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Ah. That is precisely what we shall need.
Bre
She struck them together rapidly, with a scraping motion. Sparks danced in the blackness and momentary giddiness swept through her. She was not, at least, blind. She struck more sparks and, this time, some landed in a dry substance which crackled and briefly flared into brilliance. She blew gently and the flames took hold, revealing a small mound of dried moss in a pottery bowl, a sort of archaic tinderbox arrangement. She spotted an oil lamp of very ancient design, made of rough-fired ceramics and looking like it had recently been dug from the nearest archaeological treasure hunt. Bre
She then blew out the blazing moss to conserve it for another night and sat for long moments, just gazing at that disturbingly antiquated clay lamp, which cast a soft light into the room. Other disturbing details impinged upon her awareness. The room was small, with plastered walls which had been decorated with distinctive frescoes. The style was utterly and convincingly Roman—birds and gardens and architectural forms, mysterious female figures performing some religious ritual which involved wine and birds and dancing. She could almost hear the music from the painted pipes and lyres, while wisps of smoke rose from painted braziers decorated with garlands of flowers. The floor was a beautifully worked mosaic with a mythological theme, Ceres and Proserpine, it looked like. An incongruous and jarring note was struck when she glimpsed a small crucifix mounted on the wall amidst the riot of pagan celebration.
"Where am I?" she whispered aloud.
The whisper of an answer floated up from Morgana's portion of their shared mind. Caer-Iudeu, of course...
She was still puzzling it out when the door flew open and a young man flung himself into the room. "Aunt Morgana! Please, you must come at once!" The boy's voice was ragged with distress. "It's Artorius and Uncle Ancelotis—they've come with dreadful tidings. Lot Luwddoc is dead from fighting Picts just across the border and Ancelotis has collapsed, riding into Caer-Iudeu!"
Blood drained from Morgana's face in a disastrous, icy flood. "No..." The sound came out strangled, a cry of protest and fear as Morgana swayed, dizzy and nearly collapsing from shock. Bre
"The Saxons will take advantage of our disarray; dear God, Medraut, there could be no worse time to lose your uncle. We can afford to show no weakness to the Saxons, or they will strike like jackals in the night, grinding us between the hammer of their swords and the anvil of invading Picts."
To think first of her people, at a time like this...
Yet the pain of her loss burned in their shared heart, brought into even sharper focus by the helpless clench of her fingers around her nephew's arm. And somewhere farther down the worn stones of the road she and Medraut had been traveling—a Roman road, Bre
"Aunt," Medraut said quietly, but with a note of urgency, "Ancelotis is ill. He collapsed on the road into Caer-Iudeu, trying to bring the king's body home for burial. By luck, Covia
"Covia
Medraut nodded, still ash-pale in the light from the oil lamp. "Prince Creoda of Wessex asked the abbot of Glaste
And like to be scratching one another blind, I wouldn't wonder, Morgana snorted silently, apparently not wanting to share that opinion with her young nephew. "So, it's Covia
Medraut nodded. "She has studied, Aunt, at Glaste
Morgana had swung her feet out of bed, was hunting for soft leather shoes. "A rat may train with the Nine Ladies of Ynys Manaw, dear nephew, but if it speaks not a human tongue in its little rat's mouth nor hears a human's sense with its little rat's ears, then its training consists of nine years of gibberish spouted in its presence and at the end of those nine long years, all you've to show for it is a very greatly talked-at, white-bearded, old and useless rat."
Medraut widened his eyes, gulped, and wisely, Bre
Medraut sputtered with barely repressed laughter.
Morgana smiled faintly. "And she is doubtless quite the expert on treating burns, those being the mainstay of a healer's work when she ministers to smithies who work gold and silver and forge the best weapons ever hammered against anvil. And she treats as well those who blow the glass as the Romans did, giving the Saxons' spies some i