreading to her throat and choking her voice. "It’s been a long day, we’re all tired, and we’re not any of us in the best of moods. How about just calling it a night, going to bed and maybe sleeping it off?"

Mel looked furtively at Janice, who met her gaze with difficulty. The taller woman nodded. "I think that’s probably a good idea."

Janice mumbled her agreement almost inaudibly, and the two of them said their goodnights to Kaitlyn before going to their room. Not side by side, like usual; Mel trailed halfheartedly a few paces behind Janice, and neither of them spoke a word.

Watching them go, the young New Englander felt like crying, overwhelmed by the knowledge that the emotional balance was upset, and haunted by the abyss she’d seen in her fleeting vision, if that was what it had been. Well, now you’ve done it, Velasquez, she thought angrily. The Scroll is translated, and they know what happened now. There’s no going back from here. Panic and hysteria threatened to overwhelm her, but with great effort, she fought off the mounting emotions. She shook her head violently, as if to physically rid herself of the feelings, and headed for her own room, hoping to get some work done on Rhonwyn’s lifesong. It might at the very least distract her from the fear and regret for a bit, if nothing else.

But fatigue proved too strong for the linguist to withstand; she had barely gotten three lines into the piece of parchment before her when her eyes, heavy-lidded from need of sleep, fell shut. Lying fully clothed on the bed, the small gilded case of Rhonwyn’s lifesong beside her, Kaitlyn began to dream.

Rhonwyn stumbled through the woods, grief forming a lump in her throat and bringing tears to her eyes. She forced herself to keep going, to keep moving away from the two friends she’d left behind. Ever since meeting Xena and Gabrielle, she had been aware of the tension smoldering between them; it was fear—fear that her growing love for the bard would fan that ember into a blaze—that drove her away. For two weeks now she had been traveling, spreading the news she had learned, trying to absorb herself in the duties of the wandering bard.

Time to go warn the other tribes about Caesar’s plans. You’ve neglected your duties long enough, you fool of a Druid, she told herself. Yes, a fool all right . . . you knew right from the start that she was Xena’s lover, and yet you allowed yourself to fall in love with her? Annwn take you, Rhonwyn! What danger does that put them in now? How could you be irresponsible enough to let that happen? The young Druid berated herself harshly, and her tears flowed freely now—not because of her pain at leaving Gabrielle behind, but because of her growing terror at the damage that the power of her will could have wrought.

That fear drove her to her knees beside a small, still pool of water half-concealed in a copse of young trees. The Druid dug her fingers into the soft green moss at the pool’s edge and, her breath rasping in her throat, forced herself into a studied calm. She wiped one hand on her cloak and reached into her belt pouch, withdrawing a hazelnut from the small supply secreted there. Putting it into her mouth, Rhonwyn began to chew, drawing on the insight that the Seed of Wisdom would provide. She stared into the smooth, dark surface of the water and began to withdraw into herself, reaching deep within her soul. All conscious thought slipped away from her, and, entering into her awen, she began to gaze into the shadowed Otherworld paths of a near future.

Turmoil leaped out at her from the glassine stillness. She saw Xena’s face, anger and vengeance burning wildly in those blue eyes. She saw Gabrielle abandoned, left in the company of a strange young priest who deceived her into killing a young woman dressed in robes like his own. A terrifying childbirth in a barn stable; a baby surreptitiously set adrift in a river; a young boy dead in Xena’s arms, the reticent warrior openly wailing in agony; Gabrielle lying, bloody and battered, near the edge of a high, windswept cliff.

With the images came pain, excruciating pain, pain that radiated from the visions of her friends to pierce Rhonwyn’s very spirit with the clarity of their projections. The shock of fear and betrayal, and the simmering heat of hatred, ripped at Rhonwyn’s soul, taxing every last reserve of her strength and plunging her into the blackness of oblivion.

She awoke an indeterminate time later, prone on her back next to the pool. Her head was pounding and she felt sick to her stomach; not since she had entered her awen for the first time as a young child had she been so affected, and never had the awen gripped her so strongly. Her insight had been clear—far too clear. The answers were not supposed to be revealed so plainly in the awen, not even to the best-trained of the Druids.

With a groan, the Druid raised herself into a sitting position and looked around her. Dew on the moss beneath her left an outline around her form. Her hands were muddy from the clumps of dirt whichdirt that she’d clawed from the ground in the Otherworldly agony that had overwhelmed her. Rhonwyn rested her head on her knees and sat for a while, trying to recover her strength. When she felt sufficiently rested, she took some food from her pack and ate before setting off in the same direction from which she had come. She had to try and stave off the tragedy she had caused; gods willing, she would not be too late.

Kaitlyn awoke with a cry. She felt like she’d been bodyslammed by that thug of Dobson’s, the big guy he’d called Ming. Ming . . . Ming . . . The name ran through her head with a nagging yet elusive familiarity. In frustration she grasped mentally at the end of that thread, clamping down and pulling it toward her. Ming T’ien! The connection, crazy as it was, seized her so strongly that she regretted trying to make it. It shook her from her groggy state into full alertness. She fumbled with the double-Windsor knot of her burgundy-and-grey tie to loosen it; beneath the silk, her shirt collar was damp with sweat.

"Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh, Jesus fucking Christ!" she muttered as an uncontrollable shiver rippled through her. Although she’d often had dreams that might be described as "prophetic," she’d never had one this vivid before, and never about Rhonwyn. Kaitlyn’s eyes fell on the parchment that lay beside her, and read over it quickly. Her jaw dropped as she realized that the story it told was exactly the same as the dream that had just visited her. Frightened, she reached for the leather cord around her neck and withdrew Rhonwyn’s amulet from beneath her shirt, fingers wrapping tightly around the gilded knotwork in a grip of desperation. Gotta calm down . . . gotta calm down!

Thoroughly rocked by the dream, Kaitlyn fished a ragged old lumber jacket from her closet, threw it on, jammed her feet into her boots, and stumbled out her bedroom, down the hallway, and out the back door. In the darkness, she collapsed by the pool and stared searchingly into the blue-black dome of the night sky.

"But how . . ." she murmured, her mind racing in an attempt to explain the clarity of her dream. Her hand tightened even further around the shield of Cerridwen, and the sensation of the metal digging into her fingers anchored her to calmness. With her fingertips she traced the elaborate knotwork of the Celtic amulet. Celtic . . . the Celts . . .

"The time-between-times! Of course!" Kaitlyn burst out. Between sunset and dawn, or "the time-between-times," was, to the Celts, the period when magickal energy was the strongest, when the barrier between this world and the Otherworld the thinnest. None of her usual ready skepticism countered this explanation; it came to her as the most natural thing in the world, and she accepted it without question. "I must have reached through the barrier . . ." she murmured.

She gazed into the sky, her dark brown eyes piercing past the distant beacons of the stars. Taking a deep breath, she felt the night chill reaching deep within her and felt the deeper chill of knowing, without uncertainty, that the story they were translating was about to happen all over again. If I don’t do something to stop it, all the chaos from every nasty underworld, in any mythos you care to name, is gonna break loose . . . which means I’d better stop it . . . and I’d better find out how! She splashed cold water from the pond onto her face, leaped to her feet, and ran back into the house without another moment’s hesitation.

Chapter Twenty-One

Mel awoke shortly after the sun had breached the horizon, feeling well-rested but not particularly happy. Janice, as usual, was still sound asleep—and probably would be for at least two more hours—but Mel noted sadly that the archaeologist was sprawled next to the far edge of Kaitlyn’s parents’ bed, instead of snuggled up next to her like she always slept. With a sigh, the Southerner got up to dress, causing Janice to roll over and mumble something incoherent in an annoyed tone.

Mel shook her head. They’d gone to sleep early the night before, awkwardly avoiding conversation for fear that the topic of the Rift might come up. Instead of the usual good-nightgoodnight kiss and embrace, Janice had simply run a hand across her lover’s face and told her to sleep well. The familiarity and gentleness that usually permeated their relationship had still, for the most part, been there, and in fact an outside observer would have hardly been likely to notice the change. But to Mel, that little bit of distancing, as imperceptible as it might be to others, gaped wider than a chasm . . . and it hurt. But somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to speak to Janice about that hurt. With a final glance over her shoulder at the slumbering archaeologist, Mel shut the door behind her.

She walked into the kitchen to find Kaitlyn sitting at the table amid a pile of papers, still in her clothes from the previous night, shirttails hanging out and collar undone. The casualties of at least two pots of coffee were in the trashcan by the kitchen counter, and another pot was brewing.

Despite her depression, the translator couldn’t help but giggle. The tie Kaitlyn was wearing, rumpled and half-undone as it was, was the first one she’d ever seen the graduate student sport more than once.

"Hey, Mel," Kaitlyn said in a raspy voice, stubbing a cigarette out into a nearly-full ashtray. "You’re up awfully early. Want some breakfast?" She got up stiffly, groaning as she straightened up.

Mel realized that Kaitlyn couldn’t possibly have gotten more than two hours of sleep. "Oh, Kaitlyn, it’s all right, I’ll fix it," she protested as the younger woman shuffled across the wood floor and began to dig through the cabinets.

"No, no . . . it’s okay. I need a break anyway. My ass is numb from sitting down so long." Kaitlyn punctuated the statement with a jaw-cracking yawn and set about cracking eggs into a bowl.

"Have you been up all night?" Mel asked worriedly, coming over to lend a hand. She set a frying pan on the stove and lit the burner beneath it, eyeing the young linguist with concern.

"Just about," Kaitlyn replied. "I think I got an hour or so of shut-eye, but I as good as didn’t get any real rest, with that dream . . ." She caught herself, but just a bit too late. After Mel’s fight with Janice the night before, Kaitlyn saw no reason to start the morning with more negative news. She had the acute awareness of actually being able to sense Mel’s mood—a new and unsettling experience for her—and didn’t want to make her friend feel any worse.

But Mel noticed the catch in Kaitlyn’s voice, the way she’d left the sentence unfinished. "Dream?" she asked, turning to retrieve the bottle of cooking oil from the far end of the counter.

"Nothing," said Kaitlyn dismissively, beating the eggs mercilessly with a fork. "Just a bad dream I had. More vivid than most of my dreams, too."

Mel decided not to press the subject any further; the linguist was clearly uncomfortable as it was. All she said instead was, "Bad dreams will work havoc on your sleep, all right." Changing the subject, she asked, "You’ve been translating all this time? Since last night?"

"Well, yeah, since I woke up around midnight. Working on Rhonwyn’s lifesong. Hell of an ancestor I have. Quite the radical. Runs in the family, I guess, even though that trait doesn’t seem to pop up much." She was rambling now and she knew it; but as far as she was concerned, anything to steer the conversation away from the dream would do. Kaitlyn poured some milk into the bowl and started in on another round of punishing the hapless mixture. "Want to read it while we eat? Oh, and will Janice be up any time soon? Should I fix breakfast for her too? Or can it wait?"

"Yes, probably not, no, and yes, it can wait," Mel replied, a trace of bitterness creeping into her voice. She fumbled the cap off the bottle of oil and poured a slow trickle of the viscous substance into the frying pan.

"Not going to eat breakfast together?" The question held a note of concern. That’s a first, thought Kaitlyn. She decided, though—wisely, perhaps—not to voice the words. Quickly slicing up a bit of ham, she mixed it in with the beaten eggs and remarked, "You know, ordinarily, at this juncture I’d find myself compelled to make a really smartass comment, but I’ve a distinct feeling that it would be highly unsuitable in light of recent developments in the current situation."

She most definitely was uncomfortable, and it showed; the quasi-intellectual talk was the graduate student’s usual way of speaking to people she didn’t know. It was part of the mask of cool, detached professionalism that was her primary emotional defense. Only her friends put her at ease enough to let down that guard and show her more easygoing side. But now, even with these two women whom she’d come to know and trust so well, she was withdrawing into that professional demeanor again. Kaitlyn couldn’t be quite sure as to why; she knew that it had something to do with last night’s fiasco over the Rift. Maybe, she thought, I’m just afraid that there’s enough uncontrolled emotion going on with the two of them . . . that if I’m anything but professional about this, it’ll only make things worse. Maybe it’s just that I should stay neutral about all this, but it’s just so damned hard to . . .

The linguist just shook her head and began pouring some of the egg mixture into the frying pan. "Well," she said with forced casualness, "there’s plenty of, uh, omelet stuff here. Whenever Janice wakes up, we can just heat up the pan and pour it in." She cast a glance over her shoulder at the mess of books and papers that obscured the surface of the table, and groaned. "Watch the pan while I clean up, would you, Mel?"

Mel agreed, and Kaitlyn shuffled tiredly across the floor again to clear away the byproducts of her night’s work. Setting aside the notebook that held her final translations, she gathered up the books and the parchment case and wandered off to deposit them in the library.

By the time she got back to the kitchen, Mel had one completed omelet lying on a plate by the stove and a second sizzling away in the pan. Kaitlyn inspected the omelet as she got out silverware and mugs, and remarked, "Beautifully done, Mel. If you don’t mind my saying so, I think you’ll be on breakfast detail from now on."

The taller woman flushed. "Actually, I—"her voice dropped—"I learned that from Janice. I really can’t cook all that well, but my lord, I tell you, when she gets a mind to, Janice can cook up a storm!"

Kaitlyn’s mouth was open, and she laughed despite her weary depression. "Mad Dog Covington, the cordon bleu? I never would’ve guessed!" she exclaimed, setting forks and knives down on the table with more energy than she thought she still had in her. "More of those ‘many skills’ of hers, I suppose. But here you’ve been doing the cooking half the time, when I haven’t been doing it, and I never knew . . ."

"Oh, I can manage well enough to get by," Mel explained, her face red. "Just nothin’ fancy or special."

The smile on Kaitlyn’s face was wide and genuine, the first she’d cracked in two days, and it felt good. "Well, hell, Melinda Pappas, you ain’t killed me yet." She grabbed the coffeepot off the counter and gestured toward the table. "Shall we eat?"

Mel’s response was to pick up both plates and lay them on the kitchen table. "Well, breakfast is served." She took a seat across from Kaitlyn, who filled both their mugs with coffee before sitting down herself. The Southerner put two spoonfuls of sugar into her coffee and poured a precise amount of milk into the mug, daintily stirring the steaming mixture. Her eyebrow shot up as Kaitlyn took the sugar bowl, dumped about half its contents into her mug, and liberally supplemented the coffee-flavored sugar with a healthy dose of scotch from her hip flask.

"Hals und Bein bruch," the linguist announced laconically, raising her mug into the air and swirling its contents a bit to mix them. Mel, feeling sick, watched the young woman down the concoction in a single breath, and sincerely hoped she wasn’t turning green at the sight.

Kaitlyn set the empty mug down with a gusty sigh. Her dark-ringed, bloodshot eyes were more alert now, something resembling energy reflected in her smile. "Good morning!" she declared with a flourish. Noting the ill expression on Mel’s face, she added, "Oh, believe me. It doesn’t taste half as good as I’m pretending it does. But hell, it works, and that’s all I care about."

Mel shook her head and dug into her omelet. "I hope you haven’t been doing that all night."

"Coffee, yes. Coffee with scotch, no. Good gods, I should hope not, or I’d never have gotten all this work done. I got the primary translations and the final version here." Kaitlyn waved her fork at the notebook lying on the counter nearby.

"May I?" asked Mel, putting a small bite of omelet into her mouth.

"All yours," Kaitlyn told her, putting the notebook into the translator’s hands with a grand gesture. The graduate student poured herself another mug of coffee—this time without the scotch—and sat back to wait while Mel read.

* * *

By the time I returned to the Iceni, it was too late. Xena and Gabrielle were gone—to where, Boadicea could not tell me, for she did not know.

"All I can tell you is that Gabrielle fell in with some trouble with the Romans, and that Xena went to save her. After that, I can’t say I know where they’ve gone. They never came back here. They may have gone back to Greece." The warrior queen looked at me, the light of a strange request glimmering in her eyes. "We still have the Romans to deal with. Our Druid was killed by a stray javelin. Will you join us? We could use you."

"For the moment," I agreed. The question was unusual, that was true; for a Cymry bard to be asked to side with the Iceni was no common thing. But I knew that, as much as I feared for Gabrielle and Xena’s safety, I would be of no use to them if I could not gain control over the tumult of my emotions. That, instead, would endanger them far more than I could help them. For now, at least, I felt that my place should be here, where I could focus on other concerns. Gabrielle would have wanted me to help stop the Romans, and if I could aid Boadicea’s army in doing so, then so much the better. "Yes, Queen Boadicea; I will stay, for now. I will uphold you in battle, as is the bard’s way."

Boadicea looked at me in surprise. "Xena spoke well of your fighting abilities. Will you not do battle alongside me?"

"A bard’s place is ever at the ruler’s side," I amended. I knew this was important, for the bard is the soul of the kingship; that is the way of our people, as it has ever been. And that is why I hesitated to put myself at risk by committing to the fight. But as I well knew, my path has never been the easiest one, nor the simplest. So this was the answer I gave her: "I will fight alongside you as I must, though my place first and foremost is to uphold you in the battle. That is, after all, my duty."

Her gaze fell on my sword, and then on my staff of rowan, which was clenched tightly in my right hand. "I have heard that you were a strange one," she said, no rancor in her voice. "But powerful. I’ll gladly accept all aid you choose to bring me, Rhonwyn of the Cymry."

"My service is yours, my queen," I told her, placing the back of my hand against my forehead in the salute of respect.

"To think that I would ever have the service of the renegade Cymry Druid at my command, and welcome," Boadicea observed with a strange smile—for the Cymry and the Iceni, it is true, had often been at odds in the past.

"The time for strife among our tribes is past, my queen. A greater threat comes from without, and if we are to overcome it, we must do so together. For the good of Prydein."

"For the good of Prydein," she echoed, stumbling over the unfamiliarity of the name my people give to this beloved island. "We face the Romans in five days. I’ll give you a mount; do you think you can get to your people and back, and enlist their aid?"

It would mean long hours in the saddle, and hard riding. But perhaps I could lose myself in the journey, and I agreed. "I will do my utmost, Queen."

She called to one of her men, who hurried away and returned shortly, leading a magnificent young mare. Truly it would be the finest steed I had ever ridden; tall, well-muscled, her proud head held high, golden skin glistening in the sunlight. My breath caught in my throat at the sight of her; that golden mane reminded me so much of Gabrielle, and her demeanor of power, of Xena. Cernunnos take me, perhaps forgetting the cause of my pain would not be so easy after all.

"She is magnificent, my queen," I said. "I will do my best to make myself worthy of her."

Boadicea smiled. "Rhonwyn, you already have." She strode around the horse and stood at my side. "The naming of her is yours. She is well-trained and will serve you well, I think."

I fixed my pack to the horse, and swung myself up into the saddle. "Queen Boadicea, I could not ask for a finer gift. But it is time now for action, not words. I’ll go to my people now, and return to you soon."

She reached up, and extended her hand to me; I clasped her forearm solidly. "Then go," she said, "and may Epona speed your journey."

"And may Lleu be with you, my queen," I responded, saluting her with a hand to my forehead. She slapped the rump of my horse, and at a gallop, I was off.

I rode until well into the day; I was halfway back to Caer Dyvi by the time the bright disk of the sun was on the horizon and I and my horse were too tired to go on. Already the mare seemed to know me well, and we were comfortable enough with each other that I knew I could leave her untethered without fear.

Alaeth, I named her; the word means "sorrow," and to me, every sight of her brought to my mind images of the two friends whose fate weighed so strongly on my heart. And truly, I thought, if I succeeded on my mission, then I would ride back to the Iceni accompanied by the Cymry warbands, bringing sorrow to the Romans who had dared set foot in our land.

The wind blew strongly that night. I abandoned myself to it, hoping, perhaps, that its unseen power would blow the roiling emotions from within my heart. I let the elements punish me, instead of drawing strength from them as I usually did. Each lash of cold wind, each stab of the night’s chill—I gave myself over to these things, trying to believe that the ever-increasing discomfort was my heart’s penance for betraying me. And so when I set off again at sunrise, I was battered and ill-rested, and dreading the confrontation to come.

I was in Balach’s stronghold shortly after the sun had reached its zenith. In between the silver torc I wore and the staff of rowan I carried, I had no trouble gaining admission to the king’s hall. And well I should not have! "Renegade" though they may have called me, I was still a bard, and yes, the king’s daughter as well. Despite the ill nature of my relationship with Balach, honor and tradition demanded that he at least give ear to what I had to say. And I knew my father to be an honorable king. It was that faith alone that gave me courage to go on.

I stood before Balach’s throne. His gaze swept over me critically, taking in the sight of my sword and mail; they had not been in my possession when I first left the caer some four years and more previously, and so, likely the sight of them was a shock to him.

"I give you good greeting, Rhonwyn," he said, stumbling over the words as though they were reluctant to leave his mouth. "You have been absent for quite some time now . . . and changed—rather much, I see. What, tell me, is it that brings you home on this day?"

The fear and tension of an uneasy reunion gripped me, and for all my bardic skill and training, I could not find the words to speak. I raised my gaze to Balach; despite his golden torc of kingship and the lavish surroundings of his hall, it was not the ruler of this realm that I saw standing before me. In the figure that faced me, I saw the man who had cradled me as a child; who had indulged me with a smile when, at eight winters, I displayed genuine interest in learning the Druidic ways; who had looked on in worry as I grew older and more entrenched in my studies, realizing that I would not follow a conventional path; whose angry face had been my last sight of home when the Druids cast me out of the Brotherhood and I left Caer Dyvi for the wider world. No—searching with my heart as well as with my eyes, looking on with a sight more of the spiritual than of the manifest world, it was not a king that I beheld, but merely my father. That insight gave me the assurance I needed to accomplish my mission, as my faith in his honor had given me the courage to begin it.

My gaze was fixed upon Balach’s face. His regard was steady, and as I searched the depths of his eyes—hazel like my own, though without the peculiar flecks of gold that grace mine—I saw there, beneath the turmoil of his inner struggle to accept what I had become, a fierce love for me still smoldering. The sight of that bright ember ignited the voice within me, and I began to speak.

"Danger from without, o king," I told him. "Already Caesar’s legions are becoming more brazen, and with swords he cuts furrows across the jewel of Prydein. At this very moment, he makes ready to advance upon the Iceni."

Balach’s brow creased at the mention of his sometime enemies. "And this should concern me how, Rhonwyn?"

Quickly I strode across the hall and snatched up a handful of sticks from the hearth. "Caesar plans to advance westward, and we lie in his path. King Balach . . . Father . . . do you not see? The threat to all of Prydein is far too great for us to allow past rivalries to stand in the way. The fate of this whole land hangs in the balance."

I took one twig from the bundle I held and snapped it in two easily, then another twig, and then yet another, casting the pieces at his feet. "Divided, we are doomed. It is only by standing united that we may hope to succeed." I raised the four remaining twigs and helpdheld them together, gripping them with both hands in an attempt to break them. They did not yield. In the compelling tones learned during the course of my bardic schooling, I continued. "Let the sun set on strife between the people of our land. I come from Boadicea. She wishes me to entreat you to join her against Caesar, and it is my dear hope that you will do so." It was said. Try as I might, I could not read the expression on my father’s face, so I gritted my teeth and waited to see what response greeted my words.

Gasps echoed about me in the hall, and I heard someone whisper, "Traitor!"

But Balach held up a hand, halting the whispers before they multiplied. "No," he said. "Rhonwyn . . . is right. Our differences with the Iceni are nothing in the face of Caesar’s would-be conquest." He flung his arms out, taking the whole of the magnificent hall into his gesture. "You all know the prosperity that we now enjoy! Are we to let petty quarrels distract us until we find that hard-earned bounty stripped away from us?" He looked at me. "How long before Caesar reaches them?"

"Three days," I told him.

He nodded grimly, then, unexpectedly, smiled at me. It was a genuine smile, full of warmth and . . . yes, of love. "Then we have no time to waste," he said gently. Raising his voice to the people, he announced, "Ready the warband; have messengers sent to the neighboring cantrefs with orders to do the same. We ride today to ally the Iceni, and to stop Caesar!"

Tears came to my eyes. "Thank you, Father," I whispered.

He strode toward me with more deliberate purpose than I remembered from him in years, and gripped my arms solidly in a heartfelt embrace. "Thank you," he responded. "You have done well, my daughter, Rhonwyn Bach. I did not realize it before, but I am indeed proud of you."

Cuall, my first instructor and the king’s bard, stepped forward. "Then we are divided no more," he proclaimed. "United, the people of Prydein will be victorious, and we will remain free. Caesar’s legions will not take this land." He took my right arm and raised it in the air, holding his rowan staff before him. Presenting me to the people, he declared, "Cesair, Rhonwyn y Cymodwr!"

"Cesair!" echoed the Cymry.

Cuall turned to me. "Then this is truly what I have foreseen. I’ll confess, Rhonwyn, I could not understand your path; even in my awen that knowledge was denied me. But I see now where your . . . strangeness . . . led. Truly, I would never have been able to comprehend the necessity of this, not as one versed in the ways of battle would. But in that wisdom, which I would have denied you, you saw it. You were right."

I smiled. "What would I have learned of wisdom, had you not first taught me?"

He acknowledged this with a nod. "I will speak to the Brotherhood," Cuall said. "You are an outcast no longer, Rhonwyn. From this time onward, you are once more a true Druid in name."

I opened my mouth to thank him, but he spoke again. "In name," he repeated, "but in no more than that did you need to be restored. You have ever been a true Druid, Rhonwyn y Cymodwr—that is your name from now on. You have understood the higher value of our ideals, and brought our people back together."

Bittersweet emotion filled my heart. "The greater good," I answered slowly. "That’s what my friend Gabrielle would have called it. And that’s a truth I never would have understood fully, if I hadn’t learned to see it through her innocent eyes."

"Who is this Gabrielle?" asked Cuall. "This is a story I must hear."

I sighed. "That’s a story whose end is not yet clear. One day I’ll tell it . . . but first I need to see it through."

He sensed my worry, heard the catch in my voice. "Yes. You will need to do that. But the greater good . . ."

"Yes. First we must see to Caesar and his legions. It’s . . . what she would want me to do." My eyes met Cuall’s, for the first time in mutual respect and understanding, and in common purpose.

And so we rode off to meet the Iceni that same day. The outcome of the battle was yet to be determined, but my first victory was won. For that day, I regained the trust of the Cymry, restored my relationship with my father, and earned the name that would be my destiny.

* * *

Mel laid the notebook down in awe. "Well, I’ll be. Rhonwyn must have been something. You must be proud to have her in your family, Kaitlyn."

Kaitlyn nodded. "Yeah . . ." But the thought of Rhonwyn’s will-magick and how it could have affected Xena and Gabrielle’s relationship tainted that pride, a detail that she didn’t much care to mention to her friend.

"What does this name mean? ‘Rhonwyn y Cymodwr?’" asked Mel, her finger underlining the words. "She said the name would be her destiny . . . so what does it mean?"

"It means ‘the Reconciler,’" Kaitlyn answered. "Among the Celts, a name was often earned as a result of your deeds. Rhonwyn was able to unite the Cymry and the Iceni against Caesar, restore her relationship with her father, and regain her place among the Druids all in one day. It’s a hell of an achievement. And I’d guess that she’d wind up helping other people resolve their differences along the line."

"Like the Rift." Mel looked at the linguist, understanding dawning in the ice-blue of her eyes.

"Yeah. That’s what I’m thinking. The Rift." That simple phrase hung in the air for a few moments. Then, without warning, Mel began to cry.

"Oh, Kaitlyn," she whispered, "this whole thing is making everything between Janice and me so hard! She’s so upset by it, but she won’t tell me why and it’s almost as if she seems to be blaming me for something. It’s not like her to hold back from me, but she’s been so withdrawn ever since we read that last Scroll, and . . ." The tall woman started to sob, cutting off any further speech.

Kaitlyn jumped up and walked around the table, pulling Mel into a hug. "Aw, Mel, I know it’s hard for you, and I wish I knew what to say, but really I don’t. I don’t know her as well as you do, obviously, but, well, have you tried to tell her how you feel?"

Mel sniffled and shook her head. "No. I want to, but she’s so angry, and I’m not sure she’d listen to me, not in the state she’s in."

Kaitlyn bit her lip. "How do you feel about all this, anyway?"

"Well . . ." The translator pondered for a moment. "I’m as shocked as Janice is that Xena would actually do something as horrible as dragging Gabrielle behind a horse. And I know she must have snapped from the pain of losing her son, so I can’t blame her too much. But Gabrielle . . . I feel bad for her too. What all she went through! It doesn’t surprise me that she thought there could be good in Hope; she could see potential for good in anything, the dear girl. Or woman, should I say . . . after all, she is Janice’s ancestor, even though I always think of her as the young girl who followed Xena from Poteidaia. But no, I don’t blame her for that."

"No," Kaitlyn murmured, "I think you may be right."

"But Janice," Mel went on. "I can’t believe she’d be so quick to condemn Gabrielle for her actions, and it hurts me to see how much she resents her for them. And when she made that comment about Gabrielle deserving to be treated like that . . ." A fresh wave of tears overwhelmed the translator. "She’s never been so vindictive before. And I just don’t know how to deal with her when she’s angry this way!"

"Well, hell . . ." Kaitlyn searched the tabletop desperately, as if she thought she could find solutions in the food and papers scattered there. "You’ve dealt with her when she was pissed off before, haven’t you?"

"Yes," Mel conceded, "but it’s never been so . . . personal. I’ve never seen her get this upset before, not at me."

"And this is something that goes back generations." The Harvard graduate student nodded. "Yeah, I see. That makes it that much harder." . . . but this was now personal. How could she say this to me? The line from Gabrielle’s scroll popped into Kaitlyn’s head again, giving her that nauseating feeling of déjà vu all over again. Gods, but I hate my memory sometimes!

"I’m not gonna tell you what to do, Mel," she said finally. "I don’t even know what that should be. All I can promise you is that I’ll get to the bottom of this. I’m gonna finish translating these Scrolls if it kills me." The next words were out of her mouth before the linguist even realized what she was saying, or had time to regret it. "And I’m gonna do that, and make sure it fixes things between you and that girl of yours, or I’ll never see myself as worth this damn job of mine again."

Chapter Twenty-Two

Kaitlyn cleaned up after breakfast and sent Mel off on a walk in the woods behind the house. "You shouldn’t get lost. Just don’t wander too far," she advised her friend. "It’s so peaceful there, and maybe some time alone will help you feel a little better."

After Mel had left, Kaitlyn busied herself washing the plates, and sang softly to herself as she did. "His father’s sword he has girded on, and his wild harp slung behind him. ‘Land of song!’ said the warrior bard, ‘though all the world betray thee, one sword at least thy rights shall guard, one faithful harp shall praise thee!’" The story of the minstrel boy made her think of Rhonwyn, which in turn made her think of Gabrielle and Xena. She’d spent enough time on Rhonwyn’s lifesong for now, she decided; it was time to get back to the business of the Rift Scrolls.

She’d just gotten the dishes dried and put away when Janice came downstairs, still in her pajamas. "Hey, kid," yawned the archaeologist, stretching her arms slowly above her head.

"Oh, there you are," remarked Kaitlyn offhandedly, shutting the cupboard and turning to light the burner beneath the frying pan again. "Just a second, let me get your breakfast started up."

"Thanks. Do it myself, but I’m not awake yet." Janice sat down at the table and reached for Kaitlyn’s notebook. "This what you get done today?"

"Today and all of last night, yeah." Kaitlyn, wondering if the pan was hot enough, poked a finger at its metal surface and immediately yanked it back with a hiss of pain. "Hot enough, all right," she mumbled, sucking on the injured fingertip. She poured oil into the pan and added, "About time you woke up." The words were meant as a light jest, but the linguist just couldn’t summon up the humor to communicate that, making the comment come across more like a rebuke. She winced inwardly at the sound. "Sorry . . . it was supposed to be a joke, y’know."

Janice eyed her listlessly. "I figured as much. God, our moods have all been shot to hell lately."

"Yeah." Kaitlyn poured the last of the egg mixture into the pan and turned to face Janice. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Like shit." The blonde woman looked around the kitchen. "Where’s Mel?"

"Out. She went to take a walk out back. Left about half an hour ago."

"Oh."

There was awkward silence for a few minutes. Kaitlyn kept an eye on the cooking omelet, poking at it periodically as it coagulated. Janice played with the notebook, making a soft rustling sound as she ran her thumb up the edges of the paper. "Hey," she asked finally, "mind if I read this?"

"Nah, go right on ahead. It’s more of Rhonwyn’s lifesong."

Janice skimmed through the most recent pages, reading the story of the Druid’s mission to the Cymry. She had just finished when Kaitlyn set a plate down in front of her, then went back to the counter to get two mugs of coffee.

"Here you go," said Kaitlyn, pushing one mug toward Janice.

"Thanks." Janice picked up the mug and took a gulp of the steaming brew.

Kaitlyn grimaced. Straight black coffee . . . yuck. "No sugar or anything?"

"Not today."

"More for me, then." The linguist poured the last half of the sugar bowl’s contents into her own coffee, added more scotch, stirred the mixture with her pen, and then casually drained it.

Janice’s jaw dropped, and she nearly spit out her own mouthful of coffee. "Oh, that is disgusting."

"Keeps me awake, though," responded Kaitlyn, somewhat acidly. Her voice was just the slightest bit slurred from the effects of the scotch, but she seemed to be shaking it off.

The archaeologist shrugged, dropped the subject, and read over the translation again. "Holy shit!" she burst out around the bite of omelet in her mouth. "Uh . . . kid?"

"Huh?"

"How much exactly of that revolting stuff have you had all night?" Janice’s eyes were wary.

"That’s only my second cup of it. Relax. Why are you asking?"

Janice tapped the notebook with her fork and set it down, studying Kaitlyn’s face for any hints that the younger woman might be hiding something. "Because from some of the stuff you’ve translated here . . . it sounds like Rhonwyn was in love with Gabrielle."

Aw, fuck! The graduate student cursed inwardly. She had to go there! "Uh . . . yeah. That’s, um . . . two sections back," Kaitlyn stammered. She opened up a fresh box of Dunhills, pulled one out, and lit it, taking a good long drag. She took care to avoid Janice’s gaze, choosing instead to suddenly find the smoke spiraling toward the ceiling the most fascinating thing in the world.

"You’re serious, aren’t you?" Janice’s penetrating stare froze Kaitlyn. "She really was?" At the student’s uneasy nod, she continued, "Jesus. That’s something new. The question, though, is why."

"What do you mean, ‘why?’ Why would she fall in love with Gabrielle, you mean?" Kaitlyn, put on edge by Janice’s inquiry about Rhonwyn, was getting defensive now, though she was relieved, relatively, that the conversation hadn’t gone in the direction she’d thought it would. She blustered on, "Obviously Xena did. And you definitely admire her a hell of a lot."

Janice flinched. "Well, okay, yeah. I do. But I never could quite understand that either. Why Gabrielle? Why the little tagalong? You read the Scrolls, you know how many times Xena had to go and rescue her when she did something dumb and got herself in trouble. She was so naïve, so out of her league, so . . . useless!" She was on a roll. "And I can’t believe that she couldn’t see how Hope had to die! You’d think . . . she got impregnated by a demon god who had a smarmy little shit for a high priest, and she didn’t even stop to think that maybe, just maybe, some of that might rub off on the kid? Son of a bitch! How stupid could she be?"

In disgust, Kaitlyn blew out a cloud of smoke, hurt and shocked by Janice’s tirade. "Gods, Janice, you’re so harsh on her!" she burst out in retaliation. "You know damned well that Xena probably would have gone back to her warlord ways—that time with the Horde comes to mind—if it wasn’t for Gabrielle! You call that useless?"

"Okay, so . . . she got lucky!" But Janice’s voice lacked conviction; it was a weak attempt at a verbal parry.

Kaitlyn could tell from her friend’s reaction that she’d managed to slip through and score a touch. She took that momentum and pressed her advantage. "Luck . . . or fate, Janice? I know how much of an idol Xena is to you. If she had slipped—if she had gone back to being the ruthless, heartless killer she once was—if she had become that monster that Gabrielle made her promise never to become again—tell me, Janice Covington, would she still be the hero in your eyes then?"

Resentment smoldered in the archaeologist’s green eyes. Kaitlyn’s deft little maneuver had definitely hit a very sore spot. Oh, the younger woman was right, and she knew it, but admit to that . . . ? No way in hell. Not here. Not now. She knew that the introspective young musician looked up to Gabrielle much in the same way that she idolized Xena; in that, she thought she could see the hole in Kaitlyn’s defense. Well, well, well . . . if you can use that tactic, I can too, kid. Now here’s hoping you don’t know how to counter it. She went on the offensive.

"You tell me then, Kaitlyn Velasquez. After refusing to kill Hope, not once, but twice—not until it was too late—and then deliberately lying to Xena about it . . . after somehow managing to beat Xena to China and then turn her over for arrest there . . . after harboring the demon brat who freed Callisto and killed Solan and Kaleipus . . . after she did all that, are you going to sit here and tell me that your opinion of Gabrielle hasn’t changed one iota?"

Touché. Very good, Janice Covington. But Kaitlyn simply schooled herself to calmness, raised bloodshot eyes to meet her friend’s gaze, and said, "You know, I’ll go so far as to admit that, at this point in time, those do look like they were damn stupid choices to make. But you know I don’t like to judge people, Janice. And as tempted as I am to say that yes, Gabrielle did some stupid things and that they probably do make me think less of her, I refuse to come to an opinion on the matter until we have the whole story laid out."

Janice snorted. "Oh, bullshit, Velasquez! Quit dancing around the question. Why don’t you cut the academic talk and tell me what you really think? Or are you going to keep up the fancy footwork and turn this into nothing more than a fencing match?"

"That’s all it has been, Covington," Kaitlyn snapped at Janice, striding up to within a hand’s breadth of the taller archaeologist and glaring up into the angry green eyes. "You and I could go back and forth on this, nitpicking at every last minute detail, for hours without stopping, and you know it. But if you really want to know, yes, I do think it was . . . not a smart move on Gabrielle’s part."

Janice saw the opening in that admission, roundabout as it was, and lunged for an attack of her own. "Damn right it wasn’t! You know she was being stupid!"

But Kaitlyn’s move had been a feint; she easily sidestepped the comment and came back with a quick counterthrust of her own. "In retrospect! We can both say now that her decision was probably not the right one, but you’re forgetting one important thing: we already know the outcome! It’s easy to say that she made the wrong choice when we know what happened as a result. But don’t even try to tell me that you haven’t made some choices that didn’t pan out the way you planned. Hindsight’s always twenty-twenty. Foresight’s a damn bit more myopic in comparison."

The linguist’s quick riposté knocked Janice off-balance, but to her credit, she managed to recover quickly and counter it. "Then maybe she wasn’t looking as far ahead as she should have. Maybe she wasn’t looking ahead at all. And I’d think Xena would have taught her something about that."

Kaitlyn acknowledged the hit with a curt nod. "Fair enough. I’ll concede that. You want to know the truth, Janice?" She sighed, feeling dangerously close to the edge of hysteria. "I don’t want to take sides. Because I don’t know which side to take, without alienating the other. You and Mel have obviously taken sides, but if we’re going to finish this project, one of us has to be able to see clearly on both sides of the issue. If I try to place blame either way, we lose the balance in our view of the big picture here, and we can’t afford that!" Suddenly very tired after her tirade, she fell into a chair and looked down at the long stick of ash that was all that remained of her cigarette. She dropped it into the ashtray and sighed. "Fighting like this isn’t going to do a damn thing to help, you know." Not between you and me, and not between you and Mel, either.

Janice sat down across from her friend and poked at her now-cold breakfast halfheartedly. "You’re right. It’s not. I guess we’ll call it a draw . . . for now." I just wish it was that easy to say that to Mel, she added to herself. "Honestly, kid, how do you feel about all this?"

The graduate student sighed again and pulled a new cigarette out of the gold-and-red box, lighting it up before pushing the carton and lighter across the table to Janice, who took one and followed suit. "Confused," she said after a moment of contemplative puffing. "Appalled, confused, hurt . . . and completely lost. It’s hard, you know?"

Emotion and self-control warred on Kaitlyn’s face, and self-control won, but only just barely. She continued, "Through the Scrolls, I feel like I’ve come to know them so well, Xena and Gabrielle, and the strength of their relationship is something really beautiful and powerful to me. It’s something I can . . . only wish for. And now, to translate all this and to see how it all fell apart . . . it’s like watching the death of someone you love." She winced, sudden memories of a bedroom in Boston and Joni’s limp form flashing through her mind. "And I do feel like I’m stuck in the middle. Yeah, I think Gabrielle should have killed Hope. But birth and death, they’re such extremes. And killing someone you gave birth to, well . . . that takes a kind of mindset that I don’t think Gabrielle was capable of. After what happened with that priestess Meridian, I doubt she would’ve ever wanted to kill again. It’s something she never wanted to do in the first place."

Kaitlyn stopped to take a long drag off the cigarette, and went on, "I understand why she didn’t want to do it. She was so idealistic, so full of optimism and love. But maybe she was a bit selfish; maybe she lost sight of the greater good in her concern for her daughter. Or maybe she just couldn’t see how taking anyone’s life in that situation could work toward the greater good. Hope was still her daughter, so I don’t think I can blame her for that selfishness. Love will make you do some crazy things." The rest of the Druids do not seem to realize that where I am concerned, at least, love can be a dangerous thing.

"Some crazy things . . ." echoed Janice dully. "Like . . . snapping because your son was killed, and blaming your best friend and lover for it."

Now we’re getting somewhere! If I can just get her to see the other side of the coin . . . "Yeah," said Kaitlyn. "And that’s why I can’t really blame Xena either. It hurts the hell out of me that she would have done what she did to Gabrielle, but shit, there’s a really fine line between love and hate sometimes, you know? I have to give her credit—thanks to Gabrielle, she never really reverted to being an evil warlord like she used to be. She tried hard, and succeeded most of the time, but even the strongest person slips. She was a very passionate person, and so haunted by her past . . . it could have been a lot worse."

Janice exhaled a mouthful of smoke. "But what about going to Britannia after Caesar in the first place?" she pointed out. "If Xena hadn’t wanted to do that, none of the Rift probably would have happened."

"I thought about that too." Kaitlyn shrugged. Aha. Now we’ve got it! "On the other hand, though, do you think that Gabrielle would have wanted Xena to just stand by and let the Romans take those prisoners? Even that bastard Khrafstar? It’s a tough call, and if I look at it that way, maybe there’s blame to place on both sides."

"What was the deal with Khrafstar anyway?" asked Janice. "How’d they run into him again after they got to Britannia?"

Kaitlyn reached for her notebook and flipped through it, consulting her translations. "Seems Gabrielle was pretty interested in all his vague talk about a ‘one god.’ He probably knew they were off to find Boadicea, and followed them there, trying to draw her in. He did have his little agenda to bring Dahak into the world, after all, and needed her innocence. Hell of it is, he got it. Good fucking gods, but I hate religious fanatics sometimes!"

"The little shit. And his pissant toady of a god, too." Janice took a bite of her omelet, and made a face at how cold it was. "At least they made hash of his temple."

"Yeah. Blew it to standing stones and flattened the hill into . . ." Kaitlyn’s eyes widened. She turned back a few pages in the notebook, searching for a key phrase, and found it. Her face was incredulous as she looked at Janice again. "Into Salisbury Plain." She threw her head back and laughed, immediately regretting how badly it hurt her tired, aching body. "Stonehenge! How do you like that? I’ll be damned. Stonehenge! It fucking figures!"

Janice wondered if the scotch really was getting to the graduate student’s head. "What figures?"

In between pained guffaws, Kaitlyn managed, "Scholars . . . spend hundreds of years . . . trying to figure out who created that ancient structure . . . and here we go . . . and find the answer completely by accident!" She leaned back in her chair and groaned. "The kinds of things that happen in this line of work!"

"God." Janice shook her head and puffed on her cigarette. "I didn’t see that one coming. Well, I’ll tell you one thing, kid . . . you’ve given me a lot to think about. I don’t know if I’m ready to accept everything you’ve said, but I’ll think about it."

Kaitlyn glanced at her friend with concern. "Why don’t you talk to Mel about it?"

The archaeologist shook her head and stabbed at her breakfast with her fork. "She’d never see things from my point of view, kid."

"But how do you know that for sure, unless you talk to her?" Kaitlyn persisted.

"Kaitlyn, I know her. Better than anyone." There was a stubborn set to Janice’s jaw that made the younger woman, exhausted as she was, completely unwilling to even bother arguing any further.

"Well," she said, wishing she had the energy to make a more convincing statement, "I still think you should talk to her. But that’s up to you. Gods know, I won’t force you to." No sense in forcing the subject anyway . . . they’re both mad enough as it is. And there’s no arguing with Janice when she’s being obstinate. "Listen, I’m completely beat. I won’t be good for anything unless I get some rest. Just leave the dishes in the sink when you’re done, and I’ll clean up later, okay?"

"You got it. Thanks for the food, kid."

"Not a problem." Kaitlyn put her cigarette out in the ashtray and looked up at the blue-grey haze that hung over their heads. "You know something, Janice? We smoke too damn much."

Janice chuckled softly. "Don’t look at me, kid. You’re responsible for most of that, not me. I don’t know about smoking too damn much, but we do smoke a hell of a lot."

"That’s for sure." Kaitlyn coughed, feeling the effects of the two or three packs she must have consumed over the course of the night. "And that," she added, getting up to empty the ashtray, "is something that I really hope we didn’t get from our ancestors."

Janice rolled her eyes. "Get some rest, kid. You’re really losing it now." She went back to her cold breakfast and watched the young linguist stagger down the hall, and wondered why a fight with Kaitlyn could end so amiably, while the aftermath of a fight with her own lover lingered unresolved.

Continuned - Part 4

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