Banning laughed wildly, gasped out in English, "Oh, God, it's too precious, the Dark Ages baboon's offering me papist rites!"

Artorius frowned, glancing at Ancelotis.

"He doesn't want a priest."

"Ah."

When the king of Dalriada gestured his ranking officers to take charge of the prisoner, Banning spat on them, laughing insanely one moment, cursing them the next, until he was dragged unceremoniously from the room. Artorius rubbed his eyes wearily. "I thank you, kings and queens of Britain, for your wisdom in this council. It is time for us to look to our homes and our harvests and the coming winter. We will meet again tomorrow to settle the matter of reoccupying Saxon-held lands."

The council—and the war—had finally come to a close.

At least, Stirling qualified it, until the next time the Saxons grew bold enough and strong enough to try it again. And he knew only too well that they would, again and again. He met Brenna McEgan's eyes, read in them exactly the same weary resolution he felt, to stay and fight for these people as long as they possibly could. It was, perhaps, a form of atonement the two of them could offer these people, for the destruction the twenty-first century had unleashed in their midst. As the council broke up into a genuine celebration, with wine flowing freely and laughter taking the place of grim debate, Stirling felt more hopeful than he had since his abrupt arrival, a few short weeks and a lifetime ago.

Chapter Twenty.One

Covianna Nim remained close by Artorius throughout the long celebration, plying him with plenty of spiced wine, smiling into his eyes and waiting for the signs to make themselves visible. When he began to grow sleepy, excusing himself for the evening, she smiled softly, making certain Ganhumara was well occupied with young men with whom to further shred her reputation. Covianna slipped out of the meeting hall to follow Artorius, who had begun staggering as though drunk on the way to his room in the building next door.

He wobbled his way toward the bed he and Ganhumara would eventually be sharing for the night, unsteady on his feet and wiping sweat from his face. She waited until he'd disappeared inside, waited until a lamp shone softly within, then hurried away to her own chamber, rescuing a long, slim package wrapped carefully in folds of wool. She slipped it under her cloak, reaching Artorius' room moments later. Looking carefully about to be sure no one observed, Covianna eased open Artorius' door and stepped inside, pulling it closed behind her.

The Dux Bellorum turned in slow surprise.

"Covianna?" He frowned, voice already slurring.

"You seemed unwell when you left the celebration," she murmured. "I wanted to be certain you were all right, as it's only too plain your wife neither cares nor troubles herself over your welfare."

Pain ran through his eyes, then he collapsed in slow motion onto the edge of his bed. "I thank you for caring. It's kind of you." He was blinking in confusion. "I've had too much wine, s'all. Need to sleep it off..."

"Of course." She smiled. "Let me tell you a story, to help you sleep." She crossed the room, brushed heavy hair back from his brow, hiding the package beneath her cloak. "It's an old story, Artorius. One you should appreciate." She trailed a fingertip down his face. "Many, many years ago, there was someone very special in my life. A teacher, a mentor, who taught me many ancient arts."

He was frowning up at her, eyes tracking with difficulty.

"I loved her as greatly as my own mother," Covianna whispered, nibbling his earlobe with her lips. "She taught me everything of worth in my life. The use of herbs, the use of power, of the ways to blind and bind a man." Covianna smiled down into Artorius' eyes. "Can you imagine, Artorius, what it was like when she died?"

He worked his mouth with difficulty, speech more slurred than ever. "Muss've been... painful..."

"Oh, yes. Most painful. Do you know how she died, Artorius?"

He was shaking his head, tried to scrub his face with one hand. When he was unable to lift it, he sat staring in rising dismay and dawning fright.

Covianna whispered intimately, "She was murdered, Artorius. Oh, it was done with all the pomp of law, but it was murder, cruel and cold, nonetheless." Covianna stepped back a pace, smiling down into his eyes. "You really should not have condemned Marguase, Artorius. She was worth ten of you. Twenty."

Shock detonated behind his eyes. "Marguase?" It came out a hoarse rasp. "But—how—"

"She came to Glastenning Tor, when I was but a child. I worshiped her. Learned every wondrous secret she had to share. She chose me—me—as her acolyte, out of all the girls she could have taken, instead. Oh, I have waited a long, long time for this night."

He was trying to rise, succeeded only in falling to the floor. She laughed softly at the look of naked horror on his face. When he dragged his sword free of its new scabbard, hunching along on elbows and shoulders, trying to put distance between them, she drew out the package hidden in her cloak. "Did you miss this when I stole it away?" she asked merrily. His eyes widened, recognizing it. "Have you never wondered why you have always been victorious? Why those who oppose your sword arm inevitably die? 'Tisn't the sword, Artorius, nor yet the skill of the arm behind it."

She tapped the sheath. "I made this, as I made Caliburn, and there is as much witchcraft in the scabbard as there is death in the sword. The lining, Artorius, that's the secret of your wondrous, invincible power." She laughed, derision in every droplet of sound falling from her lips. "Oh, you pitiful fool. I've been most careful to join each of the high councils that have voted on war. And before each battle those councils sanctioned, I renewed the 'magic' of Caliburn's sheath. Mistletoe, Artorius. Sap of the mistletoe, the Druids' weed, mixed with oil and soaked into the lining of the sheath. Do you know the secret of the Druids' weed?"

He shook his head, eyes wide with horror he could neither escape nor conceal.

"Coat a blade with mistletoe and you will never stop the bleeding from any cut it makes. Even the smallest nick will bleed for hours. That is the secret of your prowess, my dear and mighty Dux Bellorum!" She laughed again, delighting in the blow to his manhood, to his self-value as a warrior, a blow that left a sick and empty look in his eyes. "Oh, I learned many secrets from Marguase. And even more from Emrys Myrddin. It was Myrddin taught me the secret of Damascus. Do you know how Caliburn was quenched, to give it that wondrously fine temper?"

He was panting, trying in utter desperation to lift the sword.

"You must remember, surely, your poor little cousin who vanished? Taken by pirates, most people said? I entertained the little fool at my forge, Artorius, deep in the heart of Glastenning Tor. Down in the sacred caverns my grandmothers have used for centuries. Showed him the secret of Damascus steel, there. Fed him full of ale, then quenched the blade in his drunkard's belly."

His mouth worked, soundlessly, the look in his eyes ghastly beyond words. Delicious. A victory she would relish every moment of her life.

"The pieces of him lie scattered beneath the Tor, but don't fret on his account. He's not alone any longer. The advisor who persuaded you to denounce Marguase lies beside him. A pity, really. Emrys Myrddin was the only man I ever met who knew anything about pleasing a woman in bed. And I shall miss his conversation and wit, truly I shall. But he sealed his fate years ago, when he condemned the lovely Marguase to death by slow drowning. I returned the favor, deep in the Tor's sacred caverns, where by now he's rotting as he so richly deserves. And now, Artorius, you will join my dance of death. My revenge lies complete in your destruction. The poison paralyzes slowly, doesn't it? Utterly delightful, that look in your wounded little eyes."